Catch me in the right mood, and this is an easy task. Out with the old, in with the new. Pitch the crap, donate the rest and good riddance. But catch me on a day when my three kids are full of love and whimsy, playing imagination games together just inside of ear shot and filling me with that familiar weepy ache that sails in with the waves of our vicious impermanence as this exact family, and, well, you’ll find me writing letters to plastic cups.
These toys, they tell more than one story.
Once upon a time I helped my firstborn tear you free from pretty wrappings at her first birthday party, a gift from my first mom friend. She was my manager’s wife, a thoughtful soul but painful introvert, a woman 5 years my junior (Our 20s! When 5 years meant something!) with vastly different interests and with whom I had little in common aside from the fact that we were each the first of our friends to grow a human and accept the imposing responsibility, the suffocating joy and the deep wells of fear that come with the title of mother. And so I learned the urgent necessity of creating a village. With stacky cups came teething tips, co-sleeping advice, body talk and welcome companionship.