My Latest Snag: Garrett Leight Shades for Mr. Magpie.
I saw these cool shades by hot label Garrett Leight (“Calabar” style) on Brad Pitt and had to buy them for Mr. Magpie as a surprise wardrobe upgrade. I’ve been gradually invading his wardrobe — my other latest contributions have been light-wash denim that I urge him to pair with this white cashmere crewneck. Historically, he’s dressed on the preppier side and he keeps joking that I’m turning him into “a Montessori dad,” as all of the dads at mini’s school are uber-hip and wearing things we don’t even understand. I’m not trying to go for a trendy look — really want more Americana classics. My next goal is convincing him to wear white denim with a chambray button-down or maybe a camel crewneck sweater…
Is anyone else going deeeeeeep in random Instagram holes during this time of self-quarantine / social distancing? I don’t quite recall how I came on this quote on recent night but I have to say, I was so struck by it, I have been thinking about it on and off since I first spotted it:
This speaks to me on so many levels.
For one thing, it was a reminder that a curious mind is never bored. Interrogating even the smallest of details purely for the sake of self-enrichment can be a worthy task.
It also brought to mind the astounding level of attention to detail Mr. Magpie brings to the kitchen. Just yesterday, I came out to our living room to find seven small bags of (very expensive) Rancho Gordo beans laid out on the coffee table — Mr. Magpie’s latest culinary acquisition. He is forever in search of the best ingredients, the highest quality kitchen gear, the most clever cooking techniques. No detail is too small. He will take me to task if I don’t soak minced red onions in cold water — it takes out some of that onion burn and makes for a more pleasant dining experience. He seeds his tomatoes and cucumbers. (Ugh – I do not.) He is so bright and curious and there is no leaf left unturned in his kitchen.
Finally, and more abstractly, it was a reminder to me that God is in the details. (I’ve written about this thought in posts past, an inversion of the more conventional “the devil is in the details.”) Look close, look local, spend time in the little in-betweens, the breath between the drumbeats. A lot to soak up in those little silences, nooks, and crannies.
Post-Scripts: A Stunning Brock-Collection-Esque Top.
+This arrived for micro and is SO beyond adorable. Runs small.
+I am smitten with everything Juliet Dunn is putting out these days, but especially this gorgeous pattern. Or do I need it in this midi length style? (PSA — you can often score this label at an incredible discount, gently used, on TRR. How good is this?!)
+Speaking of TRR, I keep adding this to my cart…so into these bold florals these days! Especially with a bright pop of red. I rarely wear red and it’s so FUN.
+This is a fantastic, traditional baby raincoat — mini owned several Petit Bateau raincoats in different sizes but this is just as good and a fraction of the price.
+These Native shoes in the floral print are PRECIOUS! An absolute must if your child insists on running through every splash pad / sprinkler in Central Park.
I wrote last summer extolling the virtues of the caftan, explaining:
“…By around six-thirty or seven p.m., I crave comfort. I want to be out of my constricting jeans and into loose cotton. I long for the breeziness of a robe, the fluff of my ridiculous slippers underfoot. And yet I respect Mr. Magpie’s perspective so dearly and dread his inevitable query — “PJs already?” with such ferocity that I will try to wait until after mini has gone to bed and we are approaching the hour of sleep to change.
And that is why I have become a caftan queen.
The caftan is the perfect loophole to this quandary. It projects a point of view, but is effortless and comfortable. Mr. Magpie understands it as a dress even though it is closer to a nightgown. And when you wear one, you feel you’ve attained some level of urban boho chicness you didn’t quite think you were capable of…”
I’m now back to let you know that social distancing also presents a unique opportunity to pull out your easy-wearing caftans — regardless of how cold it is outside. Throw hair in a topknot and add a happy pink lip (I LOVE Nars’ Roman Holiday for such occasions). Below, a new round of nap dresses, caftans, muumuus, and the like (and should note these are wonderful when pregnant!):
Q: Recommendations for attractive ways to display dish soap, dish brush, etc?
A: This is a really funny question, as some family members find it crazy that Landon and I keep our paper towel dispenser under the sink because we find it to be an eyesore on the countertop. Ha! (As a bonus, this means we’re more likely to reach for dish towels than we are paper towels, which reduces waste!) BUT we do keep soap and sponges out — we’re not that insane. I currently use a William Sonoma set (includes the silver wire holder base thing) that keeps the essentials organized and this OXO sponge holder next to it, which I love because you can put the whole thing in the dishwasher every few days to keep clean. When we’ve had separated sinks in the past (so irritating in my opinion), we’ve placed one of these in-sink holders on the smaller side of the sink intended for soaking, but now that we have a farmhouse-style sink (LOVE), we want to keep the entire basin clear to optimize cleaning space, so we keep the sponges in a countertop holder. OXO has other variations depending on your needs, like this. My next upgrade will be to buy a Simple Human automatic soap dispenser (my mom has this), which is brilliant because then when you have dirty hands from mixing meatballs or whatever, you don’t even need to touch the spigot.
Beyond that, I’d invest in either dresses with self-tie waists that can adapt to your changing body (think shirtdresses and the like, where waists can be cinched tighter or sash can be left off entirely as you lose weight) or looser-fit cotton dresses. Pick patterns that are on-trend and make you happy just to see in your closet. A few I love:
+I love the look of a fresh jumper with a white peter pan / ruffled collar top — mini wore this top with the plaid jumper (now sold out) shown in the pic for her first day of school last year. A few other jumpers that would be equally darling: this plaid one, this Bellabliss one (on super sale), or this one from Les Gamins. I like any of these styled with knee socks!
+In general, I love the Les Gamins collection because their pieces are sweet without being too frou-frou or precious. Mini has owned this dress in every size and multiple colors! I love it with an enormous bow and Cienta sneakers.
+Cecil and Lou always has tons of great back to school options that can be monogrammed closer to the end of summer. But even something timeless like this windowpane check or this navy check option would be darling with a big monogram on front.
+Finally, I am almost always a sucker once a season for a beautiful piece from La Coqueta. Currently in love with this.
P.S. I tend to strike gold searching Etsy for vintage smocked pieces like this for such occasions!
Q: How do you politely deal with intrusive comments and questions while pregnant?
A: Rude! I’m so sorry you’re experiencing this. I usually found a way to turn the question back on the interrogator or politely demur — “hmm, how did you / your wife navigate that?” or “haven’t given it much thought yet!” — before changing the subject. I also found it easier for me to come up with “a party line” (ha) for repeated questions, i.e., “what will you name the baby?” and “how will you ever live with two kids in that tiny apartment?” and “why are you having a c-section for a second time?” Having a canned answer made it feel mechanical rather than emotional every single time. But the key for me was providing a clipped answer and moving the conversation along.
Worst comes to worst: excuse yourself to the bathroom and blame pregnancy bladder. Ha!
Q: I’ve repurposed my mom’s wedding dress. I’m looking for a nice shoe (not white!) to wear with it. The fabric is eyelet and I had it hemmed to a midi length.
A: SO cool. I actually like a lot of the options I shared earlier in relation to what shoe to wear as a bridesmaid for this circumstance. I also love and adore and frequently check back for a version of those beautiful bow-topped Valentino shoes from a few seasons back in my size at TRR — something like this saucy red pair or these blush suedes, if you dare. (They also have ones in gray and other shades I’ve seen!)
A: I got this question a lot — it was such a hit at the party! It gave the entire day a feeling of old-timey frivolity. The idea was entirely Mr. Magpie’s, who referenced his beloved Death & Co cocktail book for the following recipe:
BILLINGSLEY PUNCH
Note: Mr. Magpie doubled this recipe and then went back and made another serving. It was a hot commodity! He also made a big ice cube using a rectangular snapware to place in the bottom of our punch bowl.(I also own and love this glass cake dome which can be inverted to create a punch bowl! So versatile — highly recommend. And in case you missed it, he loves this angled OXO jigger for measuring cocktail ingredients, as you can see how much you’re pouring from the top versus needing to lift it up to eye level.)
12 white sugar cubes 8 oz club soda 6 oz Tanqueray No 10 Gin 2 oz aperol 2 oz grapefruit juice 2 oz lemon juice 4 dashes Peychaud’s bitters GARNISH: 6 grapefruit crescents
In a pitcher, muddle sugar cubes with 4 oz club soda until the sugar is fully broken up. Add the remaining ingredients (except for the remaining club soda) and fill the pitcher three-quarters full with ice cubes. Stir until cold, then strain into a punch bowl over 1 large block of ice. Top with the remaining 4 oz of club soda. Garnish with the grapefruit crescents and serve with a ladle and punch glasses.
Q: I will be 22 weeks pregnant at a black tie wedding in South Carolina in April. Any suggestions on what to wear?
A: Congratulations!! A few thoughts, and let me add a quick prologue by saying that I tend to bend the “black tie” conventions and have worn shorter dresses. I think that as long as you have statement jewelry and formal shoes, you can make it work — especially while pregnant.
+All of the above are non-maternity, but you could also go with this elegant Hatch style, paired with a bold lip and ODLR tassel earrings.
Q: Help! I’m 30 weeks pregnant and desperate for new clothes but don’t want to spend a ton given how late-stage I am. Any recommendations for quick fixes?
A bit more expensive ($60), but I feel like you could wear this black maternity dress for the next two months STRAIGHT. Dress up with heels, dress down with flats/sandals.
Then there’s always the strategy of buying something you can wear after pregnancy, too — this is SO pretty, and I bought and loved wearing this caftan (wore it home from the hospital — which was actually not a good idea since I’d forgotten you often kill a lot of time waiting to be discharged, and during that period, I had to breastfeed micro twice…and that dress is NOT a nursing-friendly dress).
And have I talked your ear off about these pajamas yet?! I owned three pairs and wore them every single night for months. They are a splurge, but they are so soft and comfortable and I love that it comes with a robe to cinch above the belly so you feel like you have a shape. Also great for postpartum/nursing…
Long live the shirt dress — in my opinion, one of the most flattering and timeless shapes on nearly any body, at any age. It’s also a fantastically versatile and transitional piece: it usually works well in between seasons and can be dressed up or down for myriad circumstances. A must-buy for a capsule wardrobe, or for a trip of extended length. Today, 10 of my current favorite shirtdresses, starting with…
Expecting mama? I loved the shirtdress while pregnant and then postpartum, too (nursing-friendly!). I lived in this exact style during my third trimester and often wore it with a pair of Alexandre Birman slides from an epic collab they did with De Gournay — recreate the vibe by pairing with these cool hand-painted slides). I also love this simple, versatile white style — imagine it paired with these fun sandals or a pair of GGs!
PSA: Neiman Marcus is currently running a surprise 20% off promotion — and you can even score cosmetics (!) at a discount. I just stocked up on tinted moisturizer (when is it EVER on sale?!) — also a great time to try splurge-y cosmetics items, like Chantecaille’s pricey rose oil, which smells lovely and is so deeply hydrating.
And if your little one is itty bitty enough — would you please buy this Luli & Me petal float dress number while 20% off?! My dream — a total encapsulation of my aesthetic for a baby girl. Perfect for Easter or spring birthday parties. I wish they made it in a 3T…
Finally, I am absolutely in love with the fiery red print of this skirt from Alexis this season. Like — this?! For a summer wedding?! Also comes in a slightly less formal dress style that could work for more casual settings. That print!!!
Totally unrelated to Neiman Marcus: I have and love these gold coasters from Canvas Home and just found them at a discount here, plus an extra 20% off with code CLEAN. Had to order another set!
Summers in Charlottesville are a delicious kind of haze. The heat hangs heavy and days roll by as slow and deliberate as the drawl of a Virginia gentleman.
“Jeeee-innn-ee-uh-fuhhhh,” was how my third-year “History of Virginia” professor pronounced my name, as though it had double the amount of syllables it normally carried in my clipped mid-Atlantic elocution. He’d invited all of the students in his consistently packed seminar to his beautiful colonial home off route 250 for dinner at the end of the semester, when it wasn’t quite peak summer humidity, but we’d all gotten a taste of it and were buzzed with its promise, wearing sleeveless dresses and Rainbow flip flops amidst the mounting frivolity of the dawn of summer.
The professor was deeply kind — the type who actively listened when you spoke and made you feel as though you were the only person in the room, even when reciting a fact from Virginia’s history he’d heard oh, four hundred and eighty-eight times. His wife had organized a buffet-style dinner and we filed in and around their beautifully-appointed Southern home looking for spare folding chairs, perches on the arms of overstuffed sofas, and familiar faces. He made a toast and we ate homemade lasagna and the bolder among us carried on a polite debate on some political subject du jour, though it was the kind of cooled and courtly exchange you rarely see these days, marshaled, in large part, because we were all desperate for the professor’s approval, and he wasn’t one to tolerate shouting matches. We knew it without having to test it. He was polite and deliberate and well-spoken — but you could tell a whip-sharp intellect lay just beneath that composed exterior and we were simultaneously intimidated and humbled by him.
I watched him gracefully shepherd the debate, offering points to consider, and eventually he said: “And wuh-hut do you thee-unk, Jeee-innn-ee-uh-fuhhh?” I cleared my throat in surprise and offered up the point I’d been refining in quiet preparation for the prior few minutes, my face burning and my voice stammering. He nodded thoughtfully, courteously, seriously, and then deftly folded my point back into the mix.
I sat with the urgent compulsion to ossify that moment in memory. I couldn’t wait to tell my dad, who I knew would be touched by this professor’s hospitality and class (“in the true Virginia tradition,” he’d say, being a Wahoo himself), and I beamed at the thought that I’d contributed something worthy to the conversation, and that he knew my name and wanted to hear what I had to say–or so I chose to fashion it in my own mind, as I also realized he might have invited me to participate simply because he was a skilled and inclusive facilitator. And so I dangled halfway in and halfway out, in awe of the moment and eager to share it. I knew from its contours alone that it was a golden moment in formation.
Mainly, I was plain grateful to him for soliciting my opinion.
About a week later, on the eve of finals, I developed a horrible pain in my lower back. It had seemed to start after a long session on the elliptical and so I massaged it and put ice packs on it and took Advil for it but still it throbbed and ached. As I pored over pages and pages of hand-written notes on the history of Virginia, I found myself shivering, then sweating. I realized I hadn’t eaten all day, but the thought of food made me nauseous. I continuously grimaced in pain. I took a hot bath to stop the chills and felt a little better. I called my mom, who advised I take Tylenol and pour myself into bed.
“But my exam is tomorrow!” I cried. Unsettlingly, she had no solution for this.
“You have to take care of yourself,” was all she offered. “Go to bed.”
I fell in and out of fitful sleep, waking with uncontrollable chills and then shirt-drenching sweat. At some point, my roommate came back from studying at the library, took a look at me, and wordlessly retrieved a thermometer.
“OK,” she said, calmly, reading the digital side. “We need to go to the ER.” I had a fever of 104.6.
At the hospital, they gave me fluids and informed me I was suffering from a kidney infection. I was terrified and relieved and also in a panic about exams — for myself and my roommate, who was at my side the entire time despite the fact that she, too, had finals the following morning. I was prescribed medicine and discharged fairly quickly thereafter, and I kept apologizing to my friend as she drove to get me Gatorades and then took me home and tucked me into bed.
“It’s nothing,” she said, waving her hand as though to dismiss my concern, acting entirely unphased by the fact that it was well past midnight and I’d ruined her study plans. She took my temperature again and as she left the room, flicked off the light and said, “I’m here if you need me.”
The next morning, I woke early, having sweated through my pajamas, and realized I was still feverish. I understood the medicine would not kick in immediately, but had hoped for a miracle.
Brushing away tears, I wrote to my professor explaining the situation and asking whether I could complete the take-home exam later in the week. I was not one to ask for extensions or special clearances. I had once written a midterm paper while sobbing over the death of my grandmother, wracked with grief but determined to submit the work. This was not so much emotional fortitude as it was fear of disappointing my professor and breaking the rules. And when you are nineteen and in the fortunate position that your academic performance is the only stressor in your peaceful and padded life, requesting an exception felt like the biggest thing I’d ever done on my own, without outside counsel, in my life. I was a rule follower through and through, and a people-pleaser to boot.
This was hard for me. It still would be.
I am sure all professors dread the flood of sob stories that materialize with curious consistency around exam time, and I was disgusted he’d think I was one such, especially after his kindnesses throughout the semester in asking for my opinion in class and at his home. I couldn’t tell if it was the fever or my nerves that left my stomach in knots and my hands jittery as I clicked “SEND.”
I went back to bed.
When I woke, I had this waiting for me:
“My dear Jennifer,
Do not apologize. Life happens. Email me when you are recovered and we’ll work it out together. Until then, please rest.
Yours,
Professor G.G.”
A few weeks later, while down in Charlottesville for Midsummers, Mr. Magpie took me tubing down the James River. I wore my favorite pink Lilly Pulitzer bikini and we drove “into the sticks” in Party Girl with Tim McGraw blasting and his hand in mind and my bare feet on the dashboard. There was a little outfit off Route 20 that rented students tubes and even mini tubes to hold coolers filled with “soda.” I put soda in quotation marks because there were rules painted in black hand-writing on an old piece of wood at the little hut where you rented your tube that read: “NO ALCOHOL,” and yet the young local boys who’d rent us the gear would decorously turn their faces while students would load beers into them. “Soda,” the boys would say, grinning like cheshire cats. I’d always preoccupy myself in the car while this was happening, afraid of getting caught, busy — always — constructing elaborate scenarios where I’d get in trouble some way or another.
That day, I watched as Mr. Magpie moved a small pitcher of cosmopolitans he’d mixed me at home using fresh lime juice — not that stuff that came out of a green lime-shaped squirt bottle — and Grey Goose vodka into the cooler, and then nestled an actual glass tumbler in alongside the Bud Heavy beers he’d packed for himself. This was peak Sex and the City territory and I was at that stage of young life where anything more expensive than rail liquor — or maybe Smirnoff — felt unfathomably fancy. I was so overcome with love for this man and his thoughtful, extravagant caretaking of me that I sucked in a big gulp of air, smiling ear to ear, my shoulders scrunching up around my ears in the universal mime for excitement. He looked over at me, using a fraying rope tether to tie the cooler tube to his tube, and momentarily paused to take me in.
“Thank you,” I said.
“It’s nothin’,” he shrugged with an easy smile.
I floated down that lazy river, through the sticky stillness of a Southern summer, feet in the air, hand tangled in his, a cool drink waiting for me in the cooler, safe and weightless.
Oh, it is good to be loved. It is good to be cared for.
***
When I sat down this morning to write, the above tumbleweed of memories came rolling out, unfiltered and unremitting, and when I finished, I sat back in puzzlement. What was this amorphous tangle? Did it hang together? What was I trying to say?
I’d started, I think, with the desire to burnish some golden moments in the face of these uncertain times, longing for the warmth and ease of college summers and young love. But usually, when I write, I have an endpoint in mind, or at least find myself circling in on what I really mean to say midway through, whirpool-like — the words, the memories pulling me towards the heart-sinking center. Often, I write to know what I think, and am pleasantly surprised to find a full and intact idea somewhere in there that I then brush up and gloss while editing at my little white desk in front of the broad, double-wide window that looks out on a busy street in the upper 80s, from which I can see a little sliver of park between two red brick buildings, and the branches of its trees — red-speckled, then brown, then bare, now with the first hints of green — remind me, daily, of the passing of time and often leave me contemplative, whether wistful for first and lasts or aware that this, too shall pass.
But it wasn’t until I re-read this post ten or fifteen times that I realized it was all about the different kinds of goodness and care from people close to me and not that I have enjoyed in the face of menaces big and small. Well, mainly very small, to put a fine point on it, compared to the pandemic we are currently living through.
And I thought of a young man at the grocery store on Sunday morning who — despite the chaos and bare shelves around us — had stopped to help an elderly woman select yogurt flavors out of her reach.
“No, not strawberry — ” she had chastised him, and we’d locked eyes and smirked at one another. But he still stood there, patiently assisting her, and at the end: “Thank you, dear,” she’d said.
+Like every other parent at home with children for the foreseeable future, I am doing my best to pretend to be the Pinterest mom I’ve never been. HA! I’m hoping some of you creative ladies can share some suggestions below. I tried that pepper/soap experiment that everyone is posting and said: “Wow! Isn’t that cool?!” and mini looked at me and said: “No.” Welp. You win some, you lose some. I have a couple of other projects I’m stealing from more creative moms I know / follow in Instagram, but a few “ready-made” activities we’ve loved (both recently and over long afternoons in the past):
+We have been taking one family walk each day to Central Park (we’re one block away) to play on the grass. Mini has been so obsessed with this t-ball set — we bought it for her last summer in the Hamptons and she can’t get enough of it. We also always have bubbles, sidewalk chalk, and a playground ball.
+Just restocked the linen closet with (deeply discounted) Molton Brown lotion (<<this exact scent is heaven) and hand soap.
+For brighter days, Old Navy has some of the sweetest diaper sets out right now: mourning the days when mini could wear this, this, and this.
+Love this dress. Can’t decide between that cool khaki or the on-trend ditsy floral!
+Perfect way to feel pulled together when you’re at home with children all day: new jeans that make you feel cool/hip without even trying and a white tee.
+More on Mr. Magpie…a reader recently wrote to tell me that “Mr. Magpie has a fan club,” and — well, pshhawwww. He should.
By: Jen Shoop
I’ve had a few Magpie Mail inquiries about what I’m putting in my children’s Easter baskets. I ordered these baskets (they lay flat for storage!), though if I had the space for a proper wicker basket, I love these and these and these basket bows!
My usual strategy is to give a book, a toy, something artsy/musical, and some plastic easter eggs filled with M&Ms/jellybeans. (We also do a small Easter egg hunt in our living room, though if we had a backyard, how sweet is this Easter egg hunt sign kit?)
I am big on giving books at every possible occasion, including Easter! Below, a few books to consider for Easter for little babies:
More Easter finds, including for your table (and yourself – what to wear!), here and here. And if you’re dropping off treats for friends…how sweet are these!
P.P.S. I ordered these Easter jammies for micro already. Mini already owns a gingham Petite Plume nightie so I might just put her in that, but how sweet is this set?!
P.P.P.S. I’m dying over the tabletop stylings of Alice Neylor-Leyland (seen above). Would adore to add these placemats to my Easter table!
You’re Sooooo Popular: A White Denim Shift.
The most popular items on the blog this past week:
+Major envy for this tote bag, which I first spotted on a chic pea in “carpool” pick up line at mini’s school. (Or, in Manhattan, a fleet of strollers and scooters cluttering a Flatiron street.)
This is a wild and scary time for everyone, and the only thing I have to offer is the suggestion of praying in addition to whatever you and your family have decided to do with regards to keeping yourself safe. (And on that latter point — I have found it imperative and centering to discuss what Mr. Magpie and I hear and learn about the coronavirus over the course of many, many nights of “STPs” to download, compare notes, and continue to evaluate our plan as a family. I am reticent to share our personal plan because there is so much information swirling around and things continue to change and I don’t want to add any additional stress or “…but should I do that, too?” to your already very full mind.)
Both in the context of COVID-19 and other challenges you may be facing, can I suggest you consider praying a novena? I recently bought this inexpensive booklet, which has various novenas (i.e., prayers you say every day for 9 consecutive days) for different circumstances, including pregnancy, cancer, and lost things (St. Anthony!). There are many that are applicable to this uncertain and confusing time.
Sending love to everyone.
Post-Scripts: A Stylish Shift Dress.
+One thing to do with a lot of “social distancing” time on our hands? Read. What are you reading?
I first saw you in the face of my many baby dolls and first heard you in the cries of my three baby sisters.
While my friends talked about “playing house,” my sisters and I always referred to it as “playing mother,” because “home” was shorthand for “mom” and our mom was the center and circumference of our world. I loved to pretend to be her. I even called my little sisters “the girls,” just the way she did, even though I was technically one of them from her vantage. I loved to carry my baby sister Eleanor around, though she was over half my height, and I grew deft at bribing her into getting dressed in the mornings — a task I owned and loved, especially since no one else seemed to be as effective at it as I was — because these ministrations made me feel like my mom. I absorbed my mother’s gestures, too — the way she wiped down the counter in big swirls, the way she wrote in loopy cursive in her planner at her desk, the way she removed her left earring to cradle the telephone and finished every phone call with an “mmm — buh-bye.” I admired the way she talked to her own mother on the telephone, often while perched on the edge of her bed, or looking absently out her bedroom window, across the gray stoned patio of our home, discussing plans to play golf at the club together, or news of her siblings, or the excellent roast chicken she’d had out to dinner with my father. I would stand in the doorframe, tracing my fingers up the wall, listening to her and longing to be her.
For many summers, I worked as a mother’s helper, and then a baby-sitter, and then a nanny for various family friends and relatives — and I saw you in many of those children I cared for. I was especially fond of a little girl named Caroline and her little brother Tom, and I spent countless hours of my teenage years playing “monster” with them in the basement, cutting up grapes and peanut butter sandwiches for them in their kitchen, telling them stories long after I knew their parents wanted them to be asleep. I loved to spoil them. I snuck them extra goldfish and surprised them with toys borrowed from my own little sisters and permitted them that extra few minutes at the playground, though I was deeply responsible and felt the pinch of anxiety as I calculated just how late we’d be in getting home. I loved when Caroline would ask me to tuck her in and beg for an extra story about “Daniel and Tyler,” two semi-fictitious characters that peopled stories I’d told my sister Elizabeth since she was three years old and we had started sharing a bedroom. I saw glimpses of you in Caroline, and in the infectious way she threw her head back with abandon when laughing, and in the startled wideness of her eyes when I’d tell her a scary story — and, mainly, in the way I wanted to protect and care for her.
When Mr. Magpie asked what I wanted to do in life when we had just started dating, I said, without hesitation: “Be a mom.” And I saw you then, too, in a realer sense, because I knew from close to the moment I met him that Mr. Magpie was The One for me and that, God willing, he’d be the father to my children, too.
In short, my love, I waited my whole entire life for you.
Your birth was a shock, but then there was you. My smart, beautiful, brave, kind little you. I can’t quite fathom how we’ve gone from our first embrace on the hospital gurney as I was wheeled out of the operating room around 8 a.m. on March 5, 2017 to the way you leaned into my arms at Church this past Sunday to say “Mama?” — your eyes searching mine — “I love you.” Unprompted, sincere, pure — and startlingly capable. You are a familiar lump in my throat. And I still can’t believe you are mine, even though I know you better than the back of my own hand. I know you from your stubborn cowlick to the tips of your toes and can read your mood from across the playground.
But yesterday, as you scooted home from school, the clouds parted and rain spattered our faces. “Oh no, mama,” you said. “This is a problem.” Your precociousness caused three gruff-looking men in hardhats to laugh out loud, and the exchange left me both tickled and curious, as I puzzled over the provenance of that phrase. It didn’t sound like something your dad or I would say. And it dawned on me then, as it has with increasing frequency since you started school, that your growing up means sharing you with the world and all its many people. There was a time not long ago that I was usually able to piece together the seeming non-sequiturs of your logic — like why you said you saw ducklings while crossing Fifth Ave on the way to the doctor a few weeks back, and why you connected our dining room with my diamond ring. But now some of you is beyond my ken, and I’ve got to make peace with that.
There’s a phrase about having children — that it’s like walking around with your heart outside your body. And that is true. But for the past three years, it’s also felt like walking around with two hearts inside my body, because I feel every wound and injury you bear and your existence is so engrained in my own that it almost feels like you are an extension of me. It’s going to be tough to let you go off on your own with increasing measures of independence and self-direction, to accept that there will be times when your heart is beating all on its own, outside of my embrace and supervision.
Thank God we’ve got time before the teenage years.
In the meantime, my other heartbeat, just know I love absolutely all of you.
Post-Scripts: Mini’s Peter Rabbit Themed Third Birthday.
I’ve shared bits and pieces of our plans for mini’s birthday over the past few weeks, but we had sprinkle-flecked waffles (I’m obsessed with this overnight waffle recipe), balloons, and birthday hats for breakfast on her actual birthday and I surprised her with a cupcake when I picked her up from school. We opened up presents, called grandparents, and enjoyed pizza and cucumber (her request) followed by more cupcakes for dinner. She wore her cone birthday hat for three straight days, and we didn’t have the heart to discourage it.
For her birthday party, we went with a Peter Rabbit theme. I had initially commissioned Kate Chambers to do custom invitations like these for the party, but the turnaround time proved too long (I’d waited maybe a week too long to get that organized, it turned out), so I went with these boxed invitations, which were absolutely precious, too!
We hired Juliette & Ella’s Playdate to lead a 45-minute music and movement class — and they were excellent. Cannot recommend more for moms in Manhattan! We served bagels, lox, and cream cheese from UWS institution Barney Greengrass as well as a gin-based punch (served out of a gorgeous old-fashioned waterford punch bowl from my parents!) to the parents and fruit, vegetables, and pre-smeared bagels cut into little wedges and placed in Peter Rabbit cupcake liners and arranged on melamine bunny and gingham printed plates* for the children. I organized the children’s food on top of mini’s play table, which I’d covered with this gingham throw and decorated with this felt garden set, this concertina card (which is actually a card, but served as the perfect little table decor!), this stuffed animal, and these bunny napkins. I also filled these adorable carrot treat boxes with Annie’s bunny crackers and presented them in wicker basket and set out a dish of Peter Rabbit fruit pouches for the littler babies. I had a tray of these inexpensive sippy cups filled with water or milk, which for whatever reason seemed to be a big hit (what is it about kids wanting to drink out of other kids’ sippy cups?). For dessert, we had mini cupcakes from Two Little Red Hens — the absolute best cupcakes I’ve ever tasted in my life, which is saying a lot because I used to live close to Baked & Wired in Georgetown. They are so good that I made a special trip to the East Side to get them, as they don’t deliver (gasp!). I decorated the cupcakes with these cupcake picks.
I pretty much bought out the entire Meri Meri Peter Rabbit party decor collection, as we also had this garland up in the archway that separates the front hall from the living room, where we moved the coffee table out of the way and held the music/movement “class.” I’d filled that room with these “matte chalk” finish balloons in shades of aqua, teal, and blue after an agonizing hour of filling them with air using this hand pump. Tying the balloons is particularly hard work — yikes. At any rate, back to Meri Meri: we used these plates for the kids and these (larger) ones for the parents, and had tons of these cups and napkins on hand, though we tried to serve all of the parents out of glassware, as it’s just nicer (especially when serving a fancy punch!)
Finally, I gave out goody bags using these bags. This was a misstep, as I’d intended to fill each with one of these board books, a sheet of these stickers, a package of these crisps, and bunny gummies. I feel like sometimes you just end up with a bunch of little knick knacks that no one needs and so — though I was tempted to go all out with various little Peter Rabbit add-ons — I was determined to stick to 1 book, 1 sticker sheet, and some snacks for the goody bags. Only the books didn’t fit in the bags! AH. Oh well. I filled in the empty space in the bag with a sheet of blue tissue paper and voila.
For mini’s birthday, we gave her a Meri Meri superhero set (she loves dressing up), some books and art supplies (she was especially excited about having her own smock), a Frozen Barbie (easily her favorite gift), a set of dinosaurs and dinosaur books (she is really into them at the moment), and a “flute.” (One of her friends has a recorder and she will NOT PART WITH IT when they play together — she is always asking for it. It is one of the most annoying sounds on earth, though…) Our hope is to try to get her something to read, something artsy, something musical, and then one or two toys each birthday. I really wanted to get her this beautiful set of dinosaurs, but by the time I found it, it wouldn’t have arrived on time. We also discussed getting her a Banwood bike but decided to wait just a little longer — maybe for Christmas this year? — as we are just now retiring the stroller and getting her to use her scooter more often. (I realize this is maybe a little late to get her out of a stroller, but it’s a pretty long walk from the subway to her school and sometimes it’s hard to pack in 3x as much time to accommodate her dawdling pace. Just a few days after her third birthday, she informed us she wanted to scoot to school from now on, and she’s been doing GREAT! Huge, huge milestone for us as we no longer need to schlep her stroller up and down subway stairs!) For reference, she has this scooter and wears a ladybug helmet, which always draws a lot of compliments.
She received so many incredible gifts for her birthday that I’ll need to share some in a separate post on what she likes most as a three year old. I have quietly withdrawn a few of her gifts and stowed them in her closet for a rainy day. (Shhh!) But a few standouts at the moment are this magnetic dress up set, this flamingo balancing game, furniture and accessories for her Maileg mice including a dining table, chairs, and food (SO CUTE), and puzzles! She also flipped out over an umbrella her babysitter gave her! We’ll be sending out thank you notes on this stationery.
WHEW. Just reading this back, I realize how much thought and preparation went into her birthday, but my mom always made our birthdays special, and I’m committed to doing the same for my own little other heartbeat.
*I am obsessed with these melamine plates — just ordered more! They are so sweet and great for serving children! I’m impressed with the quality. Perfect for Easter and beyond.
And then of course we need accoutrements. I’m into the idea of wearing beachy trousers or skirts/pareos over my suit this summer for daytime hanging — loving…
I saw two girls on a swing set off Central Park West on Monday afternoon, grins as wide as their faces, pigtails flying in the wind, laughter dancing through the unseasonably warm March air. The scene was transcendent in every sense of the word, but mainly in the immediate sense that I felt myself transported to the quiet warmth of a late May evening when I was five or six and my parents had just filled in the pool in the backyard of our new home off of Rock Creek Parkway in Northwest Washington, D.C. They’d paved it over, horrified at the prospect that one of their brood might wander over one afternoon and drown, and installed a jungle gym with a slide and four swings on one side and a concrete court with a basketball hoop on the other. My siblings and I were desperate to break it all in. I can remember the coolness of the waxy black seat of the swing, the thrill and frivolity as my sister Elizabeth and I pumped our legs as fast as we could, kicking off our shoes in midair in the rococo gesture of a Fragonard painting, gasping for laughter as one ricocheted off my brother, who was dribbling a basketball on the court side. There was an inchoate, misguided sense that I might be able to swing so high I could touch the net of the hoop with my tiptoe, though I was enough of a ‘fraidy cat that when the seat took a little lurch at the very end of its tether — when I was at the highest point of the swing’s arc — I dialed back my pumping for fear that I might flip over the top of the swingset, a misapprehension I’d pocketed from a girlfriend at school, who once insisted that her brother had swung so high, he’d looped over the top and gotten stuck.
But those were the fleeting and fumbling incipiences of a six-year-old imagination, and mainly I swung with nary a thought in my mind save for the unfiltered, delicious rush of weightlessly floating barefoot through the warm dusk air after school was out for the summer. Later bedtimes, later sunsets, light cotton nightgowns billowing in the breeze of the backyard, where fireflies dotted the air and my sister laughed so hard her face turned bright pink with delight.
I don’t know that you ever get that back once you’ve crossed the threshold of puberty — the breathless buoyancy of swinging when you are little, when even the menace of my parents’ fears of a child drowning and the danger of flipping over the swingset feel diffuse, immaterial, things that happen to other people.
Once I hit twelve, self-awareness and desperate desire to be cool and discerning clouded things over. Moments of unbridled, non-self-conscious glee grew far fewer and further between.
On Monday night, I wondered when I’d last felt that freedom. Certainly not in recent years, which — though happy and blessed — have also borne with them the humbling burden of caring for little beings. And certainly not in the years prior to that, when we’d bought our home and started our business and suddenly found ourselves buckled into financial responsibilities and client commitments and legal arrangements that left us solemn and determined and more than a little anxious. Maybe the last time that I felt that swing sensation was when Mr. Magpie and I visited Spain, two DINCS (dual-income-no-children — and, at that time, no pets) with money to spare and jobs that — while demanding, could afford us the space for a proper holiday with minimal professional interruptions. We drank one-euro wine out of tumblers at hole-in-the-wall cafes, ate every pintxo in sight — including the angulas, which was adventurous for my then-budding culinary omnivorousness, wandered for miles and miles around Montjuic with no itinerary save for pouring ourselves into bed at some indiscriminate point between sunset and sunrise.
Even then, there were the briefest of concerns and the slimmest of responsibilities that tarried our step. The obligation to email home to let our parents know we were safe. The occasional compulsion to check in with the office. The logistics of traveling from Barcelona to San Sebastian that needed ironing out. An irritating pain I’d been experiencing in my right flank — what was it?! (Turned out to be a pulled muscle.)
This brings me fresh purpose as a mother to young children, as I strain to pave the road before them, to suppress or cloak the dangers I can, to clear space in our schedule so that they can pump their legs into the warm spring air, savoring that weightlessness of youth.
Post Scripts: Spring Wardrobe Finds for Little Ones.
