I recently stuck a pine cone between my breasts to carry it downstairs after naptime because one of my toddlers NEEDED it. She calls it a “pah-co” so how could I say no? The pine cone had been on the dresser in their bedroom because I refused to let anyone sleep with it in her crib. Nothing like snuggling up with a jaggedy-edged pine cone as you drift off to sleep.
But in order to get twin 2-year-olds down my deadly 100-year-old-house stairs, I have to hold their hands with both of mine and they have to hold the railing, so no one has any hands free for carrying bits of nature. Also my stay-at-home-mom uniform of yoga pants and a v-neck tee doesn’t have pockets. (I know you know what I’m talking about. You’ve worn the same thing. The tee is probably called “slub knit” which is meant to convey the soft nubbiness of its texture but really just about sums up the slouchy-slobbiness of my current fashion sense.)
Pine cones are itchy. And when we got downstairs, there were dogs to play with, Goldfish to eat, and Elmo music to play on the iPad, so no one was interested in the pine cone anymore. I took it out and reminded them that I brought it down because it was so important, and I got a look that could not have more clearly said, “Oh Mom. It’s kind of sweet but sad that you don’t understand our priorities. Pah-cos are sooo five minutes ago.”