Hot

It is hot, and the AC does not work, not in our house, not with a mouse, not in our car, makes me go RAWR.  (Sorry, Seuss.)

Angus (not his real name) is really cooking now, quite literally, a little radiator in my belly.  I think of Aristotle, who said that female fetuses are just males that didn’t get hot enough in the womb.  Every night when Angus (not his real name) relentlessly drives up my internal body temperature, I grumpily think the old misogynist philosopher may have had something.

We have but one fan – a situation I will soon rectify – and I drag it from room to room with me.  I’m somewhat ashamed to say that I stole it from Jack’s room last night, left my little boy to sweat and toss and turn without the comfort of a cool breeze, because I was just to boiling I couldn’t BREATHE.  Jack isn’t gestating a squirming, stretching little human.  He can suck it up.  And people, it’s May.  It’s, like, 80 degrees.  What am I going to do when it’s in the 90s later this year?  I may be marching up to the hospital next week and demanding they remove this child immediately, because his mother is hot and uncomfortable and short of breath and this is ridiculous.  33 weeks is plenty.

I’m going to go lay down on our cold tile floor.  Have a nice day.