A sign of the times: the big sister is totally fine on her own (note the chillaxed rider of white horse in the background). Also, a sign that the lil’ bro is not the big thrill-seeker (just yet): he lobbied heavily for a “merry-go-around” ride, but still only wanted to sit on the little stationary bench. Which was fine by Baba, since she was still recovering from an earlier ride with the big sister. This one.

Big box puppeteer


Not talkin’ Wal-Mart.

Both these characters were named “Daisy,” by the way, and they had a lengthy dispute about which one was the real Daisy.

The day before this box was not a puppet theater, but the blessed vessel holding the girlie’s first actual mattress. Before that, she slept on a skimpy Ikea foam jobbie, which did the trick when she was about as light as the cat. But ever since she’s entered the weight range of our dear departed doggie (a lab mix mutt), something a little more substantial has been in order. We knew it was time to purchase an actual mattress when she began to pad into our room in the middle of the night and crawl into our bed, complaining of the lumps in her bed. (Mama’s theater co. is doing “Once Upon a Mattress” this winter, by the way, and not a moment too soon. )

At the mattress shop, the girlie was so elated she kissed the box. Several different times. She also kissed the mattress as we unfurled it onto her bedframe. Then she arranged all 30-40 of her stuffed animals all around its perimeter, a Maginot line of polyester and cotton.


Post Script: The girlie slept the whole night through, like a log. And so, thank the dieties, did we.

Weekend bonus shot, 08.22.09


“Hello, my name is not lady,” Butch Voices conference, Oakland, CA.

Water bottle decor above sported by (local pro nanny!) Red, who says she got this from Even if I couldn’t find a sticker looking like this one at their site (did I remember wrong? I very well could have remembered wrong), I totally enjoyed being reminded of their fantastic coloring books Girls Are Not Chicks and Girls Will Be Boys Will Be Girls. A  must for any thinking artist’s coloring book collection.

With the grace of sufficient childcare in upcoming days, I hope to render something about the conference sometime soon.  Meanwhile, I can just say I am thankful for my one day at it, and for the hundreds of folks it drew from far and wide, people who daily move through a largely uncomprehending world with brave honesty and full hearts.

Postgraduate ice cream


What is the only thing that is big enough to follow a peak experience like graduating from preschool?  Yep. An ice cream sundae with sprinkles. [Detail here.]

After just a bite or two, she said, “This is the best ice cream I’ve ever had in my whole life. Everyone who sees this” — and I must note at this point, the parlor is utterly empty except for  me, the beloved, my dad, the proprietor, and her — “is going to want sprinkles just like this.” 

The whole day was filled with wonderment more or less on this scale. At the end of it, she was running back and forth in our small place, singing a moment-by-moment  improvised song about how she was better than fairies, better than princesses, she could do anything. Her lyrics. Which I take to mean: she felt pretty much on top of the world.  

If you’re reading this, preschool director and staff (and you know who you are): Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.  A hundred times over. Last year, she wouldn’t stand up in the little line and sing with everyone else, even though she had every lyric and hand gesture memorized probably by the second or third repetition. This year, she beamed, and sang out, and beamed some more.  Which is pretty much what we’re all working towards. 

I will count us quite lucky if we witness some proximity of this post-pre-school joy, annually, for the next thirteen years. A gal can hope. Now pass the sprinkles.