Earl, we hardly knew you.

The much-hyped Hurricane Earl, which brought forecasts of doom and gloom across the New England coast, limped off into the night Friday, in what the New York Daily News calls a transformation from "stud to dud."

Earl kissed the coastline as it swirled past the Connecticut shore, leaving nothing more than downed leaves, cancelled weekend plans, and a disappointed 10-year-old in its wake.

My son — aka the "master of disasters" — was born with an unusually keen interest in Mother Nature's wrath. It began as an obsession with volcanoes. When he was old enough to hold a crayon in his chubby hand, he'd draw cone shape after cone shape. As his artistic ability improved, he added lines of lava, spewing into the air and flowing off the page.

Over the years his interest broadened to include tornadoes, tsunamis, avalanches, earthquakes, Man vs. Wild, and the sinking of the Titanic. Our TV is locked on the Discovery Channel, with the exception of an occasional Sponge Bob cartoon.

When Earl appeared on the radar, I wasn't surprised that my little guy was breathless with anticipation at the prospect of his first hurricane.

He related that the classrooms at Saxe were charged with excitement over the impending storm. Tugging my arm, he reminded me to stockpile flashlights and candles, memories of our two extended 2010 power outages fresh in his mind.

Towels and swimsuits were standing by for the inevitable trek to a hotel.

When Superintendent of Schools David Abbey made the call to cancel Friday's after school activities (and big brother's athletic practice), it added even more drama to the dire storm predictions.

It was show time.

Like most of the Eastern seaboard, we were transfixed by Friday's cable news coverage of big, bad Earl. Where else can you get nifty shots of what a wave looks underwater and buff lifeguards chasing beachgoers out of the water?

Around-the-clock storm coverage is the ultimate reality show. We know we shouldn't look, but we can't stop ourselves. The payoff comes when a perky reporter is knocked down by 12-foot wave for being dumb enough to report in the middle of a hurricane.

When Earl brushed by southern Connecticut with nary a whimper, my son sighed, shoulders slumped with disappointment. I consoled him with a reminder that the season for nor'easters is just around the corner.