Heat Wave Nostalgia
Last year right after Mister B was born we had a horrible heat wave--about 105 or so for a week and then 100s off and on all summer. I was shell-shocked from, you know, becoming a new mother, stumbling up every couple hours, nodding off while nursing, with sweat running in just about every possible uncomfortable nook of my body, the poor kid stuck to me. Beside the couch where I nursed him was a little "sickbed" table with a tall glass of water, a glass of juice (both with straws in them so I could sip and nurse at the same time), and some sort of snack, like a banana or yogurt, because inevitably I was starving at some point in the middle of the night. Days were blurred as I tried to nap. Bedtime was often as early as 6:30 as I crumpled into a heap. It was awful, frankly. But awful in a kind of nostalgic way like young addicts remember the halcyon days of partying and awful hangovers. I wouldn't go back, but I sort of miss it.
This heat wave (only 90s, thankfully) is bringing it all back: the whirr of the portable air conditioner my husband bought that saved the day, the cloying feeling of our tiny place when all the curtains are drawn to keep the heat out, putting on boxers and a tank top to sleep in and stripping the flannel off the bed for cooler cotton. The difference is that I no longer feel like a zombie ate my brain or that my blood has been replaced with pure hormones. I'm still exhausted at the end of a day, still ready for that blissful moment of silence when the kid finally craps out, and it's still damn hot--but I can finally say that they were right all along (they being the chorus of other parents who urged me on): it does get easier. Different, yes, but easier. Better. More like a real person again, albeit one who goes to sleep and wakes up each day thinking of one 20 pound human being before anything else.