I’ve heard of this thing called “pregnancy glow.” I’ve even been accused of having it. But the truth? I think it’s just that I keep finding myself super pregnant over the summer. And, you know what? It is So. Freaking. Hot. Like, it’s hot for non-pregnant people, of course… but for pregnant women? It’s basically .
A heatwave recently swept its way through my town, with temperatures soaring over 100 degrees coupled with oppressive humidity. The same week, our central air conditioning went on the fritz (because OF COURSE IT DID).
As the week dragged on (and our home warranty dragged their feet about fixing the A/C conduit), I found myself wondering if this wasn’t some giant cosmic joke. (You know, the really not funny kind.)
The scene from Father of the Bride 2, where Steve Martin’s wife and daughter are both hugely pregnant on the hottest day of the year, kept running through my head. While kids fry eggs on the sidewalk outside their house, Steve and his son-in-law don Sherpa-lined coats as they pour endless glasses of lemonade indoors for the women in the frosty air conditioning.
What I’m saying is, I’m fantasizing about being in sub-zero temps.
Whenever I have to cook over the stove, I groan inwardly as I anticipate the heat radiating against my belly. Whereas I linger maybe a bit too long every time I have to open the fridge.
Of course, it’s not all bad. When we lived in the city, I was grateful that my biggest months tended to coincide with warmer weather because I never had to invest in a maternity winter coat and (to be totally honest) it’s a lot easier to get a seat on the subway when you are obviously pregnant, and coats can confuse the issue. On the other hand, it also meant walking a mile to and from work, lugging my giant belly through 90% humidity. (Win some, lose some.)
Summer pregnancies do bring some positives to the table, like…
…I can sit in my daughter’s kiddie pool to cool off if I want to.
…Any visible sweat marks on my clothes are excusable.
… I can eat all the ice cream and gelato and Slurpees and milkshakes and popsicles and Italian ices that I want, without judgment.
…I can point the fan right toward my side of the bed at night.
…I can put ice packs down my bra.
…I can leave the house wearing nothing but my thinnest maxi dress.
…The above is also true re: wet hair, no makeup.
…I can spend the day parked on the couch bingeing Netflix in the air conditioning.
Basically, anything I do manage to get accomplished is seen as a heroic effort because, well, I did it during a heat wave whilst pregnant.
As I stare down my eighth month in August, I wonder (as I always do) why it never seemed to occur to me to plan a winter pregnancy. Am I a glutton for sweaty punishment? If there is a next time, maybe I will consider it, but for now—these are the cards I’ve been dealt.
So as for that pregnancy glow, it would probably be more accurate to describe it as a “pregnancy sheen…of sweat.” But if people want to compliment me on it, I won’t argue.
It’s too hot anyway.