• Why will my toddler happily eat both dog and cat food, and throw a fit when I take it away from her, but reject baby carrots, pasta, toast with strawberry preserves, and goldfish crackers as “YUCKY”?

• When did she become a toddler, not a baby?

• Why does the same child who thinks playing outside in the rain is great fun scream and yell and generally freak out when confronted with having shampoo rinsed out of her hair?

• Why does my husband sneer at a perfectly good three-year-old minivan, but go into raptures over a 20-year-old VW with power nothing, NO LAP BELTS in the front, and what looks like White-Out inexpertly hiding scratches in the paint on the hood?

• Why do I still feel the need to use capitalization for emphasis, even though I know it’s juvenile and goofy?

• How does one decorate a room shared by two girls, one obsessed with princesses and anything pink and glittery, and the other, although too young to really express a preference, completely taken for some reason with “Finding Nemo” and anything to do with fish? (Don’t suggest mermaids. I tried that. One would think it would be a good compromise. One would be wrong. Ariel, it seems, is not really a princess. And she freaks Mimi out a bit.)

• Am I compromising my principles by even allowing those blasted princesses into the room, in the form of removable wall stickers from T@rget? And even if it is, do I care? Because that bribe got Mimi to go to bed in her own bed, in her own room, with very little complaint. Of course she still winds up  in bed with us by 1 am most nights, but it’s a start.

• Why don’t I just go buy an extra umbrella to stash at work instead of walking to/from the bus in the rain, AGAIN?

These are the shoes I am supposed to purchase and wear ALL THE TIME, according to my orthopedic surgeon. Now, I am no Mrs. Figby; just the thought of heels higher than an inch makes me break out in a cold sweat, and my second-hand Keen Mary Janes are my daily shoe of choice. (I am, in fact, having quite a bit of fun imagining either Mrs. F.’s or Mortimer’s Mom’s reaction to such a predicament; I admit to being a bit jealous of their fashionista tendencies and ability to wear pointy-toe high heel shoes without breaking bones).

Anyway. So I am no shoe maven. I like comfort. But I also like cute. Mary janes, slip-on sandals, and clogs. And I have this thing about sneakers. I don’t like them. I really really really don’t like them. I’m sure it dates back to my junior high gym-class trauma; I tend to avoid anything that reminds me even remotely of forced physical activity. I do own a pair of sneakers, and even wear them upon occasion, but since I acquired these, my also second-hand Merrel Jungle Mocs, my outlet-mall Adidas have been relegated to the back of the closet.

I think mostly it’s because I’m lazy; I prefer to be barefoot whenever possible and habitually slip my shoes off under my desk, in the car, and whenever I can. If I have to UNTIE my shoes before I slip them off it makes it that much more difficult. And even if I yank them off without untying them, then I have to untie them to put them back on and then tie them back up. Which is about 14 more steps than just slipping my feet back into my shoes and standing up to run down the hall to the bathroom. Or whatever.

Also, I love comfy shoes but related to the barefoot thing, I really don’t like to wear socks unless absolutely necessary, like when it is FREEZING. And with my trusty slip-ons I can get away without socks most of the time from April through November. In the winter I generally wear thick socks and boots outside, with a pair of slip-ons under my desk to change into as soon as I get to work. I just don’t like the way they make my feet feel, ok? I know that’s weird. I can’t help it. I don’t like my toes feeling constricted, I don’t like fabric touching my ankles, and that’s just the way it is.

Anyway. So now I have a doctor hemming and hawing and saying that my foot injury is “unusual” and “either it will get better or it won’t” (and I am SO GRATEFUL for those words of wisdom, by the way) and in the meantime I must have better support. Not just for my ankles and arches, but the ball of my foot. Because while the fracture is healed, the tendons are not, and as a result my fifth metatarsal apparently flops about like unsupported DDDs in a tank top (not that I would know anything about that, *coughcough*) and that is REALLY BAD. I go back in three months to re-evaluate the situation. Surgery is still a possibilty, HOWEVER, the chance that surgery would actually help and not MAKE THINGS WORSE is apparently about SIXTY PERCENT. As in, there is a 40% chance that we will CUT YOUR FOOT OPEN and saw away at your bones and snip your tendons and sew it all back up and then your foot WILL BE WORSE THAN IT WAS.

So now I am supposed to drop a hundred dollars (which, where that is supposed to come from, I really don’t know) on boring shoes that I will be supremely uncomfortable in, on the chance that they will help my metatarsal and its associated uncooperative tendons avoid a surgery which only has a slightly better than 50/50 shot of actually improving the foot situation.

Gah.

Conversation with my five-year-old nephew earlier today:

B: “When I’m a daddy, I’m going back to live in [town his family recently moved away from]. With Alexa.”

Me: “With Alexa? Will she be the mommy?”

B: “Yup.” [Thoughtful pause] “But I hope we don’t have kids.”

Me: “Well B, if you’re a daddy, you’ll have kids. That’s what makes you a daddy.”

B: “I don’t want kids.”

Me: “Why not?”

B: “Because they poop on your head.”

Me: “WHAT?”

B: “Yes. When you give them piggy-back rides, of course.”

Me: “Oh really? Kids poop on daddies’ heads when their daddies give them piggy-back rides?”

B: “Yes. And I don’t want anyone to poop on my head.”

Me: “Well, I don’t blame you for that. But I don’t think that happens very often. You can probably still have kids, if you want.”

B: “Yes. It does. They poop on your head. That’s what I did.”

Me: “You pooped on your dad’s head when he was giving you a piggy-back ride? Really?”

B: “Yes. But he doesn’t remember. So don’t tell him, because he’d be really mad.”

So to all the fathers out there, I hope you all had a lovely, fun, poop-head-free Father’s Day. You deserve it.

Because I am finding myself with nothing much to say — packing, painkillers, and work stuff. Stress and anxiety and moments of hysterical levity. That’s my life for the moment.

I made these while sitting around the front yard last Saturday during the garage sale. I can’t quite decide how I feel about them. Apparently “barefoot sandals” are a trendy thing for the beach? Not that we go to the beach. They were quick and fun to make, however, and I came up with the design in about three minutes based on a granny square triangle motif in one of my books. Maybe this is something teenagers would go for? With some beads? I don’t know.

Dollar store blow-up beach ball. It’s classic Engrish, which I was totally not expecting, and for some reason I just find it really appealing.

Boo is giving me the total stink-eye in this picture. Heh.

Same afternoon — Mimi’s hanging off the top of our porch swing. Which I should probably have put a stop to, I suppose. I just keep reminding myself … free range kids. I want free range kids. Do not stifle them.

Mimi’s still doing ballet classes on Saturday morning. She’s warmed up to them, somewhat, but I’m not sure we won’t go back to gymnastics in the fall. I made the scrunchie to match her shoes, but then she insists on wearing her blue leotard. Which is fine.

Am perfecting my headbands. I really like this one. I think I’m keeping it. Well, I guess if I don’t get some of them listed, I’ll be keeping all of them.

Mark brought home more boxes before he went off to work this afternoon, and the kids are playing at a cousin’s house. Sigh, I guess I’m back to packing.

In the past 10 days:

Broken foot. Well, you knew about that.

Kev got suspended from school for five days for fighting. He goes back tomorrow. Final exams start tomorrow. Yeah. That’s not going to be pretty.

Mark’s supervisor was petty about him calling in the day I was in ER getting my foot splinted. Mark has spent a week and a half trying to sort it out. Still not resolved. Ugh.

I have been going to work but have been pretty slow and arriving late most days. Yesterday was sort of the last straw when I missed the shuttle bus by about 3 seconds. I finally got into work and asked for a couple of vacation days, to deal with the foot and moving. Suffice it to say, it wasn’t pretty. I am, however, off on vacation this week. Maybe longer. We’ll see. Desperately need the time, just to get packed and get organized and maybe even get some rest. At the same time it’s all very frustrating due to some things that I really shouldn’t talk about. Ack. I know it’s a very bad idea to go into work issues here and so I won’t but argh, I want to. So. Much. Bitching. Must. Not. Give. In. To. Temptation.

Moving in three weeks. Maybe less. Just barely started packing.

Family stuff, too. Not. Talking. About. It. Gah.

Trying very hard not to succumb to feeling sorry for myself mode. It would be easy to do right now, with people around me taking nifty vacations, doing neat stuff this summer, and me sitting here with my stupid broken foot trying to pack and not to give in to the urge to tape my children into boxes while I’m at it. Everyone is cranky and tense and tired, between my job stuff, Mark’s job stuff, the ever-present money issues, my lack of mobility, Kev’s issues, and the move.

I’m trying very very hard to look on the bright side of things. I can’t wait to get into the new house, even if the thought of unpacking gives me the heebie-jeebies. I have a trip coming up at the end of July for work that should be really great, and will be able to see friends in the DC area while I’m there. There are some good things coming down the pike. It’s just getting through all this crap to get to them.