It’s really hot out. Even in Arizona, it’s really hot out. The weather people tell me that we have heat advisory until Thursday night. As in, three whole days from now.
When we first moved to Phoenix from Philadelphia, I was morally certain that I had been deposited in the bowels of Hell. Worse still, I was only twelve years old and I was fairly certain that I hadn’t had enough fun yet to deserve Dante’s Fun Land, so that just multiplied my moral outrage.
Over the years, with a few years off for good behavior in the cool pines of Flagstaff, my white-hot hatred for Phoenix’ triple-digit summers only intensified. I craved cool weather, and beaches, and anything that wasn’t doing a dead-on imitation of my oven on Thanksgiving day.
A few years ago, I realized that I had lost much of my hatred of the desert summers. I realized that I had developed a thicker skin, or my blood type had thinned out to Nestea Positive. My mantra had become, “I don’t want to hear any whining until the temperature is over 110.”
What caused the change?
I’m not sure, but I have one idea: two of my pregnancies ended with nine- or ten-pound babies in August. And now, when I walk outside at the end of the day I stop, inhale, and welcome the warmth.
Because unless I get pregnant in November again, there is nothing Summer In Arizona can do to hurt me.
I loved remembering that today.
© E. Stocking Evans 2014
Mom, Interrupted 