The boy and I are driving back from a morning’s peregrinations — hardware store (my idea, natch), bakery (we both agreed, natch), library (his suggestion) — and we were listening to one of his favorite songs on the Free to Be You and Me album: “When We Grow Up.” It’s
The Tonka truck: a holiday gift from his special cousins. (Who?) In it were a clutch of dollies, which, so far, he has given a bit more attention to. Though he loves the truck. The dress: mooched from his sister for the day. He said it made him look like
Herewith, scattered notes and photos from the beloved’s and my anniversary date (a la the Baba’s Day pictorial), because the main dealie sitting on my shoulders these days still defies direct address, and yet squashes close to flat so much of everything else. Thus making truthful personal narrative somewhat challenging.