No Vacancy

We’re in the middle of a record heat wave.

I’m sure our little Washington heat wave is laughable to all you desert dwellers, but here in our little corner of the world, if it isn’t raining, it might as well be a beautiful summer’s day. Once the weather hits a balmy 50 degrees, we’ve got idiots running around in shorts and Tevas.

So for us Seattleites, 90 degrees is insane. But 100? 100 degrees is straight up call-your-priest-confess-your-sins-say-your-Hail-Marys-get-yourself-your-children-and-your-dog-baptised-the-earth-is-going-to-swallow-you-whole-hell-has-frozen-over-the-second-coming-is-here-Armageddon.

Today, our neck of the woods reached 107.

Again, that may not seem like much to those who are prepared for the heat. But we’re not. Seattle doesn’t do air conditioning. We don’t need it for 362 days of the year, so why bother? On those three days of summer we actually “need” it – when the temperature hits a blazing 92 degrees – there’s a mass exodus to the beach, the mall or the movies, and then we sleep naked sprawled out in front of a fan.

The first part of my week consisted of little other than lounging in Evan’s pool while he played, too hot to care when he peed in the very water I was sitting in. Other than marinating in baby urine, I spent my days trying to reason with Levi. Arguing – with no success – that hosing him down is not the same as a bath, and doesn’t he feel so much better laying wet and stinky on the couch in front of the fan rather than panting in the bark dust?

After 3 days of sweaty, sticky, cranky, sweltering hell I reluctantly, and against my better judgment, allowed Brad to drag me to his air-conditioned office. I’m not an idiot. I’ve got nothing against air conditioning. But in an office? With a 14-month-old? And our dog? Levi’s pretty well behaved. But still, Levi in an office building all day just screams bad sitcom. There’s the obvious logistics of where to take him to go to the bathroom, but there’s also other minor details. Dogs aren’t allowed in Brad’s office building. And Evan? Who’s going to get any work done with him running around? Call it heat-induced insanity, but I let Brad talk me into it.

What I learned today is that my better judgment sucks and air conditioning rocks.

Levi was so happy to be out of the heat, all he did was lay down under a table and hang out, occasionally getting up to beg if he saw a chance at food. And Evan? He of course, wandered around the office gabbing, but no one was there to care so it worked out great. Having spent our day in the luxury of air conditioning, Evan and I are both in better moods then we’ve been all week. It’s amazing what a couple degrees can do to your temperament and sensibilities. Evan and I are both back to being relatively sane and pleasant individuals.

During my new-found state of mechanically-generated ice-cold bliss, I called around to hotels to book a room for the night. Partially because I may have become a bit spoiled by the air conditioning, but also because I worry about Evan in this heat. Apparently I’m not as creative as I think I am. There isn’t a single vacant hotel room in a 20-mile radius that will accept a child under 18 – let alone a dog.

So, I guess that’s what us Seattleites do. We build houses without air conditioning so we can book air-conditioned hotel rooms, and when it’s not raining, no matter what the temperature, we bare those unsightly day-glow legs and slip on our sandals – with socks.

Tooter

Evan's been learning so many new things, I can't possibly keep track of them all. But there's one skill I'm particularly proud of...

Evan's discovered that if he stands up and turns around in his car,
he can honk the horn with his butt.

False Alarm

Note to anyone who plans on babysitting Evan anytime in the near future:

If Evan starts to hyperventilate, STAY CALM.
He's just imitating Levi's panting.

Baseball and Baby Balls

Thanks to Brad’s major league connections, my dad, Evan and Brad went to a baseball game to see Brad’s childhood friend, Heath Bell, and the San Diego Padres play the Mariners. The seats were amazing and all three boys had a blast. Evan flirted with the players' wives, ate pizza and Cracker Jacks, and tried a hot dog for the first and probably last time in his life.

When they went down to the field to visit Heath, he even gave Evan a baseball.

Evan loves that baseball. In fact, he loves it so much, I’ve saved it for special occasions when I need to assure a distraction – like when I’m changing his diaper.

Evan is a boy in so many ways; he eats dirt, he loves cars and trucks and anything with a motor, and when the diaper comes off, his hand goes south. Which isn’t really the problem. He’s a boy. He can play with himself til he’s blue for all I care. The problem is, when it’s a dirty diaper and not just a wet diaper, those little roaming hands can make quite the mess. So now I have him play with his baseball rather than himself. At least, I did…

Yesterday I handed Evan his baseball during a particularly messy diaper and Evan, being the baseball fan that he is, threw his baseball. Right. Into. His poop.

I quickly grabbed the ball and wiped it off, but I only managed to smear the poop right into the grooves of the stitching. So now Evan’s prized baseball sits up on a shelf as a display item and we’ve moved on to plastic bath toys for diaper changing distractions.