I hate summer.

If you or your child is named Summer, I apologize. I don't hate you.

If the temperature outside is above 80 degrees Fahrenheit, I tend to hunker down in my living room and stay there until the big, bad sun goes away.  Lately though, it's still been sweltering well after midnight, so it's been difficult.  And then, the guilt kicks in, because I realize that I should be happy that I have at least one air conditioner to keep me from melting.  Believe me, I am very grateful.  I still like to whine now and then.

I think that a lot of it might be some sort of PTSD from the horribly bad sunburns I've gotten in my life.  I'm more or less a Ginger, with very pale skin, freckles, and reddish hair.  I am incapable of getting a tan.  I burst into flames if I am in direct sunlight for more than an hour or two.  My husband, on the other hand, doesn't burn at all, but turns a nice golden brown.  It's been interesting to see how these traits carried to our children.  Arlo, our oldest, is pale and freckled like me.  He burns like wildfire, much like me.  Donovan is somewhere in the middle. He burns, but not as badly as Arlo.  Iris takes after her dad and my mom.  She doesn't burn, she bakes nicely.

The kids have been swimming at my brother's house for the past couple of days, which is how I've come to these conclusions.  I need to figure out how to turn it into a biology lesson.