Foot Soldiers in the Vanguard

Spring has officially sprung -- well, as far as spring in Texas goes anyway -- and I'm reminded of that DSW shoe commercial that talks of female feet emerging for the very first time since winter, coming out of hibernation. Their vehicle being: sandals.

I may wear the burks year round, but I'm starting to pull out sandals that haven't been worn since last year. Twice last week I grabbed a pair from the closet to find that the straps needed adjusting. Seems that not only was it last year when I wore them, it was last year when I was pregnant with Ryder and my feet were like swollen cantaloupes. It's amazing how pregnancy even makes your feet feel fat.

I'm currently enjoying tightening those straps and trying not to stare down the entire time I walk. My feet have officially returned to normal. In fact, by looking at me you'd never know I had a baby six months ago. But my body remembers, and I'm curious about when that linea nigra will disappear completely.

I miss my kitty cat. That I can tell you.

There's a lot more on my mind, occupying my thoughts, but for whatever reason, I can't bring myself to write about it here. I guess I just struggle with the amount of personal crap I'm comfortable putting online. Do you struggle with that, too?

A conversation that took place in our house this morning:

ME: "Hey, do those socks match Ryder's outfit? I mean, they're camouflage, and even though they don't match exactly, I think they coordinate well with the animals on his jumper."
B: "Yes, they match fine."
ME: "I thought so. It's like he's wearing the camouflage to hunt the animals."
B: "Yeah, only he's not hunting. He's observing."
ME: "Yeah, he's observing ... on safari."

WARNING: I whine a lot here.

I'm tired, and it's becoming obvious in my appearance. Blame it on hormones; everyone else does.

I just had my third conversation with my hairdresser (to Lauri's point, stylist) this month (and you thought I was going to say walls). I want to change something, and I'm focusing on my hair. "Let's cut it!," I keep telling him, and he'll end up talking me into a trim or some added layers or a bang cut instead. A couple of weeks will pass, and I'll call him again, "Let's cut it!" Rinse, lather, repeat (I’m stealing from Lorie who stole from the shampoo bottle).

I think I'm freaking him out. After years of dying my hair darker, I'm hinting at wanting blonde highlights. I'm really, really confusing him. I say "GOOD!" Let me affect someone else for a change because people are taking their toll on me these days. At least he gets paid for putting up with me.

I know, this is whining. I'm in a fairly decent mood, too.

UPDATE: I just made an appointment to have my hair WASHED. How bad is it that I'm making appointments for that now??? What am I, 73? I also scheduled a cut before the end of the month. So there.

My dad asked me for a small favor Thursday night -- to PLEASE try not to say fuck anymore this weekend in front of Kay, my mother-in-law.

So far, I've honored his request.

Wound Tight

I'm still adjusting to being back at work, to being a working mother, to having a five-and-a-half-month-old in frickin' DAYCARE. Oh, and did I mention I'm a newlywed, too? I may also be adjusting to that while wearing many, many hats atop my head.

Daycare drives me nuts, you see, because I am obsessive compulsive and can't control daycare. This is a serious point of contention, one that I am not handling gracefully.

One thing about daycare that bugs me is having to write Ryder's name on everything that goes there. I'm very particular about MY THINGS and keeping up with those things, and defacing them makes me uncomfortable. I don't want to write on our stuff; it goes against my entire value system.

Who wants Marks-A-Lot on their BABY's stuff? Permanent marker all over his bottle and binky, I suppose, is better than finding him with the wrong bottle or binky in his mouth when you pick him up after a long, irritating day at the office. I like things sterile, but how can they be sterile with Marks-A-Lot on them? If you boil them, do little chips of permanent marker flake off in the water, contaminating it? This is how my mind works, people.

More importantly, how am I to control everything when it's in someone else's hands eight hours every day? At times, I daydream of being able to stay at home, then reality hits me, and I remember how nutty I got after staying home for nine short weeks. I don't know what "the best thing" is, but I doubt it's me at home every single day. I would drive myself crazy. And I could never relax depending solely on another person for financial support, but that's another issue ENTIRELY.

So if you happen to run into me, and notice the ticks are a bit more ticky these days -- well, perhaps you'll cut me a little slack.

Disconnected

Disconnected

I agreed to something that I'm now having second thoughts about having agreed to. I feel a little bit like I'm betraying someone. I feel a little hypocritical.

The individuals in whom I have placed my faith, the people who have the reigns, are now beginning to scare me. They want to play music. They say another person we know has "direct contact to God." Things are getting hokey; I'm having flashbacks from childhood.

I'm only partially kidding.

I could fill pages on Ryder's bowel movements, really I could. I will not torture you with such details, but I will proclaim it carrot week.

A week and a half ago, my husband decided to shave his head; he did not consult me in advance. Of course it was shocking at first, but I suppose I'm used to it now that it has grown out some.

I found it interesting when I learned just yesterday that my aunt also recently shaved her head, after my uncle shaved his. She's 56 years old and is wearing wigs to work.

I have no intention of shaving my own head, but I fear I may be bald soon enough -- post-nursing shedding has begun.

These days I'm easy to track; I leave a trail.

Could we have had more beautiful weather this weekend? It was so gorgeous outside, and we spent lots of time enjoying it. Brian started the secret garden. I'd tell you about it, but it's a secret.

Ryder hung out with his Nana while we did taxes. No one told me how marriage affects your tax return. I'm used to getting quite a refund; turns out I should just be happy we don't OWE taxes this year.

I haven't adjusted to the time change, and I'm way behind already. It's not the best way to kick off a Monday, but I do feel rested, and that's a good thing.