My little summer baby is 11 months old today. One more month until the heart-tugging one year mark. Having a baby around in the hot summer weather is wonderful. Those little cherubic bodies are not meant to be covered up with so much clothing. There's nothing quite like the sight of roly-poly baby flesh and he enjoys being unencumbered by long sleeves and pants as much as I enjoy having such ready access to his kissable skin.
I was never that much of a summer fan as a child. The heat was too off-putting for me (we didn't have air-conditioning in the house) and I never found much enjoyment at the traditional summer hangouts like the pool and the beach (couldn't--still can't--swim). All the stinging and biting insects were also a big source of anxiety for me.
But circumstances have certainly changed my perspective on the season. I'd have to say it began around the time John got his current job teaching at the community college. Not only did he go from erratic, unpredictable hours where he worked half of all the major holidays, to a fairly regular schedule with all holidays off, but he was suddenly off for two months each summer. Two months off! With pay! I still pinch myself and he's had this job for 12 years. Having our whole family together every day for that kind of a stretch is a powerfully positive thing. And it has achieved the miracle of making me love summer. I love every scorching degree of it. My air conditioner might have something to do with that part.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go kiss a baby.