It’s hot. Waaa. I’m going to complain about the heat. I’m going to say what’s become a joke in my house, a whiny summer refrain that passes for small talk when it’s so hot you’d rather drive nails into your feet than talk to people: It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.
I’m going to say that, because that’s what it is. I’m giving myself permission to be a cranky cliche right now.
I love summer. I love heat. I don’t even mind moderate humidity. But the heat index was 103 Sunday and close yesterday and I can’t stay cool and my kid is climbing all over me with his adorably stifling head of crazy pin curls and how is he still moving?
I don’t want to eat. Ha, ok, edit: I don’t want to cook. I silently resent my child for not wanting only salted slices of local tomatoes and watermelon for both lunch and supper for an entire weekend. I microwave him a hot dog for lunch and am half mad about the heat on my fingers when I slice it up for him. I cave and fry up pierogies and mushrooms for supper and then all he wants is UNCOOKED sweet bell pepper slices dipped in hummus and I get irritated again. At the heat, I swear. How can I be mad about punkin eating nearly an entire orange pepper with hummus?
Because it was my hummus I was saving for lunch the next day and now it’s gone and I have to COOK SOMETHING.
Let me tell you something about motherhood. It’s not your hummus. That is all.
Also, you will sweat a lot during watermelon weather. That’s weather when all you want to eat is watermelon, lightly salted.
No, I’m not going to end with a punchy little list about heat-beating. It’s too damn hot. Waaa.
I’m not going to remind you how nutso cold it was this winter, as if we should all be grateful now. Smugness never helped anyone.
If anyone needs me, I’ll be sneaking into some neighbor’s pool under cover of darkness. I’m not saying which neighbor, for obvious reasons. Stay cool.