As I've written before, I am no big fan of the summer but being pregnant makes it about as enjoyable as a root canal. Since most human pregnancies run about 40 weeks, I've done my best to limit any overlap between carrying a child and the summer heat. (I am just that type.) I admit that being nauseous and tired in July and August is still probably preferable to being 32+ weeks pregnant with heartburn in the middle of the heat but I'll complain about both because that's what I am good at.
I think the reason I am cranky is because I just haven't been my usual peppy self. My house is a mess. I've barely cooked. Longstanding playdates and appointments have literally vanished from my consciousness and I've found myself groveling for forgiveness. The one prenatal workout I did resulted in a yucky cold that I currently have. Oh, and Vivi has joined a pack of wild wolves and seems to be thriving despite my absence. As my sister in North Carolina says, "Things just ain't right 'round here."
So my one hope (and it's a hope that I've carried with me throughout my life) is that everything starts over in September. I'll be turning the ripe old age of 32 and I'm optimistic that everything will be back to normal. The wolves will return my daughter, some semblance of order will overtake my house, and we'll be eating more than take-out and cereal. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to let my husband sleep in.
Oh, and there won't be any humidity.