Oooh, God, I cannot take the heat. It was in the NINETIES here this weekend and I felt like a useless pile of sweat. And I know that some of you are going, “Shiiiiiiit, girl, a day in the nineties would be chilly where I’m from!” but I’m here to tell you that in Western Washington, where air conditioning is reserved for malls and car dealerships, it was hot. Unbearably hot.
Today it is a nice, breezy, 70 degrees, but I am still paying the price for the weekend of burny weather. I can’t sleep when it’s really hot, so now I’m exhausted, having added to my long, deep sleep debt. I used to sleep naked, which helped, but that was before kids, before my boobs got engorged with milk and then sagged to look like two unrolled tube socks, so now I pretty much have to wear a bra of some sort to bed so I’m not mistaken for a two-trunked elephant and can at least pretend that the long-term effects of pregnancy and motherhood are minimal. And if I’m going to wear a bra, I will at least wear shorts. I’m a bit pear-shaped, so I try to even out the look, you know? Because my vanity never sleeps.
The kids coped okay, considering that they are no more equipped than I am for this kind of heat; Charles spent most of the weekend in the neighbors’ kiddy pools and Jamie just played crankypants in my arms. I was equally fussy about being hot and sticky, so I didn’t mind.
The pool thing was great, since all the neighborhood boys hung out and splashed each other all day over there and I had to do very little parenting. I’m pretty sure the pools were mostly pee by the time I called Charles in for dinner each night, but that’s what baths are for (if you are a new parent and think that baths are for any other reason than cleaning pee and other dried nastiness off of kids at the end of the day, boy, are you in for a surprise). He wanted to know why we didn’t have a pool of our own, and the truth is, we’ve tried pools and they don’t work. Not because we’re idiots and can’t blow up a kiddy pool or fill the plastic ones with water, but because Buster first commandeers the pool when you get out to get yourself your 7th popsicle of the day, and then he either pops it (if it’s the blow-up kind) or sits on the edge of it (if it’s the plastic kind) to let the water run over his hindquarters and out onto the lawn. The plastic ones then break under this kind of strain. It would be funny if it weren’t so frustrating. Even if the pools didn’t break from his use, dog hair in a pool? Gross. Thank goodness for neighbors, right?
I’ve never lived anywhere that gets really hot for extended periods of time (an argument could be made for Walla Walla, but that was during college, and I made a purposeful decision to be nowhere near its brain-melting heat during the summer months), and Mount Vernon seems to be no exception. We’re back in the normal seventies for this week and I couldn’t be happier. My feet and fingers aren’t swollen, I can stand to eat something other than frozen fruit, and I can go for a run without feeling like my heart will explode. Ahh, the Pacific Northwest. I can’t believe that people think our weather sucks.
If we get another heat wave, though, I’m definitely going to the mall.