It’s the Heat

It’s been really hot here and I’m drained from leftover Chinese food and wrangling a sweaty child. So we were laying around in the heat wishing we could peel our skin off when Sally finished whatever she was drinking and tossed the cup — literally threw it — on the floor.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“You get that,” Sally replied.

“No, you get it. We don’t throw things.”

“What about balls?”

It’s a good thing we can’t peel skin off because I’d probably remove hers. She’s getting good at arguing. It’s annoying.

And then it hit me. We’ve had this conversation before. It was the material for my first blog post, almost exactly two months ago, and it was hot that day too. (“Hot” doesn’t happen much in these parts and nobody has air conditioning, so when it does get warm, whole towns get whiny. It’s memorable.) Anyway, it occurred to me that this is what Sally and I do when it’s sweltering. We argue over ridiculous things and both refuse to back down. Then I get angry and she decides she needs physical contact. And as everyone over age 2 1/2 knows, putting two boiling, shalacked bodies together just makes all parties crankier.

We have many nicer traits and habits. But when it’s hot, this is us. In a way, it’s comforting: she’s old enough and has a strong enough personality that our relationship has patterns, quirks. We have things that “we” do. It’s nice, even if some of those things make us want to strangle each other.

However, it also means I’m in deep you-know-what when she’s a teenager. And we’re never, ever moving to a warmer climate.

Too Hot to Handle

It’s hot. Sally has been half naked all day. It’s almost never hot here. Nobody even has air conditioning — downright third world, if you ask me, even if we would only need it one week out of the year, the week we each wear our one pair of shorts till they are grungy molds of our rears.

A bad thing about heat is that it makes you avoid human contact. When you’re just you, that’s okay. When you have a 30-pound, walking, talking growth who wants you to hold not only her but her heat-trapping devil blanket, you start getting cranky. The only way to avoid becoming the Incredible Hulk’s less nice cousin is to keep everyone busy. You’d rather lie on the floor and let the flies buzz around you, of course, but moving around is better than having another sweaty body touch yours. Also, it helps prevent the worst thing about the heat: Flaring tempers.

Unfortunately, for us it’s too late. Sally is sick, I’m hungry and we’re having a showdown. All we’re missing is a tumbleweed.

“You pick it up.”
“No, Sally, you dropped it and you’re closest to it. You pick it up.”
“You do it.”
“No, you do it.”

I should point out here that she is 2, I’m 31 and we’re talking about a teensy play swing that goes with her Calico Critters house. Not my finest parenting moment. Still, neither of us budges. Two pair of blue eyes pierce each other while tiny, country-clad toy cats lay on the table, ready to melt into the paint.

Her eyes narrow. “Mommy, are you feeling . . . angry?”
“No.” Yes. But this is a stupid argument and I will win stupid arguments. “It’s simply your job to pick it up.”

She puts her hand on her revolver. I spit out chewing tabacco. Fragile onlookers avert their eyes. So this is how it ends.

“Can I have lemonade?”
“. . . Sure.”

My only saving grace in this heat is that her attention span is shorter than mine. But don’t think she’s forgotten the battle: Five hours later the swing is still on the floor and we’ve had the exact same argument two more times. Each ended with a refreshment. It’s supposed to cool down late this week. Maybe then she’ll pick up the toy.

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