Summer.

Every year, when March rolls around, and people start anticipating the summer months, I am the one who staunchly proclaims how wretched summer is. If anyone breathes the word summer, I dive in with a litany of complaints. The humidity. The heat. The longer days. (Come on, kids won't go to bed at 6:30 pm if the sun is still shining!) The barely clothed women who remind me daily of just how fat I really am. (Not that I say the last part out loud to people. I can't be drawing undue attention to my not-so-skinny self.) I am not even a big fan of beaches. I could insert a memory here about a day last summer when I dragged the three kids to the beach by myself on the hottest day of the year, but I'll spare you the dark and depressing details.

This evening, when I was cleaning the boys' room, a gust of warm air came wafting into the window, carrying a faint whiff of someone's barbecue. That is when I knew the awful truth: I secretly love summer. Somewhere underneath my disapproval lurks a girl who really does love sunshine (although I really could do without the humidity) and you'll never believe this, but I am starting to like the outdoors. There is something about the warmth, the sunshine, the longer days (did I really just say that?) and the more relaxed routine that is just so refreshing.

If you Dartmouth people have been wondering why there has been rain for the last three months, look no further. It's because of me. I had to learn the joy of summer by facing relentless rain. I really don't think anything else would have convinced me to change. 

It still ranks as my least favourite season, due to the things I listed above, which still hold true, but I admit there are also reasons to love it too. And for me, a self-proclaimed summer-hater, that is a big admission.