Myself, as I am at around 8:00 a.m. on Wednesday, April 16, 2014. It is cold in my house, and in the kitchen (where I am standing,) so I have a sweater on. It’s over a shirt that is supposed to be a pajama shirt, but I’ve never worn it as such, yet. I do get dressed every morning as a finely crafted habit, but don’t let that fool you in to thinking I somehow have things together. Once I decided to take this picture, it took me a solid five minutes to remember where I put my camera. When I remembered and went to the closet where it was located, it took me another five minutes to remember what I had gone there to get. Insert coined phrase about newborns and sleep deprivation here. It’s 8:00 a.m. and it’s all downhill from here (memory-wise.)
There’s decaf coffee in that mug. Actually, there’s nothing in that mug, since the coffee was still brewing at that point. But there’s decaf in it now, and will be for the next twelve months or so while I’m breastfeeding, since I’ve discovered my littlest is highly sensitive to caffeine. It’s not too big of a deal. The caffeine headaches are mostly tapering off. Is anxiety a sign of caffeine withdrawal? I don’t know. Is taking self-portraits coupled with borderline narcissistic blog narrative? Maybe.
I realized recently that I really don’t like red. In decor, in clothing, in cars. When I play trains with Ephraim, I always pick the blue one. When we play cars, I choose the turquoise Corvette over the red Porsche. There’s something about red that is too predictable, too bold, too bright, too likely to color-cast. I don’t care for it. Except this mug–I like this mug. Maybe its bold predictability will make me forget that there’s no caffeine in that coffee. Or, contrariwise–maybe it’ll jog my memory.