We’re under a heat advisory. Again. I have come to believe a giant stick of butter in the sky is melting over Little Rock, or at least that’s what it feels like.
It’s hot. For real hot. Throw a bag of ice in the bathtub and pray for hypothermia hot. Hide in your house and hope you don’t kill each other hot. Make insane threats to cool it down hot. This is the kind of triple digit nonsense that gives me the vapors.
So yesterday, when the heat index hit 115 degrees, I gathered up my chickens and we went to the pool. And made camp. We swam. Monkey Boy and Katy Kat jumped off the diving board. Monkey Boy alone went down the slide. Monkey Boy wanted me to jump off the diving board and go down the slide, but I had to explain to him: Mommy has very little dignity left and I intend to keep what I can.
We stayed through supper and ate junk food from the concession stand. (There is no way something called a “dino nugget” has any real nutritional content.) We stayed up past Monkey Boy’s bedtime. We didn’t care. For at least a few hours, we weren’t dying of the heat.
There was, however, this one, tiny incident. I may or may not have accidentally punched Monkey Boy in the face trying to get his floaties on him. Those suckers don’t budge. I sorta bruised my child in an attempt to keep him from drowning. That’s almost good parenting.