I don’t know what’s wrong with me. After a summer that never happened—after weeks of gray skies broken by only a handful of partly sunny afternoons; after a summer of wearing my winter fleece and wool socks five days a week; after a summer where I lit candles in the mornings to stave off the gloom—even after all that, for some reason I cannot wait for fall to be here.
I should be wishing for summer to come late, maybe for a September of sunny blue skies and days at the beach that we never got this year, but instead I’m looking forward to mornings that make you hug your arms to your chest with their crispness followed by afternoons that warm you from the top of your head down. Even if our skies stay persistently gray, at least the fire-colored trees give the illusion of warmth that summer never delivered this year. I can’t wait for football Sundays with my boys wrestling on the floor during the games, stopping only to stare glassy-eyed at the TV during commercial breaks. I want the feeling of nesting that comes with our lazy autumn weekends.
I shouldn’t care about all the comfort foods of fall—apple cake and crock pot stews and homemade bread—since I am pregnant and can’t eat most of those foods without getting sick anymore, and I can’t cook any of them without being sick. I should be dreading the fairs with all their fried food and animal smells that give me fits when I’m pregnant. I should be hanging onto these last days of summer when I can escape smells and food by stepping outside for an hour or two instead of being confined to the indoors by darkness and cold.
But I can’t help it. Still, I’m excited.