Barefoot and forgotten

I spent three and a half months terrified that I would not find the perfect nanny. I will now spend the rest of my life terrified that I have found the perfect nanny.

What if Brendan stops flashing me his special smile that right now seems reserved for only momma? At two months old he seemed to think the ceiling fan in my bedroom was his mommy. What if we go backwards? What if the pecking order becomes:

1. awesome nanny
2. intriguing ceiling fan
3. that crazy woman that keeps coming around here and crying

I can already see that Susan (awesome nanny) runs a tighter ship than I. The first example (of many to come, I'm sure) is the brand new shoe policy she has instituted at Chez Voltz. No shoes. When he came to install new locks on our door yesterday, our burly Super was informed in a stern (yet loving) voice that the next time he came he would have to remove his work boots. The next time. As in, "When this neglectful mother goes back to work and I can begin raising this child in the proper way."

So we're now one of those households. A "please remove your shoes" household. In the past I've pretended to understand, but have secretly resented arriving at a dinner party dressed in a carefully selected ensemble only to be asked to remove my shoes. All of a sudden, the pants don't hang properly because the hem is dragging. Or even worse, I have to roll up the cuff and stand around sipping wine looking like a fourth grader in hand me downs. And let's face it. I spend too much money on my shoes to have them spend the evening in a pile by the door. And now we're one of those households. So if you come for dinner, wear nice socks.

Ok, ok. Since you asked, more pictures:

Supporting dad's team in the West Village

Fingers are amusing

Just a droolin' fool

Ok, I guess I can take my shoes off for this guy...