Coordinating Issues

Sitting at my desk, I had a minor panic that I wore two different shoes today.  Since I cannot see my shoes without contorting my legs to the side or sticking them way out in front of me, I feel that the slight panic was justified – I managed to get two children and my foggy-headed self out the door at aaaalmost the regular time this morning, sans assistance from Tony, and frankly, we’re just lucky I wasn’t wearing my house slippers when I got behind the wheel and started shouting at everyone to SIT DOWN AND GET BUCKLED!  (That’s happened before.  The house-slippers-worn-out-of-the-house thing.  They are so unattractive that it wouldn’t matter what I had scheduled at nine am, I would go home and get real shoes, assuming I could see my feet to notice that I wasn’t already wearing real shoes.)

 

Anyway, my shoes are the appropriate ones, matched to each other and my outfit.  Thank goodness.

 

I’m phoning it in on clothing, lately.  It’s getting hot out, the effects of which are multiplied by the fact that I normally don’t deal well with hot weather AND I’m pregnant.  Dressing for the heat when one is pregnant and fat isn’t easy (thus the maternity Spanx), and I have no desire to spend loads more money on clothing that will be worn, at most, for the next 11 weeks, but more likely for the next 8.

 

 

Tank top, roll-top jersey-knit skirt… it’s only the jewelry that keep this from being a slobby, Saturday-morning outfit.

 

To top off my malaise, I have awful allergies right now.  Something’s blooming, and it’s trying to kill me.  It leads to some interesting situations with my children right now, though.  I read Interrupting Chicken and I have to interrupt the story to sneeze every other page, for instance (thank You, God, that I have a strong pelvic floor – it would be beyond cruel to pee my pants every time I sneezed like so many pregnant women do).  And conversations with Jamie take an interesting turn when I can’t think of a response because my brain is so fogged up: “Mommy, why do you pee out of your butt?”  “I don’t pee out of my butt!  I sit down because I don’t have a penis.”  “But, mommy, where is your penis?”  “…I just told you, I don’t have one.”  “But why?”  “Because I’m a girl, and girls have vaginas, not penises.”  “Mo-ooom!  You’re not a GIRL!”  Now try having this conversation when you’re drunk or high, and you’ll know how I felt.