One day I was wandering through a boutique shop in the ever popular mall of Town Square in Las Vegas.  This shop had all sorts of eclectic wonders any woman would love to purchase.  Naturally, I had quite the pile of things I could see myself owning.  Calculating my potential bill, reality struck.   I turned away from a show stopping halter, envious of the hanger that was just so lucky to wear such a treasure.  Instead of the halter, I could buy 4 packages of Pull-Ups and save myself dozens of loads of laundry and at least as many nights undisturbed from a soggy-bottomed not bed-broken toddler.  The decision was simple and I marched toward the exit.  Pride swelled inside as I marveled in my power to resist tempting gorgeous clothes.  They would only enhance the side of my closet that rarely got worn anyway, right?  Right.  And then I saw it.  A journal.  (Store full of eclectic wonders, remember?)  Unsure of what exactly about it caught my eye, I barely stopped to read the cover completely: Shit My Kid Says.  What?!  Does it say that?  Indeed.  It was a wide open journal to fill with those darned things your child says that you may just want to keep documented for entertainment or possibly future blackmail.  I thought the idea was ingenious though I did not buy it.  I no longer remember the top I longed for, but I so recall that book.  Any book of blank pages would do to document such original speech, so I found one.  I now have a chronicle of my daughter’s funny and not so funny blurbs and that is worth more to me than what that entire store could sell in all its years.  It may be an art only I find beauty in, but I am happy at the end of every day for it.  After all, who needs an onange shot that cost a treasure box of dollars anyway*?

 

*translation: orange shirt that cost $40.