Heat, storms, sick kids, hunkering down

For most of my elementary years, I attended an Episcopal day school. It was your standard parochial program really; uniforms, bi-weekly chapel visits, Christmas programs with Nativity scenes and so forth. I don't remember loving the services, though I always loved singing hymns, but the chapel was a beautiful and peaceful one. The aesthetic beauty wasn't always matched by comfort. The pews were rigid as could be, and the kneelers made your knees cry for mercy despite being 'padded.' And though nestled in southwest Louisiana, the chapel wasn't air conditioned. I always wondered if this was religiously-inspired; you know, don't get too comfortable lest you forget what was supposed to be the primary focal point: worship. On especially hot afternoons, the kind that made us feel as if we were melting into the pews, many of us would attempt to make our hands serve as effective fans. Father Northrup instructed us not to, averring that we would actually increase our body temperatures by expending the energy to wave. Perhaps this was true, but it didn't feel true. It felt like he was trying to get us to what he wanted us to do in a sneaky, tricky way.

In any case, that kind of heat is what DC has been enrobed in for the past week. It's thick heat, wet, oppressive, unrelenting, a lot to bear even for my Louisiana blood. I like to be hot, and I like what goes along with that including shorts, iced tea, tank tops and sunshine. But heat that sits on you like a weighty woolen shawl is a different sort of beast, and a trying one at that. It broke slightly last night with a brief rain and then again this afternoon with a fantastic storm that pummeled us hard for too short a time. It was black out there, the wind whipping branches and leaves by our windows, knocking my tomato plants down as if there were but wispy weeds. I love a good storm and feel energized by today's.

Ol has remained quite feverish, and I admit to being disappointed that his strep test came back negative, especially after the pediatrician seemed truly taken aback by the sight of his throat and tonsils. Gatorade and children's Ibuprofen remain the plan for now, and I am hoping for some sort of miraculous improvement before tomorrow as the 4th is Jack's birthday. Tomorrow my little one, my first born will be EIGHT. It's hard to believe!