This morning, in order to go watch Max & Ruby on our couch, this is what my two-year-old REALLY needed to take out of her crib and bring with her:
-and “cover,” a pink velour throw with her name on it that easily weighs as much as she does.
I was staggering under the weight of all her accoutrements. Seriously, when did I sign up to be a lady-in-waiting and lug all this crap around? (She knew that I had no choice but to do her bidding, since her brothers were still asleep and but one howl of protest from her would wake them.)
Then, to take her brothers to school on the city bus, she had to load up her “kackpack” with a Barbie, sunglasses, some socks, and the rubber band that was around the plastic container of grape tomatoes.
I had my own backpack, of course, loaded up with my laptop, charger, phone, wallet, datebook, newspaper, book, water, and workout clothes in case I got to the gym. But, as the late great George Carlin once pointed out, other people’s stuff is shit. My shit is stuff.