Visit any town in close proximity to coastal waters, and you'll notice a recurring theme that starts anew every summer: The hurricanes are coming.

Supermarkets and hardware shops are stocked with storm-tracking charts and check lists. Storefronts are lined with bottled water and batteries. Hopeful meteorologists make garrulous predictions, suddenly finding themselves in the spotlight.

All this hype and advice at our fingertips. But is anyone ever really prepared for the wrath of Mother Nature?

I've lived in hurricane territory all my life. As a child, there was a certain excitement that surrounded approaching storms. My mother always bought way too much candy, snacks and other junk rarities. My father set up the transistor radio and gathered flashlights. We all stayed up late waiting for the tempestuous arrival. It was like a fun camp-out around the brick fireplace in our den.

What I experienced as a child were sheltered illusions. Now that I have my own family to care for, the ramifications are realized: Storms can kill mind, body and spirit. Everyone knows the options are stay or go, but the havoc wrought is the same either way -- torturous.

Garnered through my own experience with the likes of Rita and Ike, I have come to the conclusion that what happens before hurricanes can be as devastating as the damage faced afterward.

When Hurricane Rita came knocking at our door, my three children were 2, 4 and 6 years old. We loaded up the Dodge Caravan with Kids and Stuff. Hubby followed in our smaller car with Dog and the important-papers crate. Little did I know that a six-hour trip would take 12.

We had been driving like snails for an hour (and had only moved 10 miles) when Middle Child said he had to go the bathroom. I knew if we got off the road, we would lose our place. Although we weren't waiting for Lady Gaga tickets, this line of cars felt just as important. So I gave him permission to unbuckle and use the porta-potty. Minutes later, Oldest decided she had to go too. This soon became cheap entertainment for them. Toddler was doing fine watching Barney videos, thank God.

My morning coffee was also begging for release. I vowed to hold it as long as I could. After three hours, I felt like a water balloon being squeezed by anxious hands.

That's when I spotted the bag of diapers. Perhaps it would be easier for me to wiggle my way into a diaper than to pee in a cup like Hubby suggested. Could I swallow my pride and put on a diaper? This was an emergency. Nobody would ever find out. After all, the kids were engrossed in electronic entertainment.

I slid a diaper between my legs while trying to keep contact with the steering wheel and press the gas pedal just so. Nothing happened except for degrading humiliation. This evacuation nonsense was sure to drive me to the nut hut.

Several hours later, Toddler decided to pull a Houdini act. I looked through the rear-view mirror and saw him climbing around the middle seat. Cookies and crackers and movies and songs could only keep him entertained for so long. Watching Middle Child and Oldest get up and down to go potty must have been too much for Toddler. Six hours and he was ready to blow.

Apparently he had been working on this clever escape plan for a while. To get out of his imprisonment (i.e. his car seat) had to take a lot of work.

I turned around and tried to readjust his seat while driving. Oldest was able to drag Toddler back where he belonged, and we managed to secure him in the buckled harness. I looked back at smiling Hubby and Dog. The kids turned around and we waved. I would have given anything to switch places.

When Hurricane Ike hit two years later, we decided to take a gamble and stay put. Others also defied the mandatory evacuation order and refused to leave. Weeks earlier, Hurricane Humberto had booted everyone out of town -- only to stand us up. Treasured money was wasted. Everyone was tired.

The day before Ike's scheduled appointment, my family of five and two dogs invaded the house where I grew up. Boxes of baby books, important papers, sentimental garbage, ice chests of food, a medicine bag filled with whatever we might need, special toys and books poured out of my car like clowns in a rodeo. We had fun that afternoon playing games with my parents, working puzzles and warming up Stouffer's lasagna. Light breezes and drizzles teased us with false hopes that Ike had veered off course. I should have felt like I did as a child camping in the den, but I didn't.

I was a mother bear fretting over her cubs. Hubby was to camp in the den with a wind-up radio/flashlight beside him. Daddy was to wake up early in the morning and relieve Hubby. It didn't matter. None of us slept. Ike was supposed to be out by morning. He wasn't.

Around midnight I started second-guessing our decision to stay. I'd never before heard anything like Ike's conniption fit. Along with the roaring wind and pelting rain reverberating through the house, there was an occasional crunch and crack of tree bark followed by a loud thud. Had a gargantuan limb broken off one of the sky-high pine trees? Had a smaller tree uprooted? Was debris flying through the air? The house was still intact, but I wasn't.

Both hurricanes created chaos, insanity and worry. Whether evacuated or hunkered down, tension was an ominous cloud. The aftermath was Herculean, but expected. When they say the calm comes after the storm, I guess they're right. You never know what will happen during the chaos leading up to Mother Nature's wrath.

When she's not running from storms, Laurie Kolp writes. Her articles and essays have appeared in publications and books such as The Christian Communicator, "Pay Attention: A River of Stones," "Christmas Miracles" and the forthcoming "Chicken Soup for the Soul: Devotionals for Troubled Times." Read her blog on Red Room.