I'm feeling unusually pleased with myself: I found some très fab 1940s original children's illustrations (for pennies on eBay) and am about to frame them up for Crabtot's new(ish) room. Instant vintage sweetness! 

My search came about when I realized how dull small kids' bedroom walls can be. Too often one is tempted to put up pics of Winnie the Pooh or put up Mother Goose rhymes or whatever. Don't get me wrong: I heart Winnie and nursery rhyme art can be perfectly charming and all. But there are other ways to liven up a nursery or kiddo room, and lucky for you, I've found a couple of screamingly cute alternatives for your delectation.

I'm not a big one for fluffy bunny themes but who could argue with this gorgeous Asian-inspired poster from artists Kozyndan, which can be ordered for $28 from Mahar Drygoods? Look closely (as pictured in the detail at right) and you will see that what first appear to be cherry blossoms are actually little piles of delicious bunny rabbits! Yummy! 

People, is this not the loveliest thing you ever did see for a little girl's room? Even my crabacious heart melts at this vision of sweetness. The poster's creators have some other bunny stuff that's a tad freaky, like a tidal wave of bunnies that would probably terrify most children, but the blossoms really do it for me.

And how about this little bunny print from Etsy vendor Barking Bird Art? I can barely stand how cute this print is! And there are plenty more adorable ones from this seller, each only $9, like this ridiculously dear hedgehog toasting a marshmallow!
For heaven's sake, what are you waiting for? Snap 'em up!

And that concludes today's cheerful post on kids' room decor. Brought to you by Crabmommy: often crabby, occasionally sweet, always working hard to keep you edutained. (Okay, so I wrote that entire sentence just to be able to use the word "edutained." It's my favorite silly word of the moment.)

Right, best I run off and attend to my daily mom-flap exercises. Moms, it's not too late for you to join the throngs that have joined me via yahoo in a vow to vanquish midsection flab. And if you have signed on to attack your soft postpartum mom-tum, stay tuned for a forthcoming post (next week), where we can all check in and report our progress. Ugh...feeling all depressed now. Why did I start this? Hate exercise. Groan.

If you have one, keep reading; if you don't, go away. We don't want your kind here.

I'm talking about the "mom-flap." Or more precisely, that small midriff tire of extra chunk that the blessing of a baby bestows on the mother. I've blogged about this before. Because while I'm not a big girl and I didn't change completely post-baby, I definitely gained something more than just a bundle of joy: I gained a rim of chub around the midsection. Sometimes I call it my blog-flap, and sure, my sedentary work life doesn't help matters of the midsection...but the main the reason I have a pillowy waistline goes back almost 4 years to the arrival of Crabtot. And almost 4 years later, I don't think I can continue to dismiss the marshmallow midriff as "a little extra baby weight."

I first noticed my mom-flap during the highly unusual occasion of my attending a yoga class. I did a sitting twist and realized that I had to physically regroup my mid-chunk in order to properly complete the pose. Not cool. Of course, at the time, I resolved to deal with the problem constructively, and I did: I stopped going to yoga.

But today is the day when I vow anew to dissolve the mom-tire. With your help, ladies. I need at least 5 of you to sign on with me and pledge to work on your respective mom-flaps. Let's say 5 minutes a day. Yes, some of you hyper-fit mommies are laughing at me but I've got 2 words for you (or 1 hyphenated one, actually): C-section. Oh indeedy, for some of us with very little in the way of stomach muscles, 5 minutes of unadulterated abdominal toning will feel like 5 solid years of biathlon training. Over an open fire. While being poked with a giant red-hot stick.

I've never been very good at motivating myself to be fit. I always have a fitness plan, but it starts tomorrow, next month, next year. As a result, I haven't done one single sit-up since having Crabtot. Which brings me to the 5-minute challenge. I don't believe that with a 5-minute exercise routine I will be able to go from the Mommy one-piece suit back to the bikini, much less au naturel. That said, I think 5 minutes a day would do something. And something is better than nothing.

So, dear virtual mom-friends, I ask you to sign up for the Crabmommy Mom-Flap Challenge. Put your name in the comments and take a vow with me to spend 5 minutes on your abs, 5 days a week, doing whatever it is that you think you need to do to work those sleepy muscles again. Once I have 5 takers, I will begin my exercises and we can check back in after a week and see who's on top of their game. Without the group to motivate, I can't promise I'll stick to my promise. Because I'm the kind of girl who needs serious encouragement to make things happen. I'm the kind of girl who could, in other words, really use Xtina Aguilera's trainer; failing that, I'm looking at you.

So, please, join me. My abs depend on your participation.

Are you in?

Ah, summer! At long last, here in the north and west of the USA, summer is upon us! And this means much completely obvious (and therefore, useless) parenting advice in mags and on the net about safety.  Like when the American Academy of Pediatrics warns us to exercise extra caution when visiting large bodies of water. And I say, wow, really? Who knew the ocean could be dangerous!? Dumb summer-related advice aside, I'm thrilled that the season has at last made it here. 'Cuz to me summer is a time to GET NAKED!

I'm talking about kids here (as opposed to exposing my own less-than-perfectly-delectable bod to the harsh elements of scrutiny).

Crabtot is almost 4, and in our new city they have these glorious urban kiddie fountains. When we first visited, Crabtot was almost 3 and we came upon one of these fountains by accident. The minute she saw all the kids splashing and frolicking, she whipped off her clothes and sped into the water, tiny tush winking in the sunlight. I was pleased to see accepting smiles on the faces of the moms around me, for I believe that young children should be able to hit the beach or a public fountain in their birthday suits.

That said, there comes a time when they want to cover up, and everyone else wants them to too. If I had my way, Crabtot would spend another year "all nudie," as she calls it, but I realize she'll already stick out in the crowd if I let her hit the fountains in the nick this year. So I bring her a swimsuit for public swimming, but I encourage her to be naked in the shade in our little strip of back yard. As far as I'm concerned, nakedness is, well, natural, and a lovely thing to be enjoyed while a child is unselfconscious and innocent.

The longer I live in the US, the more I realize that in many ways we're an uptight and prudish culture. And you see it in the fact that so many people seem to disapprove of naked children. By discouraging bare bottoms, I think we're making them miss out on a feeling of freedom that they'll never regain as adults, when one actually has something that merits covering up...unless, of course, you go to Naturist resorts and let it all hang out (and if you do, more power to you, I say)!

I don't know what the cut-off is for socially acceptable nudity in children here on the west coast (I suspect it's later than that of the east) but I wish more people would let their kids go au naturel on beaches and at public fountains, at least while they're still in the pre-K years. I think more harm comes from teaching our tots to cover up than from letting them enjoy a few fleeting years of deliciously bare (but sun-blocked up the wazoo) skin. Okay, I can hear many of you chanting "What about child molesters?" but I figure the millions of pairs of parental uber-eagle eyes on all of our kids more than makes up for some perceived risk that child nudity courts child predators.

What do you think? Do you approve of the bare tiny heinie? Do you let your kids run around nekkid? If so, at what age do you think it's time to cover up?

Here begins a story about a beloved that I lost and then retrieved years later: a tale of accidental meetings, love at first sight, denial, and—finally—second chances.

I'm not talking about a man. I'm talking about a wallet. Specifically, a gorgeous, stylish clutch wallet.

Every so often this cheapmommy loves to point out to you mom-readers something kid-related that's easy on the eyes and bank account. But today I'm going to talk about the value of a splurge for Mom. For even in my crabby and thrifty life there are brief spells in which I pause to contemplate the momentary thrill that a lovely, luxurious objet can elicit. And then I go back to my glass half full and cheapmommy ways that (some of) you have come to know and love.

Back before I got knocked up, I was living the carefree and careless life of a childless NYC gal, whose biggest responsibility was a bonsai and only reason for rising early was to score something swell at a flea market. One morning, wandering through Brooklyn, I spotted a teeny boutique and went in. It was filled with delectable goodies and, notably, a case full of slim clutch wallets in delicious colors. My own wallet was a sensible affair, perfectly suited to holding my endless collection of expired foreign currencies and ancient business cards...I was definitely in the market for a new wallet, but the sassy clutch in question was out of this Cheapmommy's price range: a fair bit over $100. It was nicely made and totally worth its price considering how much use one gets out of a wallet. Still, it was a shade out of this freelance writer's comfort zone. So I almost bought it, but I didn't. And then I almost bought it, but didn't, all over again.

In the three years since that day, I met Crabhubby (on the subway!) and Crabtot followed pretty quickly.  We did serious penny-pinching as new parents, and my wardrobe and general glam-level has gone the way of regular haircuts and well-maintained feet, just as my purses morphed into diaper bags and recyclable totes for transporting the various paraphernalia of grownup mom life. Through it all, that swanky wallet has floated in and out of my thoughts, taunting me with its chicness. Lord knows these things aren't important in the grand scheme! Still, every time I've looked at my frumpacious wallet in the past few years, it has annoyed me and reminded me that, back when, I should have bought that one pretty thing to brighten up my future new-mommy dullness.

My wallet broke its zipper about six months ago and I happened to be back in New York, so I went looking for that boutique. I couldn't remember its name, but thought I knew where it was. I got to the general area but the place was gone; either that or I no longer had my bearings, having fled urban Brooklyn for the country life immediately on becoming a mom.

I held out hope I'd find a wallet just like the one I'd missed, and I saw some similar, but nothing quite a delightful as the original. It loomed in my mind, the Platonic ideal of Clutch Wallets, a symbol of urban swankiness I once might have had, but subsequently lost; a souvenir of an old life that I wanted to take with me. If only I could remember the name of that store! I closed my eyes. I could see the magic word as something fanciful, something to do with stars. A constellation? Cassiopeia, maybe? I looked it up. No joy.

And then, quite randomly, it came to me last week: Castor & Pollux. And I looked it up, and voilà, those clutches of perfection still available for purchase, online as well as at the boutique, which has relocated to Manhattan. And now, this very day, I've finally tossed my old ugly broken-zippered wallet relic, and feel exceptionally stylish with my new purchase in its posh shade of navy. It feels fabulous and unfamiliar to splurge on something for myself. (And no, I didn't get one for free through my blog.)

Lord knows these things aren't important in the grand scheme. That said, even Cheapmommy has learned: sometimes it's better to have splurged than not to have splurged at all.

Is there something special you've treated yourself to since becoming a mom? Or something you wished you'd bought back when your budget didn't have to stretch to include a baby?

I want to say a few things about bananas today. Just to be random. And perhaps because I've been a tad crabby lately here at Crabmommy. I mean, I like to be crabby, I do. After all, if I'm not making you smile or getting you all ticked off about something then tell me, why bother to read me at all? Anyhoo,  it's not crabbiness all the time here at Crabmommy, as those who know me well can attest.  Sometimes I am downright silly, and that's where the bananas come in.

I have never liked bananas. Nor does Crabtot. (But who doesn't like banana bread? I love banana bread. It is one of the few things I can make well, thanks to British bombshell cook Nigella, whose recipe I waxed lyrical about here.) But today I want to talk about some unusual banana products.

Ladies, let me introduce you to the Banana Bunker, which I discovered right about the time I started my personal blog. Ever worried about keeping your kid's banana in good shape for his school snack? Me neither. But apparently there is a gap in the market. For those of you who like a nice fresh banana, then this handy banana-shaped storage container is sure to be mighty useful. As its creator says, the Banana Bunker "protects the delicate fruit from bruising when placed in your backpack, nap sack, soft carrying case..." In short, the Banana Bunker protects from a dizzying array of potential threats to the banana itself. Interestingly, the list doesn't include STDs, but I'll wager you'd be safe from ALL HARM (except, perhaps, merciless ridicule) with this bunker on your banana!

The BB comes in a choice of colors. I prefer the au naturel look, as in the photo.

Here's another banana-inspired creation. It's a plush version: a "bruised banana" made by genius artist Heidi Kenny of My Paper Crane (a really cool website showcasing her hilarious plush art). Here's how she describes her creation:

This tender banana has been bruised and left to ripen far too long. He does not realize what a wonderful banana bread he could make, and so he cries. Approx. 6 inches tall each banana is hand dyed and can vary in ripe spots and bruises. The banana comes out of his peel is you wish, and is not meant for children under 3.

I don't know...Bunker or plush banana? A tough, tough call.

If you were to put one of these on, say, a registry (for wedding or baby or any other occasion in which you're trying to get people to give you stuff), which banana would you choose?

This one goes out to all of you who registered for your babies.

I've been biding my time on this one, not wishing to offend 80% of the moms I know, including some in my innermost circle, but frankly I think baby registries are tacky. As for "second baby" baby showers, don't even get me started. Wait, I think I did mention getting ticked off over that one too.

So what's my beef with registries? Let's start with presumptuous and impersonal: if you can't trust your peeps to find a few agreeable things for your babe then why are they even coming to your shower? Seriously, if SO MANY people are involved in this thing that you have to register for it like a wedding, then isn't the shower a tad out of control? Maybe I'd be more understanding if your kid was going to, say, succeed the Dalai Lama or something really big. But if he or she is just a mere mortal of a child coming into this world, do you really need a detailed list up there at Buy Buy Baby?

I realize I may sound harsh, but it's my sincere feeling that in a world of overconsumption and diminishing resources, baby shower registries are wildly out of line. And I think asking your friends, their mothers, and everyone you work with to visit a website on your unborn baby's behalf is just plain bad manners. To me, registering for a baby shower smacks of an entitlement among preggie ladies of our generation: we want only the best for our babies and the best means brand-new and custom selected by Mom (gives new meaning to "expectant" mother, I say). Remember: your baby is the most precious gift you've ever received, but she's your gift, not everyone else's. With that in mind, why are you suggesting your husband's college roommate ought to purchase said baby's bottle warmer?

Sure, I get it: baby gear is pricey and it's practical to ask for what you really need. But if you can't afford the basics, should you really be having a baby? Look, I know it's "practical" to ask for things you need in life, but hey, it would be practical for me to buy a house but I know it's not right to ask my friends to help me get one. In my never-so-humble opinion, it's inappropriate to ASK your friends to foot the bill for the essentials of your life. Like hemorrhoid surgery. Or a breast pump. That said, if your pals want to club together for the Medela or the Maclaren or some other much-needed item of your own choosing, great, but let them ask you about it, not the other way around.

When did we get to be so particular about our children and their paraphernalia? In my mom's day showers involved giving used things from one mom to another. But would any of us arrive at a shower with a used baby rattle or a series of our own baby's outgrown oil cloth bibs as an offering? If more of us did, then these pesky registries would disappear, or at the very least be given out only to close family, like the parents, aunts, and so on who really want to get you the very thing you'd find most useful. More to the norm, it's the spinster or single gay guy at your office who really couldn't give two figs about your wee one and yet has to club together with the others in your workplace to get you that Baby Bjorn carrier in the Synergy series. If you're that specific about what you want, get it yourself! Sheesh!

As for being given the wrong color item or something you don't like: most of these things are easy to return and I think it's nice when people feel they can take the initiative and choose something for your baby without feeling that the fetus already has a color, pattern, and style preference.

But that's just me: crabby and crustaceous all over. What do you gals think? Are baby shower registries out of line or, gasp, could it be me?

I'm all about telling kids the truth, even when it comes to uncomfortable questions, such as those about babies and where they come from. You have to tell kids the real deal right from the get-go: babies come from magic baby seeds that you swallow, and then when they're fully formed, they fly out of your belly-button.

Okay, so I'm a prude. I'm totally into teaching kids euphemisms for sexual anatomy, and I shun truth and reality as much as possible when it comes to exactly how that anatomy functions in reproduction. I understand the impetus behind those who believe in honest answers for curious kids, but I just can't bring myself to be honest with my own child.

I always planned to be the sort of hip mom who could talk about babies and sex and periods and whatnot in a cool and effortless way with my daughter. Back when I was teen I pictured my future self as an Ideal Mom: I'd be lounging on the floor of my daughter's bedroom having frank discussions about the mysterious world of men and women. As Ideal Mom, I'd know exactly how to make my daughter feel comfortable discussing anything with me, while also maintaining a line between her privacy and mine. As Ideal Mom I would ever squirm at any question or be stumped for an answer. I'd be so easy to talk to and such a good listener. I'd also be totally cool with my daughter wearing ripped miniskirts and white lipstick (yes, this daydream occurred in the eighties).

I planned to be unfazed by sex when it came time for me to discuss it with my kids. But here I am already squeamish about the birds and bees and my kid is only in preschool! I guess I just wasn't prepared for her recent round of questions about babies and how they are made and delivered. I thought I had more time to figure out the right answers, but apparently kids want the info pretty early these days. And so, whether it's because I was ill-prepared, especially prim, or both, I recently spun Crabtot a yarn about magic baby seeds. I second-guessed myself even as I spun my story, wondering whether it might not be better to simply deliver the truth when a kid is too young to freak out over it.

Shortly after that conversation, Crabtot's idiot mother watches a Netflix of Juno while Crabtot's in the room, and I find myself fumbling for words yet again, only, this time I decide to be more honest. "How old is that girl?" Crabtot quizzes me, during a scene where preggers Juno goes to visit the future adoptive parents of her baby. "Is she a grownup?"
Where before I might have answered "Why, yes! Absolutely!" about knocked-up teen Juno, I decide to try out truth instead. "Not quite," I say. "But she's almost a grownup."
"She's got a baby in her tummy," Crabtot observes. "But she's a kid!"
"No, she's not a kid, she's a bit older."
"I thought only grownups could eat baby seeds!"
"Sometimes younger people eat them too." 

Gulp. To cut a long story short, I've now got a preschooler who tells me that when she grows up she wants to be "a pregnant teenager"! Way to go, Crabmom!

What about you? Have you attempted to discuss the facts of life to your little ones? If so, did you opt for truth or fiction?

There's nothing quite like maternal instinct. You know your baby the minute you see her, and maybe even before she arrives you've dreamed of her and know what she will look like. And the cry! You know her cry the first time you hear it. Or so I was told. Except that my entire pregnancy I dreamed deeply and intuitively of a boy and had a girl, and after labor I couldn't even pick out my own baby in the nursery, much less identify her cry.

A close childhood friend just emailed me a pic of her newbie and I had a flashback to my first day with my own babe in hospital. My Perfectly Natural Childbirth plan did not go according to plan, or anywhere  close to it. Dire warnings from my Perfectly Natural NYC unbermommy childbirth class had cautioned against putting new babes in nurseries for fear of disturbing the mother-child bond, but I handed my newborn over without the slightest compunction. The baby nurse was an incredible genius with infants and I was not. This lady swaddled my Crabtot to within an inch of her life and whisked her to a place where she would be safe, warm, and fed EVIL FORMULA while her drug-addled post-C-section mother clicked on that morphine drip like nobody's business. It was fantastic!

I had been told I'd want to get up and walk out of that hospital within mere hours of my natural childbirth. Instead I asked my insurance for a fourth night and whooped with joy when I got it. I'd dreamed that my baby would slip out of me "like a bar of soap." I actually dreamed those words (as well as "like a sardine"). But bar of soap? Not so much. Maybe I got the dream wrong. Maybe my dream oracle voice said like a barge through a moat, and I just heard it wrong...?

Anyhoo.

The arrival of Crabtot was, in other words, not what I expected. But the moment when it all became clear to me—that I knew nothing, had no head start on motherhood, and would have to learn all of it—was when I cooed at the wrong baby in the nursery. "Hi, my baby," I said to a precious little dark-capped bundle.
"Actually, that's not your baby," the neonatal lady said.
"Oh!" I laughed. Must be all that morphine! I moved on down the line and spotted my child. "There she is!"
"Nope, Baby Bernstein," the nurse replied, referring to the baby of a friend who so happened to be having her baby (a boy) in the same place and on the same day as me.

I finally did find my baby, third time lucky, but you can be sure I did not simply follow the sound of her cry with that fierce conviction that is maternal instinct. And maybe you think I'm seriously kooky for not knowing what the heck I was seeing or hearing when it came to my own child, but come on: it's like asking someone to recognize their innards in a lineup! Okay, maybe a babe isn't quite so anonymous as one's internal organs, but I still think the comparison stands, because to me babies come in types, and while mine conformed to the dark-capped almond-eyed type I predicted, I still didn't know her a whole bunch better than I'd know my own pancreas if I met it.

So, yes, I was one of those who thought she'd be "a natural mother," whatever that is. In that first moment I'd expected recognition and instead I was in the presence of newness: a mysterious, entirely  enthralling newness, but someone as foreign to me as I was now to myself in my new role.

Now that the early days are behind me and I'm a total mommy pro and know all there is to know about being amazing and perfect at motherhood in every conceivable way, I keep myself in check by remembering Crabtot's first couple of days. Sometimes I just laugh and see that initial confusion as my entirely sucking at new mommyhood, slapstick-style. Other times it seems less to do with me and more to do with the idea that shared genes and parental love aside, children are born their own people, which makes them harder to recognize as belonging to you (an idea, I might add, that doesn't belong to me). In this way, my child is not mine; she just passed through me. And, thanks to her hospital ID bracelet, I get to keep her for a bit.

And you? Instant natural mommy or...?

I was considering giving you moms one of my advice parodies today, in which I make fun of the incredibly stupid things experts tell us in the name of good parenting advice. Then I thought maybe I'd make you giggle even more if I offer you another of my sensational Million Dollar Mommy inventions: these being gadgets I myself have invented in the hopes of making myself into a wealthy mompreneur like Baby Einstein Mommy or that chick who invented California Baby shampoo. (Both of those ladies can now pop off to Hawaii whenever they like, and probably don't have to do their own cooking, much less cleaning. All the more reason for me to put my otherwise scarily empty Mommy-mind to work and hope that my Baby Bjorn Clip-On Food Visor, WhineNot, or PelletTracker will attract the attention of a corporate backer...)

And then I saw something on the web that, like lame parenting advice and my own gadget designs, is incredibly silly. Except unlike my own offerings, I don't think this product is intended as a joke.

Ladies, who would honestly cough up dollars for The Portable Parenting Package? What is it? I'll let the company itself do the talking:

The Portable Parenting Package is a brand new product that is perfect for parents on the go. It combines the Take Out Time Out Mat and the Star Stash Reward System for an easy travel companion. The Time Out Mat serves as a "think spot" for children, teaching them to take a break and think before they act and also serves as a place for a toy until children agree to share it. The Star Stash reward system enforces good behavior with positive attention given and tokens exchanged for privileges and rewards.

So basically the Time Out Map is this little rubber circle thing that you're meant to stick in your purse and whip out when the kids are mauling each other at the mall, in order to create an instant TO space. Or maybe bro and sis are finally listening up on the car trip? Well, good thing you brought your handy portable Star Stash pack to give out as a reward. Otherwise, how could you parent properly?

Maybe it's just me who finds this absurd. After all, the product has won a bunch of awards, so I guess someone's taking it seriously. But, come on. $19.99 for this? Cheapmommy says you can do the same for free: Reward? Off the top of my head, lollipops are free at the bank, Trader Joe's gives out balloons gratis, and the Dollar Store sells 1000-sticker packs for, duh, a dollar. Time Out? Try a restroom, car seat, park bench, piece of gravel, wherever-the-heck. It's called improvising, which is something we moms know a thing or two about. And LAWD knows Crabmommy doesn't need yet another thing to carry around in her filthy overstuffed purse.

Seriously, if Portable Parenting Mats are cracking it, shouldn't my MartyrMeter be making me millions?

What do you think? Is the PPP smart or stupid?

I lived out my perfect day today.

In my head, that is. As I do all too often.

This morning I woke up early, before my husband and child, grabbed an hour of power skipping with the skipping rope I finally purchased after talking about it endlessly, and received my family with good humor at the breakfast table, where I served everyone oatmeal (McCann's, the real Scottish kind that takes bloody forever to cook) in these swanky Ittala bowls.

After Crabtot and her dad vacated our unpretentious but incredibly stylish and tidy apartment, I applied myself diligently to a craft activity that has been languishing beneath my well-ordered desk. This consisted of my gluing felt to a small pillowcase made from the vintage fabric I bought when Crabtot was but a wee babe in arms. After so many years, at last I finished this small cushion for Crabtot's bed! A row of felt owlets on a hand-embroidered branch. Screamingly adorable!

As I went about my day in a casual but effortlessly chic outfit, I felt the glow that comes from knowing my life is finally looking like the life I always envision in my mind's eye, from top to toe: I have a good haircut and de-sloughed foot soles; I no longer compulsively eat Gummi bears; I have improved both my mood and my "mom-flap" through exercise; I have found the missing mates to both my favorite wool socks and my black winter driving gloves; I have figured out which keys on my key-ring are obsolete and recycled them accordingly; I have in my possession enlarged photo prints of Crabtot from a custom printer, rather than a junky online store, to place into the lovely wood frames I picked up at a thrift store. AND just prior to a productive session of novel-writing (because talking about it isn't the same as writing it), I made the time to take jars of pennies and dimes to the bank! I even sorted them first for expired foreign currencies from Africa!

On picking up my child after a morning of preschool, I went home to eat a lovely lunch with my Crabtot, a meal that included tomatoes and lettuce grown from seed in our small but delightful garden. We then engaged in some wondrous afternoon playtime, performing with homemade puppets from behind the couch. Then Crabtot helped me clean up, took a nice little nap, and woke up in a pleasant and chirpy mood.

Tonight I will go out for a date night involving sushi and my husband's choice of ancient foreign film re-run, which I will not argue about, but will instead accept with wonder and delight, appreciating his creativity and independent-mindedness for the gifts that they are.

You know what really sealed today's feeling of peace and accomplishment for me? I removed all Hello Kitty sticker debris from Crabtot's clothing (and mine), deleted all old bookmarks form my internet toolbar, and bought all outstanding books in my Amazon cart, from Francine Prose to Boris Pasternak. I also made several mixed CDs for my scattered friends and family. These CDs went into packages containing exquisite original presents, which these poor good people richly deserve and which are long overdue.

Today, I lived the life I keep meaning to get around to living. Today I was my other future-perfect self.

I wish.

Anyone else live a whole other life inside their heads? As in, imagining a better, more productive, aesthetically pleasing version of your life that you fool yourself into thinking might...just...one day...become real?