It is mid-June. In New Orleans. I am third-trimester pregnant. And I am not okay.
The worst part is, it’s only going to get hotter. Somehow, I have to make it through all of July and August to my September 4th due date. (Fingers crossed this baby comes early!) It’s gonna be a hot girl summer– a hot, sweaty, melting, miserable pregnant girl summer. If the image you have in your mind of a pregnancy edition of a “hot girl summer” is akin to a sultry fertility goddess, think again.
Never doing a summer pregnancy again
In 2019, I was pregnant with my second son and sweating it through the summer to my September 30th due date, swearing I would NEVER do a summer pregnancy like this again (ha, ha). I had gestational diabetes, so I couldn’t even cool down with a snowball like I so desperately wanted each evening. I’m genuinely not sure how I made it through– I think I blacked out somewhere near the beginning of July and came to in the over-air-conditioned hospital room in September with my son in my arms.
Give me ALL the snowballs
This time around, at least I’ve got snowballs, but each day is a fresh new challenge steaming up from the opened gates of hell, where I understand snowballs don’t stand a chance. It feels like as the temperature rises, my survival chances drop. Soon there will be nothing left of me but a puddle of sweat and a plaintive cry for a cold front.
An average day involves me trying to buckle my two kids into their car seats, in a car that doesn’t have rear AC, running from one side to the other as we’re inevitably late, trying to get one kid to swimming lessons or summer camp and the other to Grandma’s house, which involves more in-and-out of the car seat. Recently, I walked into work after these shenanigans to find the air conditioner off and the thermostat reading a steamy 87 degrees inside the office. I almost cried.
When I leave work, the thermostat in my car is usually reading in the triple digits, and I’m trying to negotiate with my car’s AC like it’s sentient– like I’m a teacher who knows her student has so much more to offer– begging, pleading: please just get a little bit colder. Please. For me. When we pull up in the driveway at the end of the day, I have to give myself a pep talk to swing the belly out of the car and go through the rigamarole with my kids all over again. Once inside, all I can do is collapse onto the nearest piece of furniture and worship the air conditioner. I often wish I had a Victorian fainting couch. (Dramatic, to match my personality.)
The furnace strapped to my stomach that is actually my baby means I am sweating, all the time, everywhere, and there is no relief. My kids beg to play outside, and I reluctantly drag myself out there because they need that fresh air or something, although the fresh air is more like 100% humidity. There is no joy found outside at this time of year, at this many weeks pregnant. There is only sweat.
It will be worth it…
I know it’s all going to be worth it once my due date finally arrives and that baby is here to love on… just gotta make it through each triple-digit day. With my swollen feet and ankles dipped into my kids’ wading pool, frequent trips to the snowball stand, and as much time indoors as I can possibly manage, I have my eyes set on my due date and cooler temperatures to come.
So here’s to all the expecting mamas trying to survive their HOT girl summers… may your due date come quickly, and may a cool breeze blow in your direction all summer long.