The last time I was pregnant during the summer was seven years ago. There was a long heat wave in Georgia where the high temperatures stayed above 100 degrees for over two weeks.
We lived in a one bedroom apartment with no central air. I was twenty-something weeks pregnant with Owen and so so hot and miserable. Chris dragged our mattress into the living room where our little window unit hummed all night, trying to provide some relief while we tried to sleep.
We went to the beach earlier that summer too. It was the week before my anatomy scan. I was 19 weeks pregnant, and barely showing. Chris broke his shoulder boogie boarding in the rough waves, and I read and napped on the beach, relishing in my last vacation before vacations changed forever. Next year, I would have a little baby to care for, to watch over, to enjoy at the beach.
This summer, I'm pregnant again.
We went to the beach. I'm 29 weeks pregnant. I'm hot and miserable.
And happy and full. I'm showing quite a bit, enough where my great aunt asked several times if we're sure it's not twins.
We took our two precious daughters with us. One loved the beach, the other not so much. It was as relaxing a week as you can have with a four year old and one year old who never stop moving and exploring, and with one kid who still does not sleep through the night.
I'm ready. And scared. And unsure and overwhelmed and ready.
October is just a month away.