There are a slew of excellent sales going on right now, but I had to share that my favorite online children’s consignment boutique, Bagsy, is offering 30% off sitewide with code MEMORIAL, which means you can score new-with-tags or barely-used pieces from incredible labels for a steal! Consider…
Are you grappling with quarantine fatigue? You are not alone. So many of my friends and loved ones — especially those with small children who are attempting to balance a full-time job with 24-7 childcare for going on two months now — have been sending me messages of frustration and exhaustion and emotional fray over the past week or so. I think it must have to do with the dawn of summer and the realization that nothing is changing except for the season. The season on paper, that is, for in our lived experiences, it might as well be the dead of winter: splash pads, playgrounds, beaches closed. Vacations canceled. Celebrations deferred. Many of us are discovering that summer camps will not be a possibility, and most of us are beginning to fret about the probability of an in-school fall semester, which — just weeks ago — felt so far away that it wasn’t worth worrying about.
I have no answers, of course, except to say: “I’m right there with you. This is really hard.” We nearly always book-end these heart-to-hearts with: “But my God, we are so lucky in the grand scheme…” And it is true and impossible to forget and essential to reiterate because there is so much agony and hurt right now in the world–including within my own inner circle, where I have grieved layoffs and deaths and illness and myriad other impossible situations at the hands of this virus right alongside my loved ones.
But it is also true that this is hard. Hard to worry for this long, hard to be without childcare for this long, hard to stay inside for this long, hard to not have some end date in sight for this long. And it’s OK to say that to yourself, even with graver situations next door: This is hard.
It’s an odd thing, too, as I felt I’d settled into a groove for awhile there. The confusion and chaos of the first few weeks had softened into routine. There were fewer battles over tuning into online class in the mornings and afternoons; a parade of art projects lining the window sill; butterflies in their cocoons in the mesh habitat I’d bought (see #46). We’d figured out how to stock the pantry and fruit bowl and larder and were eating — frankly — high on the hog.
But then I felt the winds change, too, this past weekend, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. All I know is that my to-do list told me it was time to plan meals and coordinate groceries for the week, but something else in me — some alien version of my normally hyper-organized self — slumped against that command. Bizarrely, I found myself shirking the responsibility.
“I just can’t do it,” I told Mr. Magpie in confused disbelief at my own behavior. “What is happening?”
“Jennie,” he said, pulling me into a hug. “We need a break.”
But the next day came, and the next day after that. Six more breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. Myriad tears, stern words of discipline, wails of mild injury–and also eskimo kisses, snuggles on the living room couch, excited feet pounding down the hallway, books read in the dim nursery before bedtime or in the bright light of mini’s bedroom in the morning. The lyrics of the Frozen 2 soundtrack by day; a “Jazz Warmers” playlist we discovered on Tidal that has been in heavy rotation in the evening.
And then the next day came, and the day after that.
The 5 o’clock glass of rose, scooping the umpteenth bowl of buttered noodles, walking Tilly at 7 P.M., washing that darned high chair tray for the ten trillionth time.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
For the past few weeks, my sister and I have been texting each other, in a kind of sisterly shorthand for checking up on the emotional wellbeing of one another: “Is today a plus or minus day?”
I laughed for a long time when she responded, just earlier this week, just after the winds had turned: “A plinus.”
Just so. We’re in heavy plinus territory, most days just there, with mornings breezing by with surprising quiet and afternoons punctuated with sniffles and meltdowns*, or vice versa.
I write this to just let you know that I’m sitting with you. We’re in this together, and we’ll get through it. But let yourself acknowledge that this is hard and give yourself a little more grace than you might otherwise.
And if you have any tips on coping with quarantine fatigue, please share in the comments!
*Not all of them at the hands of my toddler, I might add.
Post-Scripts: Gifts for a Girlfriend.
I have sent a couple of girlfriends out-of-the-blue gifts during this weird and exhausting time, just to let them know I’m sitting with them. A few fun things to surprise a loved one with:
*This wouldn’t necessarily be as fun of a gift, but if you aren’t using CND solar oil on your cuticles, I implore you to try it! I started to put it on every morning and night after my manicure/pedicure had gotten to such a state of disrepair I had to remove the polish about ten days into quarantine. I was appalled at the state of my cuticles! This has completely turned things around.
P.S. A random gift to myself: a subscription to Billie. I had to see what all the hype was about…and I kind of like that it’s one less thing to keep tabs on (how many blades are left in the linen closet??). But what really sold me was these serum-infused face wipes! How genius?! Truly one-step skincare for my laziest nights. If I like them, I might — strangely — send them to my sister. A good plinus gift.
P.P.P.S. In another life, I only wear La Double J.
By: Jen Shoop
The earliest book I remember my mother reading me was Goodnight, Moon. I can still remember the hush of her voice, the exaggeration of the “oo” sound in her enunciation of “balloon.” I also remember the plink-plink-plink from Blueberries for Sal, the measured and rhythmic way she read about the peddlar placing cap after cap on his head in Caps for Sale, and the feeling of pride and belonging she emoted when she’d read, with dramatic legato: “I will be your mother and I will catch you in my arms” at the end of Runaway Bunny. Interesting, isn’t it, how much those early memories of reading were about her: the sound of her voice, the look in her eyes. Her entire being mediated my experience.
When I was six, my mother took me to procure my own junior library card from the public library we frequented on Connecticut Avenue, close to Chevy Chase Circle. We’d visit it weekly in the summer, all of five of us tumbling out of her air-conditioned SUV into the sticky heat of a D.C. summer, a mess of bony elbows and sunburns and flappy sandals slapping against the pavement. The library was a welcome, damp hush after the sweltering — though short — walk from the parking lot, and we’d scatter across the second floor of the library, the children’s floor, in search of new books to rent for the week. I remember the musty smell of the clothbound chapter books my brother rented, and their weight and strain in the canvas bags my mother used to tote our weekly finds back and forth. I can still feel the cool as I stood amidst rows of wire racks, looking down spine after spine, taking my time in choosing. Interesting, too, how many of these grade school memories of books are tactile: smells, sounds, waves of heat and ripples of dampness.
But I remember with peculiar specificity the morning this weekly excursion climaxed in the signing of my name in uneven, inelegant cursive on the back of that little blue library card. I beamed with pride as my sister Elizabeth, two years my junior, looked on in envy. This card marked a powerful metamorphosis in my lifespan as a reader: reading was becoming something personal and private, mediated only by my own desire and curiosity.
After earning that prized blue card, my memories of reading relocate from my mother’s arms to the floral quilt of my childhood bed, where I read Nancy Drew, Beverly Cleary’s Ramona books, Anne of Green Gables, The Secret Garden, The Boxcar Children, The Baby Sitter’s Club, Harriet the Spy, The Thoroughbred series, a Wrinkle in Time, The American Girl books, The Bobbsey Twins, Heidi, the My Father’s Dragon books. My bed at that time looked out a wide window over the top of our driveway, which ended in a cul de sac in front of a beautiful stone garage sheltered by an enormous cherry blossom tree that, when in bloom in the early summer, transformed the view out my window into an unreal pink-white confection. The cul de sac was trimmed on one side by a thin crescent of grass, then a semi-circle of boxwoods, then a stone retaining wall that overlooked an enormous hill. I loved this ripple of surfaces just outside my window: the pavement, the shock of green grass, the ordered hedge of boxwoods, the sobriety of the stone wall, across which — I knew from hours spent sitting on top of it, my legs dangling down toward the hill — small red aphids criss-crossed in the summer, much to my father’s perennial fury–and then the wild greensward sloping down out of my peripheral vision. I spent a lot of time staring at that pattern while digesting what I’d read, or attempting to mimic the description of a facial expression or posture I’d just encountered in prose–something I still do, much to my own chagrin. (“Her lip curled in anger as she furrowed her brow,” the book will say, and I will find myself arranging my own face in its impression. Do you do the same?)
When I think about reading, I usually think about laying on that bed, caught between turning the pages in transfixion and staring idly, bemusedly at that undulating pattern of the natural and manmade outside my window as I digested what I’d read.
Just a week ago, I caught my three-year-old daughter in that kind of hazy posture of book-borne imagination. She has become increasingly tolerant, over the course of this quarantine, of longer and longer stretches of prose-dense, picture-scarce books. Mr. Magpie has been reading her portions of the Eloise books while ensconced in late-afternoon sprawls on our living room sofa, which, though fancifully-illustrated, are long and rather coyly recherche for a toddler. She has been begging me to read her Winnie the Pooh and The Little Prince, too — which I do, dutifully, all the while anticipating her fingers–still deliciously chubby with toddlerhood, may they stay that way for at least a few months longer!–anxiously turning the pages in search of visual stimulation. But on one recent afternoon, as I perched at her bedside reading a segment of The Little Prince, I caught her throwing her feet up against the headboard in lazy focus, listening and imagining.
I felt myself swell with excitement on her behalf: the long and delicious stretches of afternoons she will spend turning the pages of wonderful books, their images and narratives and characters becoming touchstones she will spring from forever.
To be raised by books!
I almost wish I could go back and re-live that experience.
I can’t wait for her.
What books meant the most to you as a child?!
Post-Scripts.
+I cribbed the title of this post from one of mini’s well-loved bedtime books. Mini has loved this one since she was about two. There is one page with a lot of little tiny images scattered all over it, and she loves to pick out the shapes, even now: “a treasure chest!” “a whale!” “a sailboat!” (More of my favorite bedtime books for children here.)
+A little late-in-the-game (how are we almost to the end of May?!) I panicked and realized I had very little planned for my son’s first birthday beyond his big present. Of course there’s not much we can do (certainly no socializing), but I decided we’d still decorate and celebrate with a farm theme:
I swooned at the picture above, of the founder of the fashion brand Alexis and her two sweet girls. She’s wearing her own label’s top and skirt (both on sale!) and you know how I feel about WHITE. (Separately, I’ve long eyed this stunner from her collection, also currently on sale with an extra 25% off!). But mainly: I wouldn’t mind sitting poolside under an umbrella on her patio. How incredible are these?! Dead. If only…
The Memorial Day sales are rolling in early. Had to share that Shopbop is offering 15% off orders of $300 and 25% off orders of $600+ with code JUST4U, which means I am eyeing:
Finally, ASOS is offering 25% off everything. I had to have this white broderie anglaise maxi shirtdress. I find that the broderie material is really high-end looking no matter the price. I have had broderie dresses from Rebecca Taylor and from Gap and you wouldn’t be able to tell which was from which! Also love this skirt for layering over a swimsuit!
P.P.S. If you sign up for H&M emails, you can get 25% off one item — let it be this and we can twin.
By: Jen Shoop
The other day, I posted an Instastory referencing nap time (more specifically and rather unflatteringly, I commented that the thirty minutes prior to the start of naptime always feel like an eternity) and was overwhelmed by the number of direct messages I received asking about the sleep habits of my children. The volume made me realize two things:
All of us with young children are exhausted and over-extended during this period of around-the-clock childcare. We will do anything to earn an extra couple of minutes of nap time in the afternoon or sleep in the morning. I see you. I am you!
Most of us wonder whether we are doing the right thing with regards to bedtime/nap routines.
So today I thought I’d share our sleeping schedule. Maybe some of this will help a mom struggling to find a routine, or maybe some of this will simply quiet the over-active impulse to doubt ourselves as mothers: “But is anyone else doing what I’m doing…? Shouldn’t my baby be sleeping more?!” But a big caveat here: I am not saying I know how to get children to sleep (there are experts who do this…! I have several friends who have hired them!) or that I am doing anything “the right way.” I am just sharing what we’re doing in the hopes that peering over my shoulder may encourage you or at least give you insight into another mother’s blundering thoughts on the matter.
My general rejoinder to any conversations about parenting, here, as elsewhere: you know your own children best and are doing the absolute best you can. Trust yourself.
With that…
Micro (almost one year) takes two naps: 10-11:30 A.M. and 3-4:30 P.M. Sometimes he sleeps a bit longer, especially in the morning, and I rather fastidiously follow the rule of “never wake a sleeping baby,” even if I find myself grappling with worry over what this will mean for the afternoon nap or bedtime. My assumption is that he needs the sleep–maybe he woke a few times in the night or was particularly active and needs to refresh himself with an extra twenty or thirty minutes of rest. If this derails later naps/bedtimes, it can be disruptive to my own routine (and–to be blunt–frustrating, as it means I am on call for the one long stretch of quiet I have each day), but has never caused a long-term issue: things re-set at night and we’re back on track the following morning. On rare occasion, usually when teething, he protests his afternoon nap. I will let him fuss for a full thirty minutes before throwing in the towel. When I say “fuss,” I mean “fuss.” If he is full-on crying, I will go in there and soothe him, try to get a burp out, rock him for a bit, rub his back, etc. But if he is doing that eleven-month-old thing where he’s playing for a minute, grabbing his toes, then whining and whimpering, then playing, then silence, then calling my name? I let him do that for up to thirty minutes before giving up. I see it as an elaborate wind-down period for him, and the proof is in the pudding: he nearly falls asleep. On occasion, I am also fluid with the time I put him down. If he wakes particularly early one morning or is giving me overt signs of exhaustion (rubbing eyes, whining), I put him down early for his naps. And if he took a particularly long morning nap or slept in, I push back afternoon nap by fifteen or thirty minutes.
He wakes — like clockwork — at six in the morning. Thankfully, most mornings, he will wake up and “play” in his crib — gurgling and shrieking to himself for maybe five or ten minutes before he starts to demand his morning bottle. This is a true godsend because it means I have a five minute “snooze” button before I really need to jolt out of bed and get him.
We put him down at night at around 6:30 p.m., though the exact time depends on his mood and when he woke from his afternoon nap. Sometimes, I can just see he’s not yet ready for bed at 6:30 — he’s bouncing off the walls, laughing, throwing me coy and silly glances. If this is the case, I read an extra few books and dim the light to encourage him to “settle down” or put mini down first. I know what will happen if I foist him into the sleepsack when he’s too energized: he will refuse bedtime and I will be stuck going into his room two or three times until he’s settled down. I’d rather just keep him up for 15 minutes and nail the bedtime once.
And on that front: when bedtime does go haywire (and it does, from time to time!), I have had incredible luck with micro doing what I call “a hard reset.” This means that I have already gone into his room and soothed him once or twice to no avail and have addressed all the most common culprits: a) is he too hot or too cold?; b) is he still hungry? (I will offer him up to an extra 4 oz of formula); c) does he have a burp? (honestly — this is the issue about 80% of the time!); d) does he have a dirty diaper?; e) is he teething? (not much you can do about teething except offer Tylenol, but still good to know if that’s the issue). If I’ve checked all of those conditions and he is still upset, I embark on “the hard reset.” I turn off the sound machine and take him out of his crib. I walk him into the narrow corridor in front of his room and let his eyes slowly adjust to the light peeking in from the dining room. I then walk him slowly, calmly around the entire apartment as he looks around in confusion. I rub his back. I kiss him. I hug him. I sit with him on my lap on the couch until he is truly, fully calm. Usually around this point he starts reaching around to wriggle onto the floor or engage with something else — and that’s my cue to get up, calmly walk him back to his bedroom, turn back on the sound machine, and go through our nightly routine again: prayers, affirmations, lullabies, and I leave him with a little extra formula. This works shockingly well. I don’t want to jinx it, but I actually have never had this not work with him to date. I think something about taking him out of the bedroom, distracting him with a brief tour of common sights, soothing him fully resets the system and enables him to clip into sleep mode more easily. It’s almost as if that extra five minutes of sudden and unanticipated stimulation–bright lights! sounds! sights!–exhausts him and he’s like, “Oh yeah. I guess I am sleepy.”
He will very rarely wake up at night these days — praise God. (Mini did not sleep through the night consistently until one year of age; micro has been doing so since around eight months.) The only exception is when he is teething. We’ve gone through a few patches where he’s woken up 1-2x a night and it’s almost always when a tooth has been coming through his gums. (He has eight teeth, and half of them arrived in the past few weeks.) There’s not much I can do besides offer Tylenol or go in and soothe–just one of those times where I need to buckle up and ride it out.
A couple of you asked how I settled on this routine — the hippie but truthful answer is: it settled on us. I think some time around six months of age, he started to resist having three naps a day. He’d just lay there and cry. And so we started skipping the second nap and suddenly his two naps extended in length and we’ve been in a groove since. Bedtime has also been fluid: for awhile, we put him down closer to 7, and then daylight savings happened and — eh! Here we are, at a 6:30 bedtime and 6 a.m. wakeup.
Mini is three years old and has not napped since the tender age of just-turned-two. (Sigh.) For awhile, we transitioned to “quiet time,” where we’d give her books and toys in her crib or on this mat in her bedroom. (Something about setting her up in that mat made it feel more like a dedicated, intentional space for activities — she liked that. Very Montessori.) I would say this worked about half the time, to be honest. The other half of the time, she’d cry or wander out of her room and we’d just roll with it. Then she started going to school from 8:30-3 and they’d offer her nap time there — which, much to our shock (peer pressure?!), she’d occasionally avail herself of! Since the dawn of quarantine, however, we’ve shifted around our screen time rules and we now let her play with her iPad during micro’s afternoon nap. This means that we all get about an hour and a half of free time in the afternoons, and I really need that quiet time. We all really need it. I received a number of questions about what she does on her iPad: we have the PBSKids game and video apps as well as Disney+ app (with parental controls configured) installed and she will use those to access shows and games she likes. This routine has had the added benefit of making screen time boundaries very clear for her. She never asks for the iPad any other time of the day because she knows it will always be a firm: “No, not until your brother sleeps in the afternoon.” If you are contemplating the purchase or handing-down of an iPad for your toddler, we use this iPad case, which is genius because it protects the iPad and also stands up on its own on a surface (great for planes/trains/propping up in cars). Our approach has been to limit the number of apps available to her, and PBS and Disney feel like trusted friends. I am very intrigued by the Play Osmo setup, though I feel that at her age, the Osmo would need more careful chaperoning and supervision for set-up/explanation and at this point, I’d rather keep the rest of her day screen-free (or screen-light).
Which brings me to another question I received: what do I do with mini during micro’s morning nap? I use the morning nap as my dedicated one-on-one time with mini. We almost always do at least one of these activities during that time period, and I try my hardest to be engaged and present. The fact that we always do something constructive/engaging/educational during this first nap makes me feel like the afternoon iPad session is balanced.
Mini wakes at around six (it’s always a guessing game as to which child will wake us earlier) and goes to bed at around 6:45, just after her brother. This simplifies things tremendously. Mini has always been a breeze at bedtime — it’s rare and alarming when she gives us trouble, and it almost always means she’s coming down with a cold or over-exhausted by the day. We brush teeth, say prayers and affirmations, read a book (here are my favorite bedtime books), and then I sing her a lullaby and leave. She always gets up once (occasionally twice) after this and asks for “one more hug and kiss” from both Mr. Magpie and myself and we let her. We know we can expect her eager little face peering out from her bedroom door at least once within the ten or twenty minutes after lights are out, and once we accepted these visits as “part of the bedtime routine” (versus telling her “do not get out of bed!”), the entire thing just clicked into place and it’s frankly felt easy since. She does come into our bedroom in the middle of the night every few nights, and we’re not totally sure what to do about it. Often, I just get up and “put her back to bed” and she seems OK with this. Sometimes, she begs to get into bed with us, and most of the time, we let her. I am more of the softie on this front. I can’t quite tell what the rule should be right now, so we’re playing it fast and loose until we see if this is just a phase, which most things are.
One last note on bedtime: one relatively new addition to our familial routine has been family story time about five minutes before I intend to put micro down. We clean up the toys in Hill’s nursery together and then I let mini select the book. She likes to roll out a blanket on his floor while Hill stands in his crib and I read to both of them. Then she knows it’s her cue to turn on his sound machine and say goodnight–and she happily leaves, knowing she has a couple of minutes of free play herself before I start getting her ready for bed. I love that the story brings us all together and quiets us. It’s also the perfect way to signal to mini that bedtime is not far off for her — and to interrupt their evening playtime in a gentle way. Strongly recommend if you have two small children who go to bed one after the other as ours do.
What’s working for you?!
Post-Scripts: New Finds for Children.
+A few of you have asked what else Hill is getting for his first birthday, besides the Baghera. We also bought him some blocks, some Honeysticks, some balls, and a bunch of new books:
+Honestly we have SO many books from mini that Hill has not had many new ones of his own (which is fine!), but the two I have loved most for micro (that I did not have with mini): Freight Train and Jesse Bear, What Will You Wear?
+Mini loves wearing “pretty nightgowns” to bed — eyeing this and this for this summer.
+Love these wet/dry bags from PBK. I have one for each child and use it to keep their items separate in my diaper bag. Great also — obviously! — for summer and actually using it for wet swimsuits!
+Loving these classic sneakers for a little boy. I love a shoe like this, which will work with almost any outfit, no matter how dressed up or down.
+Just ordered Hill two more sleepsacks from Kyte. These, along with Woolino, were the most commonly upvoted sleepsacks from Magpie readers. I love both, but Kyte are about 2/3 the price of Woolino and, from what I can tell, just as well-made! I also love some of the colors/prints Kyte has come out with recently, too.
I spent countless hours on Friday and Saturday evenings between the years of 2000 and 2002 driving to Virginia. Three of my closest high school girlfriends lived in Alexandria, Falls Church, and Vienna, respectively, and, much to my parents continued befuddlement, I giddily offered to drive to them on any occasion that arose, even if that occasion meant I’d navigate a portion of a Friday afternoon rush hour waiting in a long queue of cars to cross Key Bridge. But I was sixteen, or seventeen, and I had nothing but time, a full-tank of gas, burned CDs that I couldn’t wait to blast at a volume so loud it mottled the sound quality–and an insatiable hunger for the liberation of driving by myself.
It is impossible to understate or fully capture the soul-filling sensation of freedom that a driver’s license imparts on a teen desperate for life to start. If my mother so much as hinted that we were running low on butter, I’d be sprinting out the door with keys in hand while the words were still lingering in the air.
“I’m on it!”
Printer paper running low? I’d be off to the Office Depot on Connecticut Avenue before thinking twice. Elizabeth needed to be picked up from ballet school? Done. (No worries that I’d just gotten back from two separate excursions for butter and then printer paper.) Sometimes, I’d drive my baby sister Eleanor out for fries at the one drive-thru in all of NW D.C., the Burger King close to the Van Ness metro stop, or offer to fill the tank of my mother’s car at the station–just to give myself an excuse to get out of the house and drive somewhere.
And so, the hour-long trek out to Vienna never registered as an inconvenience. It was a gift. To be alone, to play my own music, to brood, to pretend that fellow drivers were angling their heads in curiosity as I’d glide past them: a fresh-faced girl with a ribbon in her high ponytail blasting David Gray or John Mayer or — when feeling edgy — DMX or B.I.G. I would occasionally extend my trip by driving through Georgetown, though I could have easily avoided its congestion by taking Rock Creek Parkway straight to 66, just so that I could drive down 37th, in front of the gates of Georgetown University, in the hope that some of the cute polo-wearing Georgetown boys would notice me. Looking back, I can affirmatively say that no one ever turned in admiration to catch my small face smugly peering over the steering wheel as I blared Nelly’s “E.I.” from the tinny speakers of the old hand-me-down forest green Camry I shared with my older brother:
I’m a sucker for corn rows and manicured toes (hey) Fendi capri pants and Parasuco’s (alright) The rise of Diddy and City, with one or two throws…
But such is the solipsistic self-involvement of a teen.
Over the past few weeks, Mr. Magpie and I have been revisiting some of our favorite teen flicks: Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Clueless, Varsity Blues, 10 Things I Hate About You. Mr. Magpie at one point asked: “Should I be concerned about our mental state that we’re so drawn to these high school movies right now?” We laughed about that, but —
It has been overwhelming to think about adult problems these days. The concerns in these movies feel pleasantly narrow and manageable by contrast. And the scale of their concerns blurs with nostalgia for the 90s and early 00s, and I find myself thinking back to a junior-in-high-school Jen whose chief worries were maintaining a 4.3 GPA, finding a date to Snowball (winter formal), and making my way over to my friend E.’s house in Vienna on a Friday night to watch chick flicks and eat gummy bears and dissect the latest tenuous (possibly nonexistent) encounter with whatever boy we were swooning over: “I think he saw me drive past Gonzaga the other day.” (Etc.)
I think, in short, that I have found comfort revisiting the upward swing of adolescence, the indefatigable energy and optimism of being a sixteen-year-old with her driver’s license in hand. These recovered sensations billow powerfully against the mire and morbidity of 2020. They remind me what it feels like to be in transit, heart racing and a little reckless, with nothing but upside.
+This is such a pretty quilt at such a great price.
+You know I love a good striped tee. Have never tried the brand La Ligne (partial to Kule), but have heard good things and this multicolor one is on sale!
+OK, I had to have this. I have a problem when it comes to LWDs.
Hill turns one at the end of the month, and I feel twenty-two ways about it. How can we be here already? And yet — I absolutely cannot imagine my life before him. Alongside a couple of other smaller gifts, we bought him this Baghera ride-on car toy in the silk-gray color, which is ill-advised on so many levels (another big toy in a small apartment! his sister will go green with envy! sure to cause many injuries! etc.), but also thrillingly perfect and extravagant for a boy who has hardly any toys of his own (second child problems) and who will have just weathered a very bizarre and shut-in-like conclusion to the first year of his life. Beyond that: Mr. Magpie, always the pragmatist and voice of reason talking me down from my grandiose, maximalist plans, is over-the-top opulent in exactly two situations in life: when on vacation and when celebrating his children’s birthdays. On vacation in Aspen, he stopped into a Ralph Lauren store and bought two cashmere sweaters on a lark — highly suspect behavior from a man who will usually wait until his clothing has holes in it to contemplate purchasing something new, and at which point, he will look helplessly at me as he rifles through his closet: “Jen, I have no clothes left.” In Spain, he ordered a bottle of cava and extra rounds of tapas at 11 p.m., shrugging off my comment that we probably wouldn’t finish any of it because we were so tired — this, from a man who will finish the last dregs of wine from the glass sitting on my desk hours after I’ve gone to bed so it won’t go to waste. You get the drift: vacation Mr. Magpie is like a modern day Louis XIV.
And so, for Hill’s first birthday, under Mr. Magpie’s counsel, a Baghera it will be.
We have been closing in on the brief and delicious sliver of a season where we live with windows open. It’s cool enough for comfortable sleep at night and warm enough for deep swills of fresh air during the day, and — in the tiniest of ways — our apartment feels as though it has a bit of the outside in it. I love the rattle of the blinds in the window-frame, dancing as the breeze drifts in. I love the taste of the air as I wash glasses at the kitchen sink late at night, diffusing the leftover pungency of aromatics diced on the cutting board for dinner. I love the impression of carelessness, of ease, of the unplugged.
+Have always wanted bamboo flatware for a summer table. Maybe this summer is THE summer. For the cost of a meal out on the town that we will likely not be able to enjoy, I could buy a couple of sets and enjoy all summer long…
+Love the layette brand 1212 (so, so soft), and this lemon print is really cute for summer jammies.
+This luggage rack with the blue toile straps (available on the white frame) is so chic! Never knew I needed a luggage rack…
+I keep seeing people talk about this “mermaid serum.” Intrigued…has anyone tried it?
+Didn’t realize that most of Hannah Andersson is 50% off, plus free shipping — perfect time to snag their classic jammies.
I can’t remember the last time I felt a mounting sense of panic as I neared the end of a book, but as I slid, inexorably, toward the final pages of Ann Patchett’s The Dutch House, I had one thought: Please don’t end.
I adored this book, which is equal parts a love story between siblings and a study of the way spaces — geographies, buildings, cities, homes — shape our lives as much as we shape them. The book is an enormous tenderness. Reading felt like touching a bruise I didn’t know I had and then could not stop brushing my fingers against. The characters are drawn with such incision and specificity and remarkable genuineness that I cannot believe I do not know Danny and Maeve in real life. I felt protective of them, finding myself desperate to defend or console them throughout the novel: “But Danny’s just trying to…!” I could feel the words forming in the back of my throat before I could remind myself I was reading, alight in the world of fiction. The loyalty and affection and unbound familiarity between these two siblings–ah! Never have I read a truer portrait of siblinghood, right down to the casually sparring exchanges and loud-but-easy-to-recover-from temper blow-overs.
And then there is The House, a treasure to encounter in Patchett’s precise brushstroke, where no detail is beneath her attention. I felt myself gliding through the descriptions of the ballroom and its ceilings, lingering over the descriptions of china and artwork and silver and that hidden drawer with the coins in the dining room buffet. I loved the feel of the unglamorous but familiar kitchen, at whose formica dinette table Danny would sit and eat his cereal or sandwiches with Jocelyn shucked peas for dinner, listening to her radio. Among the many achievements of this novel: Patchett’s astounding knack for creating spaces in language that feel just as evocative and powerful as The Real Thing. I am convinced it was me standing in the backyard of The Dutch House while the French doors from the ballroom were open and music and the tinkle of forks on china drifted out to me. I can see the scene as clear as day, and I know how cool it felt in the shade and how warm it looked inside, and the dynamics of the sound undulating across the lawn to me…!
Setting aside the aesthetic bliss of navigating the spaces in this novel, there is something powerful going on in the centricity of physical space to the narrative. The book leaves us wondering whether places define people or vice versa. The Dutch House, for example, is a mirror and a foil: it unaffectedly reflects who the characters are and yet performs like a character in its own right. It repels and “undoes” Elna, it attracts and defines Andrea, it represents all that Cyril has worked for his entire life and in many ways rewards him for his work ethic. Its loss changes the course of Maeve and Danny’s lives, and they spend much of their time re-negotiating their relationship to it and its inhabitants and to all it promised for them as children. In some sections, the House reads like a mirage or a metaphor of some kind: it is wealth, it is paradise lost, it is greed, it is status, it is security. In others, we experience its physical presence so soundly that we can almost feel the cool marble of the foyer under our feet or the sway of treetops outside Maeve’s (then Bright’s) bedroom window, and we turn and stare at the characters huddled inside of it with curious eyes: “Yes, the scene is set: what will you do now?”
I “read” this as an audiobook and I cannot rave more about the experience of listening to Tom Hanks’ narration. He reads as though caught in the act of remembering: some lines come slowly, as though they’re just barely pulled from the depths of nostalgia. Others come fast, humorous, clipped, in the way we deliver a quick retort to a sibling. And when he slows down, and his voice curls around a particularly moving observation or comment, the heart aches.
This book. Five stars. I loved it.
Post-Scripts.
+I also read The Glass Hotel and the chief word that comes to mind is: unpleasant. The book, which is more or less a fictionalization of Bernie Madoff and his Ponzi Scheme and the many people whose lives it affected, is an unpleasant reading experience. We read snippets of narratives from different characters and it is unclear which are “core” and which are “ancillary,” thwarting our natural readerly desire to form some sort of alliance or focal point. Sure, we can understand this to be an intentional “achievement” in the work, but as none of the characters are likeable or particularly interesting, I found this, in conjunction with the author’s jumping around from time period to time period, irritating rather than disorienting in service of some greater narrative cause. It also felt…dated? The Ponzi scheme, the “shades of gray” morality analysis: it all felt done before. Would not recommend.
+Currently finishing the last few sections of Such a Fun Age on audiobook –thought-provoking and impressively earnest around modern-day race relations and its many complicated nuances and subtexts, though a bit clumsily written? — and am eager to start Lady in Waiting on Audible next.
+Currently reading Ghosted as a fun sidecar (description: “Seven perfect days. Then he disappeared. A love story with a secret at its heart.” Yes pls.) Next up: Dirt (cooking memoir: “A hilariously self-deprecating, highly obsessive account of the author’s adventures, in the world of French haute cuisine”).
+I am hearing good things about Girl, Woman, Other (a Booker Prize Winner): “A magnificent portrayal of the intersections of identity and a moving and hopeful story of an interconnected group of Black British women that paints a vivid portrait of the state of contemporary Britain and looks back to the legacy of Britain’s colonial history in Africa and the Caribbean.”
+It took me a minute to erase the PTSD from late 90s strappy sandals from my mind, but these By Far sandals have been garnering quite the cult following — I have been seeing them EVERYWHERE lately and I have to admit: I’m now on board. I like these unfussy nude ones (wear with anything) after seeing them on the ultra-stylish Jenny Walton. Perfect for pairing with an LWD.
+Emory has reached a new level of dexterity and skill in her artwork: we now have faces! and legs! and hair! and suns! I am in awe of her ability to think of an object or person and recreate it with her own hand. I am contemplating framing two of my recent favorite masterpieces in these lucite frames.
+These upholstered beds are SO good — come in such fun colors! By the brand who made my children’s beloved bassinet, which is still sitting in the corner of our bedroom because we had intended to sell it before the pandemic settled but did not. And now I look at it and want to cry thinking that we will ever get rid of it. You can still find the exact style/colorway (espresso legs, beige nest) I have on eBay from time to time, and some stores still carry other colorways of that style here. But they now have a new model with a metal frame instead of the wood one I have, and it is sleek and chic, too.
A roundup of things that have caught my eye for the month of May, starting with the Sparrows Weave bag (and entire vibe) seen above. If my post yesterday didn’t convince you that you need breezy white dresses and straw bags, the photo above might. (P.S. — Voluminous dresses similar to above: this $35 steal, this Cecilie Bahnsen, this Bahnsen lookalike.)
+Sharon Santoni’s Instagram account — she has the dreamiest home in Normandy, France. I want her life! To channel it, I’ll be ordering a lilac candle (“Pool House”). One of her posts featured a small copper covered butter dish that I was convinced I needed. I then found two more affordable (but equally chic) options — this for $4! and this, which is more similar to the one Sharon has. Who knew my bread service needed this accoutrement? Can’t wait for mine to arrive!
+Mark D Sikes perfection, per usual — featuring a reasonably-priced area rug from a recent collaboration. (Another one of his striped rugs made its way into a roundup of my favorite rugs a few weeks back.) I can’t wait for his new coffee table book to come out. If you don’t own his first, you’re missing out! Beautiful to display and so elegant and inspiring to thumb through with a glass of wine at night.
+Did anyone else catch the Swans for Relief performance? Twenty two ballerinas from across the globe danced “The Swan,” whose music you will recognize, in order to raise money for dancers who depend on performance income to cover basic necessities like rent and food, but who are unable to perform at the moment. So moving, and so achingly beautiful! (Also, Misty Copeland performs from her New York apartment, which is in the same building as a good friend of mine! Small world.) Inspired, I have been eyeing this gorgeous coffee table book.
+I first mentioned Italian childrenswear brand Il Porticciolo in a post on new children’s clothing discoveries last week, but — OH! How I love these matching mommy and me dresses! I ordered the white for myself and the lemon print for mini since I couldn’t find matching ones in a color I liked with her size available. So sweet. (H&M also has a sweet mommy and me set in white eyelet, and then this is beyond adorable, with this one for a mini. Have a boy and want to match? Try this Innika Choo on you and this on him!)
+Just discovered the sweetest stationery from Dear Annabelle. Especially love these pretty notepads, which come in an elegant keepsake box — great idea for a gift for a list-lover. (Along with my favorite pens.)
What’s caught your eye recently?
P.S. If you’re looking for a delicious, slightly festive (but easy!) weeknight meal, try this.
P.P.P.S. What are you reading/listening to? I’m reading Ghosted and about to start listening to Lady in Waiting.
By: Jen Shoop
If you’ve been on the fence about the MZ Wallace medium metro tote, let this seal the deal for you: MZ Wallace is running a never-been-done-before 40% off sale on its best-selling metro tote. This is the exact style I use as my diaper bag for two children. I have mine in rose gold, but I really love the mushroom color, the shibori print, and the magnet lacquer (all on sale!) This bag would also be an excellent gym/weekender bag for those without children.
P.S. Mamas: TBBC is running an extra 50% off all sale!!!! Run, don’t walk. I use this sale to stock up on their ultra-soft jammies. Love this print for girls and ordered this print for Hill’s upcoming first birthday (as well as a couple of other precious dresses for mini!).
