El Niño
By Ashlee Gadd
@ashleegadd
In the midst of diarrhea lettuce, AI agents going rogue, and the national debt crossing $40 trillion, my personalized newsfeed warns of another looming catastrophe: El Niño. For reasons I cannot explain, I latch onto this news story like a barnacle. While everyone else I know can't stop talking about Lindsay Clancy—a story I have not even allowed myself to read—I pour over the NOAA website and decide to get obsessed with something a bit more palatable: the weather.
In case you don't remember this from middle school science class, El Niño is a climate pattern where temperatures in the Pacific Ocean become significantly warmer than normal. This shift alters atmospheric circulation, which, in turn, affects weather patterns both in neighboring regions and around the globe.
In plain language: a large patch of warm water near the equator disrupts everything.
A regular El Niño happens when the temperature rises by 0.5 degrees Celsius. When the temperatures rise even higher—for example, by two or three whole degrees Celsius—that constitutes something called a "Super El Niño." At this time, the Climate Prediction Center is predicting (75% chance) that our 2026-2027 winter will be “historic”: the strongest El Niño on record since 1950.*
The headlines write themselves:
We've Got a Supersized El Niño On Our Hands!
A ‘Super’ El Niño is Here. What does it mean for the Bay Area?
As 3 dangers converge, California’s coast faces rare winter of big waves, erosion, flooding.
On a Tuesday afternoon, I mention these facts to my husband, who barely looks up from his computer. I am concerned, urgently yapping about rainboots (the kids don't have any!) and umbrellas (we only have one!), and how we really need to buy that bike shed we keep talking about for the backyard. Something else I'm thinking about, but definitely don't say out loud, is that my husband was right. Two years ago, we fought for three consecutive months about what home project should be tackled next on our 1950's fixer-upper. He was adamant: the roof. I was adamant right back: the kitchen.
"We eat every day!" I argued, pretending I couldn't hear him when he logically pushed back that we also sleep under a roof every night.
In the end, my husband won. The dilapidated shaker roof came down; a new one went up in its place. We took out a line of credit and spent $30k we did not have—a loan we are still paying off today with inflated interest. I stewed for weeks, disgruntled and irritated at the necessity of this massively expensive project, at how much it sucks to be an adult, at how we now have to wait several more years to fix the kitchen. (Doesn't my husband know that once we renovate the kitchen, I will learn how to meal plan and become a person who actually enjoys cooking and therefore be a better wife and mother?)
Today, our kitchen is still old and ugly, but even with the peeling wallpaper and grimy cabinets, I have to admit, I'm grateful. Because thanks to my husband, we will have a literal roof over our heads when the super El Niño comes.
***
I type into Google, "rainboots for kids"—slightly agitated that this is on my to-do list.
I know none of our children have rainboots because in the weeks leading up to the first day of school, I ransacked their bedrooms with giant paper bags, filling them with everything from broken toys to clothes that no longer fit to something like 400 candy wrappers that—apologies to our family dentist—I do not have the capacity to care about. I try to imagine my husband doing this and it is almost comical, the idea of him decluttering anything in this home. I turn up the volume on my headphones and shove more and more stuff into paper bags as Olivia Rodrigo crows in my ears.
My husband loves the rain. He thinks it's cozy and moody in all the right ways. Meanwhile, I have bangs. A year ago, I applied for a job I very much wanted that would have required our family to move to Seattle. It was the one part I remained uncertain about, moving to a place where it rains 150 days a year. Would landing my dream job balance out seasonal affective disorder? My husband couldn't wait. Let's go, he said over my shoulder, as I delusionally looked at homes on Zillow trying to assess the best school districts in the area.
Bless my heart, I did not even get a second interview. In hindsight, this was a literal answer to prayer, for I had begged God to fling the door open or slam it shut. I imagine God chuckling with that one. You? In Seattle? Babe, you wouldn't last a week. How spiritually on brand, God saving me from myself.
Google takes me to the Hunter website where I scroll and scroll, astonished at how much rainboots cost, especially considering they'll only last a year at the rate my children's feet grow.
Will the boys even wear rainboots? I try to imagine my 14-year-old son at high school, or my almost 12-year-old son at middle school, in a sea of Birkenstocks and Sambas, wearing rainboots their mom picked out. (Yikes.)
"What do high schoolers wear in the rain?" I ask Google.
An AI overview informs me that currently, high schoolers wear a mix of "gorpcore" techwear, 1990s streetwear nostalgia, and relaxed minimalist layers. "Rather than using traditional, bulky umbrellas," the robots tell me, "teens prefer functional outerwear and specialized footwear to survive a school day downpour."
This only leaves me with more questions. I am officially stuck in the Google hamster wheel.
What is gorpcore?
Functional rain outerwear on a budget
Specialized rain footwear NOT rainboots
I compulsively scroll and scroll, all the while chastising myself for wasting time. There are so many other things I should be doing right now. Discipling my children. Praying about the future of my (soon-to-be nonexistent) career. Fixing that broken picture frame in the hallway.
After thirty minutes of scrolling the online clearance racks, I take a break and open my Voxer app, which lights up with a new message in the group chat. I listen to one of my friends recap a bad day with her moody teenager, confessing through tears, "Sometimes I feel like I have no idea what I'm doing as a mom."
Me, too. Yep. Same here. We all say back.
The mothers in my orbit seem to be having this discussion every other day. The kids are getting older. The worries are getting bigger. My darling new-mom self who was obsessively worried about the temperature of the house (Is it too cold? Too hot? Is the baby freezing? Is the baby sweating?) would shudder at the conversations we're having now. Drugs. Porn. Guns. Snapchat. Just last week I confirmed with my kids: you guys know it's not okay to fall in love with ChatGPT, right?
Raising tweens and teens in the year of our Lord 2026 is starting to feel a bit beyond my pay grade. "Let go and let God!" the Christian influencers chirp. I'm trying!
Is it just me, or is life really life-ing these days? I cannot control whether or not this president will start another war in his sleep, or if the ice caps will melt, or if the bees will go extinct, or if in ten years we'll be facing a Super Duper El Niño. Who has time to even panic about all of this? I've got a high schooler now! Today has enough worries of its own! My son, my own flesh and blood, is now a baby freshman, just like that. I cannot control who his friends are, or who might show him God-knows-what on a cell phone. I cannot control whether or not some adorable girl in a crop top with a Sephora skincare regimen that rivals mine will crush his sweet, impressionable, breakable heart. I cannot protect him from all the things, is what I'm trying to say. Did it really take me fourteen years of parenting to accept this? Like really, truly, accept it? Jesus take the wheel; he'll be driving in less than two years!
Don't you see? THIS is why I'm scrolling rainboots.
What I type into Google: What are the best rainboots for kids under $50?
What I'm really asking: Am I a good mother?
***
It's golden hour on a Tuesday afternoon, and I'm photographing a glowing first-time mom. She's changing clothes in her room while I snap test shots in the nursery. I can't help but smile at the darlingness of it all: the shiny books stacked on the shelf, the brand new carseat on the floor, the newborn diapers lovingly tucked in a pouch hanging on the wall, the stuffies arranged in a perfect lineup against the back of the crib.
At one point, her husband cracks a joke about them running out of space. I look around their beautiful, magazine-worthy house, easily twice as big as mine.
"You'll be okay," I smile, "Trust me, you have everything you need."
The words tumble out of my mouth so confidently, so assuringly, as if I am a fortune teller, or a time traveler from the future, or—at the very least—a mom of three who is simply a bit older and wiser.
Then again, what do I know? You have everything you need?
After this, I'm heading home to look at rainboots on the internet.
***
This time I search "Hunter rainboots dupes"—ignoring the little voice in the back of my head reminding me that dupes are usually of poor quality made in sweatshops in China. Thankfully, under a //frugalfemalefashion thread on Reddit, I learn of a brand called Kamik's. Someone else in the thread swears Hunters are both superior and worth it, you just need to wait for a sale. Someone else blows all our minds with this: did you know Costco carries Hunter boots in the winter?
I poke around on the Kamik website, disappointed they're not as cute as Hunters (my toxic trait is actually caring about this), but change my tune when I realize they're made in Canada. And with that, I hit add to cart, if nothing else, to spite a small orange man who recently called Canada difficult and unreasonable. Canada? With their ice hockey and maple syrup and infectious politeness? Dear Canada, take my money. Consider this my American apology. I'll have the Drizzle boots in shade pink, size 1, please and thank you.
***
At the end of the maternity session, I'm standing in the doorway bidding farewell to the mom, who leans against the wall with one hand perched on top of her perfectly round belly. I tell her again how beautiful she looks, and that I'll be praying for a safe delivery. She jokingly asks if she can send me panicked new-mom texts in the middle of the night.
"Of course!" I laugh, "But you should know: almost everything you're going to worry about is normal. Just go ahead and tattoo that on your forehead."
In a conservative estimate, I have worried about 3,000 things since becoming a mother. Three of those things were not normal, required a call to the doctor, and resulted in three different surgeries (everyone is fine!). The other 2,997 things? Nothing to worry about.
While I love the ages of my kids now, and I love that I have fourteen years of parenting experience under my belt, I feel an acute flash of … something looking at this mother's belly. It's not a longing, per se. My ovaries haven't felt that baby ache in several years. So what is it, then? What am I feeling, if not a pining to go back in time?
A few weeks later, I open my Bible to Ecclesiastes and read chapter 1, verse 18: "For with much wisdom comes much sorrow; the more knowledge, the more grief."
Aha. Is that it? Ignorance is bliss? Am I simply wistful for a time when I didn't know everything I know now? Wistful for a time when I didn't know anything at all?
***
An inexhaustive list of things I've Googled as a mother:
Is it normal for your baby to not poop for three days?
Is it normal for your nipples to bleed?
When will my c-section scar fade?
Will c-section scar always be numb?
How to make homemade baby food
Is it normal for your baby to not poop for four days?
How to increase milk supply
How to lose baby weight
How to track ovulation
PPD vs. baby blues
Is it normal to be super hungry while breastfeeding?
Best breastfeeding snacks
Why do mothers go into labor early?
How to conceive a girl
Is it normal for your baby to not poop for five days?
Jaundice fix
Baby spit up a lot, why?
How to get baby spit up out of clothes laundry hack
How to help your baby poop
How to help your baby sleep
How to help your baby eat
Is it normal for your baby to not poop for six days?
Best sound machines
Best burp cloths
Best nursing bras
Best pacifiers
Do pacifiers ruin teeth?
Is it normal for your baby to not poop for seven days?
What I'm really asking: Is the baby going to be okay?
What I'm really, really asking: Are we all going to be okay?
***
"I don't know how anyone parented before ChatGPT."
When the viral clip of Sam Altman hits my newsfeed, I roll my eyes so hard, Liz Lemon would be proud. But then I think of my own mother, my grandmother, my great-grandmother parenting without Google. I don't know how they did it.
It sounds hypocritical to say I'm worried about the next generation of mothers, and the one after that, but I am. It's possible I've been reading too many dystopian novels, but at some point, I'm pretty sure moms will not even know what Google is, or what it used to be, once they have microchips implanted in their brains. I can only imagine what's coming around the bend: a robot in your head who can hear every thought and coo reassurance within milliseconds, "That is perfectly normal!"
Will the next generation of mothers rely on AI the way I have relied on Google? At the end of the day, is this simply the human condition? Are we all just begging for a tiny bite from the tree of knowledge?
The bumper sticker in the church parking lot reminds me, Let go and let God! Yeah, okay, I'm trying!
Why does turning to Google sometimes feel easier than letting go and letting God?
***
Over Labor Day weekend, my newsfeed explodes with stories about Hurricane Marie. I watch video clip after video clip of giant waves toppling over homes and cars and highways. Someone with a drone captures a 20-foot "liquid mountain" swallowing an iconic lighthouse in Los Angeles. Now you see it, now you don't. All the millionaires with beach-front properties complain about their flooded garages. I can't decide if I feel sorry for them or not.
Every news article, of course, mentions the incoming Super El Niño. This is only the beginning, they warn.
Between El Niño and parenting, I can't stop bracing myself. I've got one kid in high school. One kid in middle school. One who is only seven but seems to have the hormones of a teenager. I used to wake up at 3am to the sound of a wailing baby. These days I wake up at 3am covered in perimenopause sweat to the sound of my own anxious thoughts: school shootings and global warming and how we'll pay for college and will there even be any jobs left once the robots take over?
There will be trouble in this life! The Christian influencers warn. I know, I KNOW. I cannot stop the storms from coming. The pillows at Hobby Lobby remind me, again, to let go and let God. I'm trying!
In the meantime, I will tell my husband he was right about the roof. I will even let him enjoy that comment because Lord knows he won't hear it again for a while. To give credit where it's due: my husband will never declutter anything in this home, but he is the only person who would ever think to buy flashlights and batteries, so I guess we all have our strengths. Speaking of strengths, I will make sure we have candles. I will ask the boys about rainboots and when they inevitably say, "absolutely not," I will honor their choice and not say a word when they get soaked in their Crocs. I will stock up on cereal, and toilet paper, and when I find a cute clear umbrella on sale during Black Friday (I hate that I care about this), I will hit add to cart.
What I type into Google: When is the super El Niño going to hit California?
What I'm really asking: Do my children know how much I love them?
72 essays later, this is Ashlee Gadd's final essay for Coffee + Crumbs. If you'd like to keep up with her work in the future, you can subscribe to her Substack or follow her on Instagram. She is currently working on a children's book about imagination (to be released in Fall 2027) and a TBD collection of poems + essays about staying human in a machine-obsessed world.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.
*https://www.cpc.ncep.noaa.gov/products/analysis_monitoring/enso_advisory/ensodisc.shtml