My husband and I got married on October 6…a nice, crisp fall day, or so I thought. I was anxious for red and orange leaves to match the cinnamon vests and thought I might even get chilled in my long strapless gown. Well, the day came and we hit a record high of 89 degrees. In October? You’ve GOT to be kidding me! Halfway through pictures, I not only wanted my strapless dress to be bustled – I wanted to rip out the extra layers of fabric, convert it to a mini-dress, and sit on an air conditioner. But, to keep up appearances for this wonderfully blessed event, I kept my dress on, reapplied deodorant and mascara, and danced my butt off.
Two years later, I’m walking around in the same temperature, but now I have a fetal heater growing in my stomach. I’m raising a boy scout who, I swear, practices building fires in there at least twice a day like he’s on freaking Survivor. He’s earned his badge already, people! We’ve all suffered enough! End the madness!
Apparently, these so-called “seasons” don’t agree with me. An October wedding? YES! I love the fall air. A June baby? YES! I’ll beat the heat. Wrong, and WRONG! It’s like God finds some sort of sick humor in testing how much back sweat I can create before I completely lose my mind. The last two days have been record highs for May in Minnesota. The first day I tried my hardest to stick it out, but being pregnant on sweltering days turns you in to a horny vampire, of sorts. You try your best to block the unwelcome rays of sunshine and happiness from your home, you confine yourself to a dark room in the basement and don’t move for an extended period of time, and when all else fails, you take an ice cold shower to help ease the tension. See? A horny vampire. And you thought I didn’t know where I was going with that analogy!
Yesterday I knew it was going to be an equally hot one, and I wasn’t sure my hormones were up to the task of behaving. I plopped myself on the couch when I got home and slowly stripped off my work clothing piece by piece. I’d been dying to do this all day, but figured Nate would care much less than the entire Member Services Department. Eventually, I was down to a sports bra and underwear, letting it all hang out in front of the big picture window in our living room as if to say, “Hello world! I’m pregnant and bloated and leaving butt sweat everywhere I sit, so go ahead and look if you want to, cuz I no longer give a damn!”
I took my cold shower around 10:30 pm and Nate had the brilliant idea to sleep downstairs in the guest room where it’s slightly cooler. You see? This is why I married the boy – he’s always one step ahead of me. And whether it’s because he really does love me and appreciates what I’m going through, or he just wants me to shut up and quit my b*tching, it was a brilliant plan! We carried our 17 pillows and our puppy downstairs and laid down on top of the covers. I remember doing this last summer and thinking THAT was bad. Man, if I had a clue what I’d be feeling a year from then, I’m pretty sure I would’ve complained a lot less. I guess it’s always something, huh? I mean, if it’s not heat, it’s pain. If it’s not pain, it’s cold. If it’s not cold, it’s thirst. If it’s not thirst, it’s hunger. If it’s not hunger, it’s heat. And the cycle continues.
But last night before we finally fell asleep (it took me an additional half hour and one more strip show), Nate rolled over to me, put his hand on my tummy, and cooed ever so sweetly, “Soon…soon.” He could tell I was near tears because my everything was sweating, my feet resembled those of a Sasquatch, and I was tossing, turning, and pillow-flipping like a crazy woman. “Soon…soon.” For some strange reason, these words which I would normally roll my eyes at and mumble a “whatever” to really calmed me down. Soon the temperature will go down and the wind will pick up. It IS still spring, after all. Soon we will have central air. Nate didn’t sell that motorcycle for nothin’! Soon I will no longer be 20 degrees hotter than every non-bellied person in my office. Soon…soon.
And as I lay there with Nate, I placed my hands on my little internal heater and realized I only have five more weeks with this little boyscout. Soon he will be screaming in the room across the hall. Soon he will be here, with us, in person, live in living color! This heat wave may make me miserable and cause inflation in places I didn’t know were inflatable, but it’s helping me to become a stronger mother.
Although it may feel at times like I’m overcooking my baby, I’m really keeping him safe and comfortable in his little uterine home. THAT is my job, through the sweat and the tears. I’ve never been very handy in the kitchen, but in five weeks he will enter this world and gaze up at his parents with a look of gratitude because I will have cooked that little bun to absolute perfection.