I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I'm super into saying "a word" about all manner of things, these days. It sounds so official...and solemn. It sounds sort of pastoral or Presidential or Public Servant Announcement.
It was good enough and she was a one-year old.
She wasn't one of those posh NYC babies who toddle around with their noses in a shelter magazine. She was none the wiser. She was happy enough to suck her two middle fingers. She focused her energy on growing her curls and spitting up and looking cute in every situation.
Now that I've whipped Calvin's junk museum of a room into shape, it's her turn.
I don't have anything fancy/pricey/laborious in mind, because she's just not a fancy kind of girl.
She's the kind of girl who turns a vintage ironing board into her own, personal desk.
She the kind of girl who makes me wish I had a pink T to wear under my gold cardigan.
A word about painting trim: Blech.
A word about painting trim whilst avoiding the simultaneous-yet-inadvertent painting of newish carpet: Anxiety-provoking blech.