Wishful Slacker

Being Proud

It stirs within us, standing on the sidelines of a muddy field while our nephew scores a goal, receiving the acceptance letter for the school we wanted, or simply realizing with a rush of melancholy that our robust child is no longer the infant we used to hold tight in our arms.

It is January, and always in January I think of our past.  I can't say that I am proud of my sister for beating cancer, because to that battle we owe our gratitude to modern medicine, to her doctors and caregivers.  But when I think of my sister then, and my sister now, and her unbelievable bravery, grace, and ferver for living life as it should be lived,  my insides swell with a love and pride that is almost too big to be digested. 

Happy anniversary, Sis xo

Happiness in Blue Jeans

When I was a teenager and my mom and I went shopping, she would sit outside my fitting room while I tried on clothes.  After trying something on, I lopped it over the fitting room door and she would put it back on its hanger.  Then I became an adult, and suddenly found myself in my fitting room without anyone helping and I had to hang up my own damn clothes.  And I was like, oh my god, trying on clothes has now become ten times more annoying than it used to be.  Eventually I would emerge from the fitting room, sweaty and with my hair in tangles.  And then I had to actually pay for what was in my cart, and shopping became even less fun. 

Add having a baby into the mix, and you'll understand why I now view going to the dentist as a more pleasurable experience than clothes shopping.  At least at the dentist's you can take a nap.

I've never really been that in to fashion, anyways.  I don't know brand names, or what's "in" now, or what was "in" in the past.  I haven't shopped at really nice places.  About 75% of my work wardrobe came from used clothing stores and the Salvation Army when I started my first job.  In fact, fashion has always intimidated me.  I far more enjoy buying clothes for Eleanor than for myself.   

Back in May, I attended an event sponsored by Chicago's Neighborhood Parents Network when a fashion consultant went over her big "fashion do's and don'ts" list with us.  Her name was Noelle Cellini, and her company is called My Best Foot Forward.  And you know what?  I became inspired.  I decided I actually wanted to start improving my wardrobe, piece by piece.  I took some skirts that I bought a few years ago second-hand that fell unflatteringly at mid-calf, and had them hemmed to knee-length (and they are totally awesome now).  I went through my closet and weeded out the awkward pieces.  I tried on all of my work pants and decided which ones I should only wear with flats and which I should stick with heels, and had them hemmed accordingly.  Remarkably, this process was not that expensive, and it felt pretty good to make such positive changes using what I already had in my closet.

I realize, especially now that I have a child, that I really like to dress up.  It makes me feel better, less schleppy.  By dressing up, I don't mean I am walking around in an evening gown while Ellie flings banana at me from her high chair, but rather, if I can dry my hair, put a wee bit of make up on, and CONSIDER what to wear instead of lounge pants, I feel better, even when we are home doing nothing. 

For Christmas, Jim got me a lovely pair of brown riding boots and a gorgeous red Coach handbag (both on my hopeful list of new wardrobe additions).  Left on the list was to get some nice jeans.  What I've been wearing I purchased second-hand over five years ago, and they've become well worn.  I was due for something new.  But then again, I didn't feel like shopping for new jeans.  Blech.  The time, the energy, the repeatedly checking out my derriere in a mirror...I was in no rush to embark on that search.  But then, out of the blue (haha, get it?) a few weeks ago, the woman who ran my new mom's group sent on an email invitation for a jeans party at The Blues Jean Bar.  Last week, a group of ladies met at the Blue Jeans Bar, and oh my goodness I recommend this experience so highly, because I have never so enjoyed buying a new clothing item.  The store is set up like a bar, with all the blue jeans folded and out of your reach.  You tell the ladies behind the counter what you are looking for.  They bring you the jeans to try.  They then check on you.  They look at how the jeans fit.  They make really nice comments.  You say to them, "I am not in to how low rise these are."  They come back with another pair that fit you better.  You say to them, "I can't zip these up!" and before you can even turn around they've brought you the next size. 

Basically you are back to being 15 years old, and they become your mother standing outside the fitting room. 

All the annoyances of buying jeans were taken out of the picture.  It was just you and the blue jeans.  Going in, I knew I could use one pair of nicer boot leg jeans to go with heels for nicer outings.  I also was thinking that finally getting a pair of skinny jeans would be pretty cool.  And what do you know, I found both.  They are fabulous.  How could I get just one?  Now, the jeans at the Blues Jeans Bar are of the pricier variety.  We aren't talking Old Navy, or the $20 I spent on my used GAP jeans five years ago.  And a part of me really wanted to throw up when I handed over my credit card.  The next morning though, I woke with a smile.  And I practically skipped across Oz Park when I picked them up last night after they'd been hemmed.  I wanted to wear them to bed (and I think I could have, because they are commmmfortable!).

Bottom line- if you live in Chicago, I highly recommend going to the Blues Jeans Bar.  If you are anywhere else, and know of a place similar to the Blues Jeans Bar, go there.  Let someone help you find your jeans.  You deserve it :-) 

By the way, Noelle Cellini is on Twitter (@NoelleCellini), and posts some good fashion links if you're wanting to learn how to be on the up and up :0)

I've also enjoyed the following books in learning how to dress myself:
The Lucky Shopping Manual: Building and Improving Your Wardrobe Piece by Piece by Andrea Linett

What I Wore: Four Seasons, One Closet, Endless Recipes for Personal Style by Jessica Quirk
(this one did not get great reviews on Amazon, but I like it)

Sneak peak at the new Lurie Children's Hospital

They have been taking us down to the new hospital in small groups for orientation and I thought I would share some of my pictures with you. It is a very impressive building!

Ann and Robert H. Lurie Children's Hospital of Chicago, opening May/June 2012

Education

SERIOUSLY?

Those of you who know me well know of my propensity to bitch and complain incessantly about minor inconveniences that really aren't that bad when considering the big picture.  Well, this blog post is a continuation of that theme, with a decently happy ending.  I just wanted to make that clear now, so that anyone sick of my whining can quickly stop reading and go about with their day.

I was hoping to get to the fancy Whole Foods down in Lincoln Park today, first because I needed to get us some food (hence the grocery store part), and second, because on Wednesdays I saw that there is singalong time at 10 am with teachers from the local Bubbles Academy.  The Whole Foods is about a 10 minute drive away this time of day.  Sweet, I thought, we'll go and be silly, then we can quickly shop, and then come home. 

Now, a critical aspect of getting this plan to work revolved around Ellie's nap schedule.  We are currently in between the two and one nap-per-day phase.  Some days we do two naps, others we are fine with one.  I've just been trying to arrange our schedule as best I can so that either of these nap options can be accommodated.  For the most part, that is.  If we succeeded with our Whole Foods singalong trip, it meant we would only do one afternoon nap today.  It was me dictating the rules- a fatal error in a household run by a toddler. 

Things seemed to work out in the hours leading up to the singalong time around here.  Ellie got up really early this morning (imagine Ellie crying from her crib and then Major yowling full blast in the kitchen.  No need for an alarm clock here on Roscoe Street!), and chilled out in her crib with bunny for a bit after we fed her breakfast and she had played.  She might have even slept a few minutes, but I wouldn't know for sure as I had crawled back into bed myself at that point.  She had a snack, I gave her a bath, and before I knew it, it was about time for us to head down to the car.  Even more impressive?  Ellie and I were both all ready to go.  When does that ever happen?  Seriously? 

I got us down into our garage, got Ellie in her car seat.  Went around to the drivers seat, put the key into the ignition, and the blasted key wouldn't turn.  I'm not saying the car wouldn't start- the key would not turn. 

Our Honda has this propensity for the steering wheel to lock in the parked position, especially if the tires are turned, and this makes it impossible to turn the key in the ignition. It has happened to me in the past, and what you do is jiggle the wheel back and forth so the tires straighten and then it unlocks.  Well, this morning, I jiggled, and then the jiggles turned into aggressive jerks turned into curse words and unanswered phone calls to my husband where I was ready to yell into the phone, "Why in the HELL won't this steering wheel unlock?!" 

He was lucky he was in a meeting.

The frustrating thing is, I know what will happen.  I will try the car again later this afternoon, perhaps, and the wheel will turn like butter and with ease the car will start.  Or it will present no problem when Jim tries it this evening after he gets home from work.  How many times does this happen to me?  The stubborn lid on the marinara sauce, the button to collapse the stroller, the fastener on the seat belt in the grocery cart I had last week (I thought I was going to have to leave Ellie at the Jewel).  Then someone else comes along, and, zoom!  Easy as pie!

But anyways, I digress, as usual.

To make the situation even more pleasant, Ellie started to fuss and cry from her car seat.  It was the point of no return, I-am-a-cranky-mess-let's-just-go-home type of fussing.  So I just rested my forehead on the steering wheel, and calmly thought, I am not going back upstairs until I have done our shopping. 


And so I got Cranky McCrankerson out of the backseat, parked her back into her stroller, slung the diaper bag across my shoulder, and we set out for our local Whole Foods, which is within walking distance (see, you guys, it's not like there wasn't a solution!  We have a Whole Foods just down the street, and I was fully prepared to blaze through it with my overtired and possibly disruptive child, so help me God.  Just let me buy some chicken breast). 

Well, here's the ending of the story.  I rounded the corner onto School Street, peeked in the window at our Whole Foods, and, Oh my gosh!  A lady!  With a guitar!  and a bunch of little kids dancing around her!  Our own Whole Foods had singing time.  Who knew?!  We went inside, Ellie bopped her head a couple times to the Hokey Pokey, then put her head on my shoulder.  We did our quick shop, and then Ellie promptly feel asleep in the stroller on the walk home. 




So, what did I learn?  Ellie was too tired to have even fully enjoyed the singalong time at the Lincoln Park Whole Foods even if we had made it there.  It all turned out just fine, and now we are home, and I finally have my chicken breast to add to our salad for tonight, and Ellie is still napping. 

Of course, there still is the issue of me not being able to operate the car.  But we'll just wait for Daddy to help us figure that one out :-)   

Grouch

Induced Hypertension (AKA, The Toddler in Winter)

I am sitting in the dark on the kitchen floor.

No, seriously, I am.  I am sitting in the dark on the kitchen floor, while behind me drums the tinny beats of the clothes dryer and the whooshing of the washing machine.  I am trying to return to myself, talking myself down from the ledge of hypertension that surged through my blood vessels in the two hours before the child's bedtime. 

Why did God create family mealtime at the moment when children (and parents) are at their thinnest?  I ran into the kitchen, sliced the onion, ran back into the living room, did a dance and played with blocks, ran back into the kitchen, pounded some chicken breasts (a bit harder then I really needed to, in hindsight).  Minutes before this time, as I took just 30 seconds (honest you guys, it was like 30 seconds) to write a thank you note, just around the corner from me was my child, scooping handfuls of cat food from the bowl and shoving them into her mouth.  She seems to really LOVE cat food.  It was 30 seconds...AND, I had, moments before, set the cat food UP, onto the second step of the cat's condo.  And you know what, that little stinker was like, "It's all good, I'll just climb this doo-hickey and get my cat food that way!"  And that's where I found her, knee up on the first carpeted step of Major's condo, diving into his bowl of food like it was popcorn. 

10, 9, 8, 7, 6....
I read a really great article from Poets & Writers magazine about meditating before writing.  The author of the post sits cross-legged on a pillow every morning, and clears her mind by continuously counting backwards from 10.  If any other thoughts muddle into the sequence, she starts from scratch.  Only when she can get through numerous cycles with a clear mind does she finally sit at a table and write. 

I am wondering what my blood pressure is right now. 

The cat food incident was just the start of a series of calamities, which included the same aforementioned precious child pulling my tepid (thankfully) mug of tea off the side table with a graceful sweep of her arm that was just so matter-of-fact, so, "well, this is what I'll do next, I guess!" in its intentions.  Just before that (in between the cat food, prior to the spilt tea- are you following?) was our coloring activity.  A sweep of crayon on scrap paper, then a sweep of crayon on the rug.  "No honey, not the rug.  On the PAPER.  See?  THE PAPER."  Pudgy hand switched to the green crayon.  Sweep of crayon on the paper, sweep of crayon on the rug.  "No darling, not on the rug!  On the paper, sweetie!" 

I am particularly pleased that Jim and I have, for the most part, stuck with Ikea and Target for our rugs and prefab furniture.  Because it means that I honestly don't care that we now have Crayola wax smeared on our rug.  But I always remember the time I babysat for this filthy rich couple, I'm talking crazy, crazy rich (like, pile of unopened gifts in the playroom because the kids had a gazillion other toys and felt no thrill at the thought of any more toys, imagine that?) and the boy started drawing on one of their nice dining room chair cushions.  And I said, "Oh Tommy! Here, let's draw on this instead," just as the mother walked into the room, and she said, "No, Lindsay, it's fine if they draw on those!  We can always get new ones!"  I could not believe it at the time, and remain not-okay with this principle today.  Ellie is still too young to go to town with her crayons, even though she does get off to a good start and has produced some lovely works thus far.  But I would like her to not have it infused into her head that we can color anywhere we like.  Anyways, I am acting like this Crayola-rug incident was a big deal. It really wasn't, so I'll move on. 

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5...

Following the tea spill, and the sarcastic text to Jim about it being a lovely time to run out of paper towel, followed by another text asking, "Oh my God are you on your way home now?" after the child tried sticking her head through the wooden design on the back of a dining room chair, I finally returned to dinner preparations.  It was not a complicated dinner (and a rather good one, might I add), but it was made harder since I was allowed to only do pivot turns between the stove top and the sink whilst my supporting leg remained wedged between the amazingly-tight grip of two chubby little toddler arms.  Finally Jim got home, and we ate, but not before Ellie took her first plate of food while we ran around getting silverware and napkins and threw it onto the floor.  With another attempt of frisbeeing her second plate of food, we called it a night, did our pj's-set-the-timer-read-a-book routine, and put her to bed. 

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4...

It was not even a bad day.  And now, where I sit in the darkness on the floor, I don't feel that things are bad.  But there are moments now with this kiddo where she is moving in super fast motion whilst the rest of the evening unfolds in super slow motion and she is always two seconds ahead of me.  We had a good day together, we started a 10 week toddler class at a center near here, which she seemed to enjoy (though she broke away during the singing circle time to go play with all the naked baby dolls across the room, because that is waaaayyyy cooler than puppets and rainmakers).  But I am beginning to realize, now that we are a good 14 months old, that we are in need of structured activities every possible second.  Because after Ellie got up from her nap this afternoon, she didn't want to just sit and play with her toys, even though I really WISHED she could just sit and play with her toys (hence my futile attempt to drink a cup of tea.  Silly me, don't know what I was thinking there!).  And, I have to say, I busted my butt TRYING to come up with activities myself.  I pulled out some jello that we made over the weekend.  She enjoyed playing with it yesterday, but today, no dice.  It was too cold, and wiggly, and jello-y, I guess, so that didn't work.  Then I tried the crayons, and well, we've already been over that.  I tried really screechy and horrible nursery rhyme music and even prepped a tower of blocks for destruction.  Not.  Good.  Enough.

This was all after 3 pm, people, just for a frame of reference. 

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3....

Last week I chose to sit on the floor in the closet for this exercise.  But today I am enjoying the kitchen.  Jim is in our bedroom putting away the other loads of laundry that I managed to do earlier, and like I said, the hum and churn of the washer/dryer is actually quite comforting, though every few minutes (like just now, did you hear her?) Ellie lets out an unhappy squeal from her attached room.  I swear, every plate I washed and set in the drying rack, particularly a small ceramic tea bag holder (after Jim and I sat back down to enjoy the rest of our cold dinner), slid onto it's side, or crashed back INTO the sink on top of another ceramic plate, while just on the other side of the wall I was expecting my incredibly exhausted child to calmly drift off to sleep.  Did one of you set that up as a joke?  Am I on Candid Camera? 

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2...

"Um..." I open my eyes and find Jim standing inches from me, a mischievous grin on his face, "I was wondering if perhaps you were moving the fridge over to the other side of the room just then?  Or switching it with the washer?" 

It makes me laugh.  I slug him and haul myself up onto my feet.  "It was this piece!" I hold up our small ceramic tea bag holder, the main instigator of all the ruckus.  "Blame this piece!"

My countdown never made it to 1.  But my hand did make it to a glass of wine. 


So.....other mamas out there, I need some help.  What do you do with your toddlers on a January day?

For the love of Major

Major often sleeps sitting up (Reason #427 why I love him, aka, why I haven't kicked him out yet when he meows all night).

What to do with Bunny One?

On a chilly April day, 5 month old Eleanor and I sat in our parked car while Jim ran into Toys 'R' Us.  I had clipped a coupon that gave a great discount when you bought two toys from the company Vtech, and the coupon was due to expire soon.

"Just see what they have and choose whatever," I suggested.  Several minutes later, Jim returned with a musical bath toy, and Yellow Bunny.  We didn't introduce them to Eleanor right away.  Soon after her 6 month birthday, it seemed that she finally might be ready for more than what dangled from her activity center, and I brought out the box containing the next stage of toys- stacking blocks, a shape sorting basket, and Yellow Bunny.

Yellow Bunny was more than a plush toy.  She came from Vtech, meaning that within her tummy was a battery pack nestled inside, sealed by a velcro flap on her back.  Each of her paws had a function.  One got her to enthusiastically cheer, "Clap your hands along with me!/Dance with me!/Sing with me!/ Playing with you is SO MUCH FUN! I looove you!!!", while another paw caused her to jump into a rendition of peekaboo.  "Where are you?  HERE I AM!"  And another setting switched her over into lullaby mode.  "I feel sleepy," she yawned, as quiet lullaby music emanated from her insides, and a yellow heart positioned in the middle of her white circular belly glowed and dimmed, glowed and dimmed, while everyone got sleepy and snuggly.

This is how we first used Yellow Bunny, setting her in a corner of the crib so she could sweetly sing Eleanor to sleep each night.  We soon learned of a new function of Bunny's.  If Eleanor awoke crying, the night light on Bunny's tummy automatically began to pulse, and her peaceful music came across the baby monitor to our ears.  Miraculously, Eleanor was often soothed back to sleep by Bunny's performance. 

We were fans, but at first Eleanor didn't seem like she would really gravitate towards Yellow Bunny as any type of lovey.  As the months went by, we began noticing something.  We'd flick on our video monitor, and would find Eleanor with her arms around Bunny's body, clutching and softly carressing Bunny's ears in the dark.  She began carrying Bunny around outside of the crib too, and with her usual stance, clutching Bunny around the waist or neck and squeezing Bunny's ears while she sucked her thumb.  On long car rides, all Eleanor needed was for Bunny to be on her lap and she was set.  Eleanor finally had a lovey.


One day, Eleanor would not drop Bunny as we headed out the door for daycare, so we brought Bunny with us.  She then wouldn't leave Bunny in the car, and so Bunny came inside.  Starting at age one, children at daycare could start to have an item in their cribs at naptime.  It won't hurt anything to try having Bunny at school, I thought.  I set Eleanor down on her feet in her daycare room, with Bunny snug in her grasp.  The other toddlers instantly noticed the newcomer, as though they had a built in radar system for these types of novelties.  Brent ran over to Eleanor and reached out his arms.  I heard the "pop" of Eleanor's thumb being yanked out of her mouth as she lost her grip to Brent.  Then Malcolm ran over, and he pulled on Bunny, and Trixie followed by Ava came running over, and like a loose ball in a football game they all scrambled for possession.  And my poor baby ran after them, arms out-stretched, with a growing look of panic on her face as Bunny drifted further and further away.  It broke my heart to witness this first experience for her, as mild as it really was.  We kissed Eleanor on the head, restored Bunny to her arms for a brief reunion, and once morning snacktime was served at the table I was able to hide Bunny out of sight in Eleanor's cubby for the duration of the day until we could get her safely home again.

As you can imagine, Bunny is looking a bit loved at this point.  Her yellow fur is faded and her ears appear to be a dirty gray instead of yellow.  At least once a week I notice a new spot on Bunny's originally-snow white belly, and try as I might to sanitize and surface wash Bunny's exterior I cannot get that dingy hue to go away.  I think it is here for good.


Last weekend, Bunny let us know that she was getting hungry for a fresh set of batteries by occasionally letting out a mechanical honk in the middle of a song.  Her stomach stopped glowing as well.  Just as he did during her last battery change, Jim used our mini screwdriver to open up Bunny's battery pack.  He popped in two brand new Energizers, tapped Bunny's paw, and- nothing.  Not one giggle, not one round of applause, just a hollow click came from her paw after being pressed.  No soft light glowed on her tummy.  Jim grabbed the screwdriver, swapped in two other new batteries, and...still nothing.  Bunny was silent.

"Uh oh," we said to each other, using Eleanor's favorite phrase.  We handed Bunny back to her, and she assumed her usual Bunny position with her thumb in her mouth and her fingers curled around Bunny's ears.  She didn't seem to really notice Bunny was different, but then I saw her chubby toddler fingers squeeze Bunny's paw.  "I think Bunny already fell asleep," I explained. 

That night, I hopped onto Amazon, and after three clicks of the mouse another bunny was being sent via two day shipping.  $14.  This is actually a good thing, I thought.  I can retire old Bunny, and now Eleanor will have a nice new yellow bunny that still works.  And, if new bunny is ever lost, we will have old Bunny on reserve.  Perfect.

New bunny (let's call her Bunny Two) arrived this afternoon.  I set her on the counter, pushing her back from the edge where Eleanor couldn't see.  Speaking of sight, I almost lost mine when Bunny Two came out of that box, she is so bright and sunshiney.  The white of her belly is spotless, and my fingertips sunk into the softness of Bunny Two's fur.  She is luxurious, the Lincoln of bunnies, and quite the catch.  Her checks are dabbed with two very bright bursts of rouge.  I didn't think Bunny One ever even had this blush, but sure enough, in peering across the kitchen to where Eleanor was clutching her, I saw two faint dots on her cheeks.  I think I had just assumed that they were stains.

A few minutes later, Eleanor became distracted by something in her bedroom right off the kitchen, giving me the opportunity  to snatch Bunny One up from the floor.  I set Bunny One on the counter, right next to Bunny Two.

And my heart melted.

There was Bunny Two.  Bright, enthusiastic, eager to start on the job.  And then there was Bunny One, not even one year old and already entering the world of coveted heirloom teddy bears, the ones with missing button eyes and stuffing poking out of fatigued seams, kept up high on a shelf or carefully positioned on a quilted bed every morning.  I looked at Bunny One, and I swear she looked back at me.  Sitting next to Bunny Two, Bunny One's smile was deeper, more genuine.  Her blotchy coat and discolored ears were signs of my daughter's love, love that even I am finally just receiving in hugs that come to me with a running start, and kisses formed by lips that quickly dissolve into smiles.  Bunny One?  She's been getting Eleanor's love this whole time.

Did Eleanor really need Bunny's music and songs?  They were really nice to have, sure, but maybe there were times when Eleanor just wanted to sit and not clap, or read a book and not play peekaboo.  Just maybe.  And as much as we appreciated Bunny's lullabies playing to a restless infant at two in the morning, there were also plenty of times when "THERE'S A TRIANGLE ON MY PAW!" screetched across the baby monitor and bounced off our pillows like a pinball, the effect of Eleanor rolling on top of one of her buttons in her sleep. 

I took a picture of Bunny One next to Bunny Two and sent it to Jim, with the caption, "I just can't do it."

When I was little, I lined up all my stuffed animals and one by one loved each of them as my favorite for one week before switching to the next one in line.  I wanted them all to feel loved, and the more of them I loved, tucked next to me under the covers and curled around my head, the cozier I felt.  My sister and I had a recurring nighttime game of make-believe, where our bed was a boat and we, with all our stuffed toy children, were together in the dark night, bobbing in the waves.  All the things I love in life, Christmas or snow days and summer rains trapped indoors, give me that feeling of belonging, that sense of coziness.  And wouldn't we all love to be loved like a teddy bear in a child's arms?  To be that very special someone...

So Bunny Two is now up on the top shelf in our closet.  She can serve as our back up, if God forbid something happens to Bunny One, or if Eleanor one day asks, "What was that song that Bunny used to sing, Mom?"

Or maybe, Bunny Two can one day be passed on to a little friend, and just maybe, if she is loved enough, she will become that child's Bunny One.

From The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams

 The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive.

But the Skin Horse only smiled.

 

What to eat when Daddy is away...

Jim left this morning for a few days in Boston for work, and a couple days ago I realized with a bit of panic that we were TOTALLY out of food, and in holding down the fort for a few days this needed to be quickly rectified. I had to go into work yesterday and because of that did not work today, though Ellie was still in daycare. And so I got to go to Target. Alone. Who knew that such joyous bliss could be achieved in an act as simple as shopping without a child in tow?

And then the rotten kid had the nerve to steal one of my potato smileys. How is that for gratitude, I ask?