Today I took the kids to exchange a few duplicate birthday gifts. It was their first foray into a toy store. Deprived, I know, but I try to keep episodes of sobbing materialism to a minimum.
The agreement was that they could each pick out one replacement toy. I was using my mind-meld techniques to steer them towards a new doll stroller (Maggie's broke) and a set of pots and pans for their new stove.
Instead Oliver fell hard for the first thing his eyes landed on: a nifty Tinkerbell cylinder bag with a beaded handle. He calls it "my purse" and saying he likes it is to do a grave injustice to the intensity of infatuation everywhere. He is sleeping with it at this very moment.
My only regret was my reaction. Once I realized he meant business, I gently urged him to check out the trucks, which, duh, could never match the splendor of a lavender tin Tinkerbell purse. I mean, in a million years. Please.
A thing I like
I just started The Slippery Year: A Meditation on Happily Ever After by Melanie Gideon, which, from what I can tell so far, is a memoir about my current stage of life—the what-next stage when you have the relationship and the house and the kids and maybe even the job and then, well, having it all can be a little static. It turns out that life is like good fiction: the main character has to want something to make it compelling.
Anyway, I liked this little passage here:
"There's this strange phenomenon. An hour after you've put your children to sleep, the ways in which you have wronged them sprawl out on your chest, all two hundred and fifty pounds of them, and suck the breath right out of you. It works the same way with gratitude. An hour after your family has left the house, you love them with a piercing intensity that was nowhere to be found when you were scraping egg yolk off their breakfast dishes. Your hope is to one day feel this way about them when they are in the room. This is a pretty lofty goal."
The Mister thinks I'm such a tough farmer chick because I can pick up chickens and scoop up handfuls of bugs without flinching. Get me near a spider and it's a whole 'nother, much squealier picture. But I must admit, I like this image of myself as no-nonsense and unfussy (it helps balance out the fugue state shopping trips to Nordstrom Rack and the way in which I am helplessly drawn to Us Weekly).
Here I am, being totally hardcore with the circle of life.
First of all, a massive congratulations to my Sunset coworkers on their James Beard Award! How cool is that? They won in the food blogging category and if you haven't already been following the one-block diet blog, may I suggest that you do? They may have single-handedly started the backyard chicken craze that's sweeping the West. Plus, James Beard? He was huge! And so is the award named after him.
Also, I can't believe we didn't take advantage of this holiday at the twins three-year-old birthday party on Saturday. It would have made what was a pretty hectic and disorganized gathering of preschoolers (my mural painting idea was ruined by the rain) a lot more interesting. Oh well, next year.