The thing about living in Jerusalem is you can't take a step without bumping into a pregnant woman.
You can't take a step without bumping into anyone, period, but when you're in the unfortunate position of wondering if you're ever going to have children yourself and you are constantly having to offer up your seat on the bus for the umpteenth pregnant and married "woman" – and by woman, I mean barely out of her teens, well, you start to look around for a way to just end it all.
But that's just the heat talking.
It's been unbearable outside. The world has been stricken with a heat wave that would make hell seem like an air conditioned paradise. The whole thing makes me long for Chicago in January. No, February. Which is saying something.
Even as I write this I know that merely being pregnant or having a husband does not make everything all better.
It would suck to be pregnant in this weather, for one. And suck even more to have to drag around a five-pound human being inside your own body in this heat while also caring for a rambunctious toddler. Or two toddlers. Or three children and a husband who isn't around much. Or four children and a negligent husband and also a mound of dirty laundry, a stifling hot apartment, and a broken toilet.
Blech about a broken toilet!
But why compare suffering?
Which is another way of saying, I suffer, too!
And maybe, possibly, I suffer even more than everyone else.
But that’s just the heart, I mean the heat, talking.
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