We're going on our first family camping trip over the Labor Day weekend. First, we have to check out the tent.
Of course, the Girl has to help. She loves helping, though until the last few months, her help has not been terribly helpful.
But she's getting good at holding things for us.
"I can hold it?" she asks. She keeps a tight grip for a few moments, then asks, "You need this, Mama?" If Mama doesn't need it, L quickly loses interest.
Once set up, the tent is a hit. It's a palatial space for the Girl, and she makes good use of it, running about, jumping, being generally toddler-ish.
In the process of reorganizing the basement storage/work room, K and I have been tearing open boxes that have sat virtually untouched for years. Most of it consists of my own belongings, packed up while I lived in Poland in the late 1990s (eventually repacked into sturdy Rubber Maid storage bins). My parents moved, and instead of making the decisions for me, they left it to me, ten years later, to go through the stuff and toss out that which was once treasure but now trash. Granted, I could have done it earlier, but I lacked the serious motivation. Who wants to root around through old boxes of memories?
Her collection grows, and her eyes always light up when she gets a new book.
The evidence was everywhere: an empty wrapper; brown stains around the mouth; dark smears down the front of the dress; cocoa breath; the knick-knack box that stored chocolates sent from Babcia in Poland on the floor open.
