For months now, as I’ve talked to people about my pregnancy, I’ve said things like, “You know, I honestly feel really good, but just think — I’m due early September, I’m going to have to suffer the dog days of summer with 15-20 pounds attached to my stomach!”
I thought by this point I would be existing in a constant state of discomfort. I live in a place known for snow, but during the summer, it’s normally quite hot and miserably humid. I was envisioning gaining a lot of weight, enduring lots of sweaty walks to and from my internship at the law school and roasting in both a house and an apartment with minimal air conditioning.
Apparently, God doesn’t hate me, because it’s been a blissfully mild summer so far. In fact, it’s been amazing. We’ve had exactly four gross, hot days so far, and many, many perfect ones – hanging in the mid-70s with sun, a breeze and a cool evening.
Even better, pregnancy seems to like me. Considering I’m six weeks from giving birth (OMG OMG OMG), my weight gain has been quite moderate. And no, I’m not limiting myself. I have enjoyed a lot of ice cream this summer. I haven’t been ravenous, but I’ve treated myself to the occasional regular soda (a youthful pleasure I mostly gave up years ago) and eaten pretty much whatever I felt like eating.
To top it off, besides an occasional backache, I haven’t even had any of the “normal” pregnant lady symptoms. No heartburn, no major digestive issues, no exhaustion, and so far, only very slightly swollen ankles. It is, indeed, a miracle.
And that is why I must say that I am expecting August to sport temperatures in the 100s every day, or a 40-hour labor two weeks after my due date. Something has to give, right?