just one more pair of boots…

Ah, Salsa. How I love to dance. 
As I mentioned last week, I was getting myself all geared up for the Maynooth weekend Salsa school. I’ve been going there every June since its inception and it never disappoints. This year was no different, it was absolutely fantastic!
I’ve always loved to dance. In fact, three friends and I had a mini dance troupe, when I was in secondary school. And I have to say that we were very good. Performed in public and everything. It was my one escape from home that was ‘validated’ by my parents. Any request that ended in ‘…and I have to be at school till five o’clock’, usually didn’t bring up any questions, and resulted in my being given lunch money and picked up by my dad after he finished work.
License to play or what?!
Anyway, my weekend in Maynooth meant that I got two free passes from having to take care of Roz for two whole days last weekend. HOORAY! Now, some of you may be saying,
Tsk, tsk, tsk. A mother who celebrates at not having to spend time with her child, why I never!’
But believe me, looking after a baby is bloody boring. It going in cycles of wakes up, feed, play, sleep, all day long. And as much as I adore my little girl, I was looking forward to two days of pure ‘me’ time.
I was on the 9:30 train both mornings and dancing away to a mix of Salsa, Bachata, Rueda and attending body isolation and ladies styling classes all weekend. It was fun, it was exercise, and gosh, how I missed dancing! The only downside was that I had to be home by half-six to begin Roz’s bedtime ritual and get her to sleep, and so missed the two great party nights. Bummer. And I also had the added downside – for the faint-hearted, this is your last chance to look away – of having to spend my lunch breaks eating my food in the ladies’ toilets with the breast pump. For those who haven’t breastfed, this is one little procedure you’ll have the joy of never knowing.  Because Roz feeding so much during the day, I don’t pay any heed to my boobs. But boy, did I feel it last weekend. By 11:30, my boobs would be so full that I was in pain. Pumping was such sweet relief, and then having to pour two hundred mils of breast milk down the toilet…I almost wept! By five thirty, my boobs were killing me again and it felt sooo good to latch Roz on at six thirty. 
 The joys of motherhood I tells ya. But you know what? I’ve never had so much respect for the female body. We are amazing. Hell, evolution is amazing!
I did break one of my buying rules though. 
I had promised that this time, I would not buy any dance shoes. I have four pairs already, which is more than adequate for the amount of dancing I do, but I just love my glitzy dance shoes. They are actually by one extravagance. I have red Cuban heeled shoes. A pair of black  2 ½ inch heeled ones with silver buckles, purple sparkly 2 ½ inch heeled double strapped ones and a pair of soft jazz shoes but when I walked into the school I fell in love! Sitting on the table were a pair of the most fabulous dance boots ever! I mean, I just had to have them. And I know, it will be one more in a long line of,
‘Oh please, just one more pair of boots and then I’m done buying’
But oh ye gods they looked so good.
I’m not the kind of dancer that goes for the slutty look. You know, tight leggings, short skirts, skimpy tight tops…which actually are extremely comfy to dance in. I just don’t have the courage to be honest. So the one area I can show off is the shoes. I went through the whole of Saturday telling myself,
my latest dance shoes
Muuka, you have enough shoes. You are on unpaid maternity leave and can’t afford them. Krys will freak out that you bought another pair of boots. Where will you even wear them? Ah come on, red? You’ll look like a harlot!’
Nothing worked…and I’m so glad because I love, love, LOVE them to death.
And I promise this is the last pair now.
At least for this quarter.
How did Krys get on during those two days you may ask? Or you may not.
The fact is I didn’t care put too much thought into that while I was away. Hell, he’s her father and has to learn how to cope at some stage right? Again, harsh, but true. If I dropped dead tomorrow, he’d have to know what to do, so it was a very steep learning curve.   
Actually, he got on great since the apartment was still standing when i got there. He’s always good with her. we have an agreement that I’m allowed free mornings so I can go to the gym, surf the net or whatever, and give him time to bond, whenever he’s home.

The only major observation he made was,
“Boy is it boring taking care of a baby”,
Thereby making me feel a little less guilty.
However, my dance fever has been rekindled. I want to dance again. There are tons of Bachata and Salsa nights weekdays in Dublin, so I’ve asked Krys and have been let off on Wednesday nights to go shake my tush at Bachata. I’m starting up with my old dance club next week so wish me luck. 
The other thing that happened this week was that I went into my place of work to verify the day I’m starting back. Groan!
Don’t get me wrong, I actually like my work. The atmosphere is great, the training is exceptional, it’s just that I hate my profession. Accounting is just not my thing. Yeah I’m good at it and it’s been my bread and butter for the last eight years, but I hate it! It’s excruciating having to sit at my desk all day long and stare at my computer all day long and deal with boring ol’ figures and spreadsheets all day long. 
The thing that makes it worthwhile?  The fact that I don’t have to deal with tax, or with stock – my two most hated things in accounting. As I mentioned, the training is excellent too. Last year, I got to train on managing teams and how to interview effectively, and the much needed supervision training. Boring! I hear you say, but when you get to use these skills every day, they are fantastic! I’m fascinated with people and the way our minds work so to see and use any psychological skills firsthand just gives me a small high.
Anyway, I went in to see my line manager and had a long, long chat about my team and what to expect when I get back and we came to an agreement that I’d be back in work on the nineteenth of August.  Which now seems really close. If I think about it, Roz will just be rounding up to her eighth month – sniff sniff- and I just don’t want to leave her in someone else’s care. I know I’m not the first and definitely won’t be the last mum to feel apprehensive about leaving her child with a stranger, but she’s just so small and tiny and what if the person is mean, or won’t know that you have to sing ‘daisy bell’ to soothe her, and that she loves to dance to ‘toxygene’ by The Orb? Oh boohoohoo!
 Why oh why have I not won the lottery so I can just stay at home and take care of her myself? I’m not even being greedy here, a quarter of a million euro would sort me out till I’m ready to let go!
So there I am sitting with my line manager with all this rolling through my mind and thinking I’ll have to come back to fighting with other manager, fighting with the fundraising department and sitting through boring government meetings on reporting while my poor baby screams her head off in a crèche.
Poor, poor angel.

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