Hot town

The weather is humid here in Massachusetts.  Not that it doesn't get humid in the Midwest, but somehow the air is heavier here all the time, kind of like it gets at home before we hear the tornado sirens.  This kind of humidity makes me think of being little and the backs of my legs sticking to the vinyl on the bench seat of my parents' yellow Buick Regal on summer trips to Washington DC. Much of my time in that car was spent reading furiously, ignoring the beads of sweat on my forehead and the inevitable moment when I'd have to get up and peel myself off of the car.

Now that I'm a parent, I relive summer through my kid. She runs around playing, blissfully unconcerned by the rivulets of perspiration running down the sides of her face, the matted hair obscuring her vision. All she knows is the joy of discovery, and the realization that summer means more time to play outside.  On our way home from the grocery store yesterday, we passed a Good Humor truck, and I thought about all the classic summer experiences she has yet to sample.

As for me, there's been a discovery of my own through the Boston humid air, the mundanity of which means only her dad and I will care: in this humidity, my baby has curly hair.