The sun starts rising before 5 a.m., and I feel personally attacked. There it is again: the bright, smug face of summer. No one asked for it, and yet it keeps arriving like a relative you can’t quite uninvite—too warm, too loud, too much.
My husband loves summer. The way a golden retriever loves car rides, except he doesn’t roll the windows down. He blasts the A/C and grins like this is the life. The car becomes a cool missile in a furnace parking lot, and he’s perfectly content. Meanwhile, I’m squinting at the seatbelt, wondering if it’s legally considered a weapon when it reaches 40 degrees.
I, on the other hand, wake up sweating through the sheets in our bedroom—the one room in the house with no air conditioning. A cruel architectural joke. Our daughter’s room has A/C, of course. Her sleep is deep and undisturbed. Mine is hot and semi-conscious, like camping in a sauna.
By 1pm, I’ve peeled my three-year-old off the floor where she’s flung herself dramatically, possibly due to the injustice of lunch not being ice-cream. She’s already sticky. Her curls cling to her face like damp punctuation.
I try to think of indoor activities that don’t involve watching the Tomorrowland 2022 set of 3 Are Legend for the hundredth time. I fail. We watch it again, the LED crowd pulsing in time with my slow descent into madness.
The day stretches out like a melted crayon. I measure it in snack requests and brief silences. We spend a lot of time in front of the house. We drag out a plastic kiddie pool, and our daughter splashes around like she’s in Ibiza. It’s the only moment of the day I’m happy for her, honestly. She gets summer the way it’s meant to be. Loud. Wet. No shoes.
I sit in the shade and try not to be seen. I resent everything: the heat, the sun, the brightness of the pavement. I miss winter. I miss pants. I miss 4pm sunsets that excuse you from everything. Now, I’m expected to “make the most of it.” What even is that? I barely have the emotional bandwidth to make toast.
We don’t eat outside. We’re not that kind of family. Too many wasps. Too much dust on the table we never clean. But we exist out there. We hover. We pass her snacks and say things like “ten more minutes,” which mean nothing.
There is no good time to leave the house. Errands are heat-index math problems I can’t solve. Last week, we got in the car and I swear I saw a mirage forming on the dashboard. My daughter screamed when her thighs hit the car seat. I screamed in solidarity.
And yet, the internet screams: “Summer magic!” and “Sunshine=serotonin!” and “Get outside, girl!”
No one says: “I am a grown woman trapped in a hell of hydration and poorly ventilated rooms, negotiating with a tiny human who just asked me if she can pee in the toilet and then demands a diaper when she pees all over herself.”
At night, I can’t sleep. The air is a dense, warm fog. Our fan sounds like it’s plotting something. My husband sleeps easily, probably dreaming of barbecues that will never happen. I toss around, annoyed by the idea that rest even exists.
Sometimes I scroll. I look at other people’s vacations, their tan legs and pool floats shaped like fruit. I wonder if they have children. I wonder if they have sweat glands.
I keep a small, private fantasy in my back pocket: Belgium. Tomorrowland. For a few bright, neon days every summer, I remember why I tolerate this season at all. Loud music, bodies moving together like they’ve forgiven themselves for everything. It’s not rest. But it’s something better. It’s an escape.
Everything else? It’s too much. Too bright. Too demanding. Even joy feels like an obligation in the summer. I should be soaking it up. I should be grateful.
But I’m hot.
I’m a mother.
I’m stuck in a loop of lukewarm lunches, sunscreen battles, and the deeply surreal experience of watching a toddler scream for no reason at all.
My husband hands me a cold drink in the afternoons, like an olive branch. We sit in front of the house, silent in the heat, watching our daughter dunk plastic animals in the pool. It’s not peace. But it’s close enough.
I still hate summer.
But I’m here.
And that might be enough.
Erika Matic is melting quietly while googling “how to install A/C in a bedroom without losing your will to live.”
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