Saturday Morning Pearls

The logic most parents of toddlers use is this: if it is valuable, dangerous or both keep it high and out of reach. Not my mom.  She kept the valuables low and and enticing. What small person can resist the siren call of all things shiny? Every now and then when my mom stops in to visit she quizzically admires the few pieces that I have "borrowed"...and I have been borrowing for a long time. She can't blame me because she decided to live on the edge and keep her brilliant collection down low. Right in my reach. She failed to yell at me when I adorned myself in our ancient family jewels.

Both sides of my family boast of educated, cultured, bougie women who wore the finest imported furs (no offense to my PETA friends), ate choice vittles and wore the most unique, authentic jewelry that you will ever see this side of the Atlantic. We are talking real diamonds, time-approved gold and genuine stones that I am still too simple to pronounce. And pearls, real heavy pearls. A strand of white and a strand of grey, in fact, in its own navy blue velvet case.

I began every Saturday morning the same, catching up on the latest toons so that I could contribute to the playground water-cooler convos in the upcoming week. Then I made my way into my parents room where they were likely having breakfast in bed before the family fun took off. Good morning kisses and hugs were freely given and received and then I plopped down  in front of THE jewelry drawer. A small chest of drawers with a petite french double door guarding it. I never asked for permission. I just dove in. Bracelet on top of bracelet slid up my inadequate arms. My diminutive neck sank under the weight of every necklace mom owned and whatever pieces I couldn't figure out just ended up in my hair or on my shirt. I strut my toddler tail at the end of the bed and told made up stories...for...hours. And they just laughed and listening sometimes they joined in and asked questions. When I was done I carefully put every pretty piece back in its place. This was my favorite toy box. 

Thanks to James, the collection continues. A week ago I found myself quietly wondering how I was supposed to celebrate Mother's Day. Feeling every bit a mother but with nothing to show for besides an awkward belly I consigned myself to waiting until it was "real". Until my baby was really here. I guessed that was appropriate. But when Mother's Day finally arrived I didn't want to be left out. I am a mom to a child who is very dependent on me, who has changed my body and my heart and mind already and darn-it I wanted some recognition. Cue sweet James who knows me so well. He remembered stories of my Saturday mornings playing in my favorite toy box. Stories I cannot recall telling him. He gave me my own pearl bracelet for me and for my little girl. I wear my pearl bracelet all the time now because it is just such a perfect lovely gift. When I take it off I know just where I will put. In a drawer, down low of course. Just in her reach. I can't wait to see her tiny wrists glisten and I can't wait to her what stories she has to tell.