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#and Gingham wears a blankie!!!!
firaknight · 3 years
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Hey @kirbyofthestars I made more frogs
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matchamorphosis · 3 years
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can you do baby bear vibes next please? 💖 the baby bunny vibes are so cute! 💖
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soft baby bear vibes! 🐻🍯🍫🍪💫
♡ stealing your daddy’s//mommy’s//caregivers big oversized sweaters
♡ fluffy fleece toffee colored onesies
♡ making pancakes for breakfast
♡ playpen for your stuffies
♡ burts bee honeycomb nourishing lotion, bubble bath and lip balms
♡ giving lots of bear hugs
♡ teddy bear in your lap as you play with chalk
♡ jumbo crayons, kinda messy crayon box
♡ glowing night lights
♡ snack time || marshmallow spread and tiny jam hearts on cinnamon toast or chocolate covered pretzels!
♡ bundling up with as many quilts and blankies when the weather gets cold
♡ baking brownies and scones for playdates
♡ clinging onto your caregivers chest or back like a baby bear
♡ going berry picking in the woods with your caregiver and snacking on trial mix
♡ reading and watching winnie the pooh
♡ red and yellow gingham sun dresses when the weather gets warmer
♡ butterscotch candies and waffle bits in your overall pockets
♡ pillow forts and blankie nests
♡ wearing loads of sweaters, cardigans and collared long sleeves in warm browns, yellows and whites
♡ helping with dinner//chores as much as you can
♡ honey in your tea and oat milk in your coffee
♡ nude colored fuzzy socks
♡ bedtime stories you know by heart
♡ untamed bed hair that still is cute cause you’re a cutie
♡ big mug of milk//oat milk to dunk your cookies!
♡ nuzzling your face into the neck of your daddy//mommy//caregiver
♡ sleepy yawns and letting out little noises when you stretch
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sakurapiss · 3 years
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2: Would they have a childhood stuffie or blankie? Do they still have it? What level of disrepair is it in? (For Jamie and Wyatt pls,,)
Jamie- They have a stuffed llama named Rita! they got it from their late mom and she hasn't left their side in years. Rita's a little worse for wear, but Jamie always patches her up ^^
Wyatt- He has Many Many stuffed animals from when he was little (some of them are probably max's. he was a little thief). All of them are pretty well-loved, but his favorite is a gingham teddy bear appropriately named teddy
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My Nana is Why I’m Like This
Writing about my Nana is hard, because our relationship was at times hard. I think anyone with an alcoholic or an addict in the family can relate to that. I learned a fair many lessons from her over the years, all of them useful even if not all of them were lessons that were learned in an enjoyable manner. That said, lessons are not what I want to think about just yet. Yes, she was flawed. When she was in a good place, though, and at her best, she was a truly wonderful human. For now, at least, for the few minutes it takes to write each of these pieces, I’m going to let myself pretend that this lovely person is all that ever existed of my Nana. To that, I offer some of her more poignant, thoughtful, or generally amusing moments.
Blankie
When I was a baby, basically everyone in my life lived in Massachusetts, as did I. My Nana lived in a nice house in Richmond with her husband at the time. Whenever we would visit, my mother would put a blanket down on the couch so as to ensure that if I puked, or drooled, or spit up, or just did baby-things in my sleep, my Nana’s couch would be safe. Apparently, after so many months of this, I eventually decided the blanket I was laying on was “mine.”
My mother found this out when she tucked it into a closet after we got home one evening, and I started to cry. She opened the closet and I stopped. Close: Cry. Open: Stop. When she walked me into the closet, I apparently pulled the blanket in question off the shelf, stuck my thumb in my mouth, and settled down. I had a blankie. While this was fine for sleeping and such, my mother was a little concerned. Not because blankets are inherently bad, as even back then there were psychological studies showing that children with comfort toys were actually better adjusted than those without. No, she was worried about more practical matters. Such as laundry day. Or if the damned thing should happen to go missing.
Enter my Nana, to save the day.
My Nana had not found the “original” blankie, but she was who found the “spare” that, excepting the overall color, was exactly identical to the one I used every night. So it was that on most days and nights I could be found dragging around a pink and white gingham and flower print blankie, as though it was a fifth limb. On occasion, however, this blanket would be replaced with one that was yellow. So that the pink one could get washed. Until, at the age of 13 or so, an age at which most normal humans would have long since stopped carting a blanket anywhere, I did something crazy: I retired the pink blankie. Torn to bits and more patchwork than blanket, it was time.
My yellow blanket took over, full time, moving into the task like the champ that it was. Sporting little more wear or tear than a grey foot print from a porch painting incident, this blanket has incidentally been a fair many places with me. It went away to college with me. It moved to Israel with me. It deployed to Iraq with me. It is the blanket I have cried into over failed relationships, fucked up friendships, and fights with my mom. And, yes, it was the blanket I sobbed into when I fully realized that I was never going to see my Nana again.
As for how this came to be… My mother watched a young boy have his comfort object taken away when it was done to one of her babysitting charges. She swore that, even if his parents didn’t realize it, he was never completely the same. Comfort objects are constants. Present when distance, disagreements, or death separate us from the people who matter most. She swore then and there, well before she’d ever read any research reinforcing her opinion, that she would never do that to her child. Which is how I was a 24-year-old Army Officer who ended up taking a blanket to Iraq with me. It’s also probably why I have a stuffed cow that’s been to more countries than most humans I know.
Shirley Temples
I have an absurd fondness for Shirley Temples. That’s not a typo in which I pluralized a child actress, nor is it a reference to a rather fun tap dance step. No, it’s a reference to a non-alcoholic mixed drink typically made with Sprite or 7-Up, grenadine, and cherries. Mind you, I don’t much care for Sprite, 7-Up, or maraschino cherries on their own. But mixed with grenadine and presented to me on a special occasion, my brain is convinced it is the best thing ever.
This is completely my Nana’s fault.
As a child, I was fascinated by the glasses that my Nana’s drinks came in. I was disinterested in the drinks themselves, as they smelled funny, but I liked the glasses. They were so fancy and grown up, and everything you said seemed more important if you were holding one. To that end, my Nana took to ordering me a Shirley Temple in a martini glass whenever we were out for a special occasion, that way I could feel important and profound just like the grown ups.
It didn’t take long for special occasions with my Nana to translate into special occasions of all sorts, and for the glass shape to stop mattering quite so much. As I got older, Shirley Temples became my go-to drink if I was out with friends, out for a celebration, or at a wedding, and I knew I should’t be drinking alcohol. Yes, yes, I have been introduced to the “Dirty Shirley” and, while I find the drink amusing, I prefer wine, whiskey, or bourbon if I want actual alcohol.
At a bar after a car accident a few years ago, I asked the bartender if he could make me a Shirley Temple (I was on concussion protocol, no alcohol for at least two weeks), and he found the request so endearing he refused to charge me for it. And, no, he actually wasn’t hitting on me. When I asked him how much it was, his response was, “No charge. That’s the cutest drink I’ve made in weeks. The chance to be a kid at work doesn’t have a price tag attached.”  
Courtesy of my Nana’s desire to include me when I was a small child, a simple drink now has dozens of happy memories attached to it and has become a tradition so ingrained that I genuinely cannot think of the word “celebration” without thinking of Shirley Temples. Someday, when my nieces or nephews get married, I’m gonna be that eccentric 50-some-year old woman sitting there with my rainbow hair and my excessive glitter, sipping a bright pink drink.
My Nana would approve.
Scotland
When I was nearly 7, my Nana whisked me away on a near empty flight to a beautiful land of greenery, castles, and grey skies, so we could celebrate my birthday. It was October, so the British Isles weren’t exactly a cheery place to be. It was of no matter to me, though. Every part of the trip, from the passport to the money to the fact that my Scottish great aunt and uncle did not understand the purpose of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, was fascinating to my tiny little brain.
From the moment we landed, I found the “strangeness” of Scotland to be intensely intriguing. I was amused by the fact that my great uncle’s car had the steering wheel on the “wrong” side. I was baffled by the idea that buildings as old as the castles we toured could possibly be standing still. I was mesmerized by the sheer amount of red hair, something I almost never saw back home unless I was looking in a mirror or looking at my mom.
My great aunt Nan was in the beginning stages of what would eventually become dementia, which meant I was eternally referred to as Tammy (my mom’s nickname) and often asked about memories of a childhood I hadn’t lived. I eventually stopped correcting her and, instead, goaded her into telling me about these memories. It’s a sneaky way to learn about your mother’s childhood that only a child can cheekily get away with!
On my birthday, she made me a giant fluffy cake that was covered in bright pink, strawberry icing, and put zero limitations on how much of it I could eat. There was always tea, always, which went a long way towards explaining how my mother had ended up passionately obsessed with the stuff. Presented to me with honey and cream in it, I came home with a new appreciation for my mother’s preferred beverage.
At a tea shop, having no idea what any of the desserts or cakes were, I asked the person taking our order to bring me their favorite. Thus, at the age of 7, I was introduced to scones. Which I described as “cookie biscuits,” because they were too fluffy to be one and too sweet to be the other. I still enjoy them immensely, but only with tea, and I still think they’re technically “cookie biscuits.”
My Nana taught me at a young age that it was not only okay to be curious about the things you didn’t understand, it was okay to go explore them. To ask questions. To try new things. Nearly 30 years after this first adventure overseas, I still travel in much the same way. With a curiosity that is intent on learning about the country and the culture I’m momentarily immersing myself in, a desire to find out what the locals like best, and a fondness for trying all of the hot beverages and desserts humanly possible while there.  
Glow-in-the-Dark
Me: Nana, do you remember that time Aunt Anita asked me about blowjobs? Nana: *snort of laughter* Yes, of course I do. You were 14 and you were mortified.
This recollection, gifted to a darkened bedroom in my step-great-grandmother’s house in Montauk, called to mind an event two year’s prior. While visiting relatives in Cape Cod, my great Aunt Anita had asked me if I put condoms on men before giving them blowjobs. Before anyone freaks out, she was on the older side, had never met me before, and probably had no idea that I was only 14 at the time.
My mother was somewhere between mortified, furious, and amused. My Nana laughed and explained that, as her granddaughter was only 14, it was actually pretty unlikely I had given all that many blowjobs in my life. My great aunt looked at me expectantly  and, when I nodded the affirmation that my Nana was correct, she sighed and patted my hip. “Child,” she said, “don’t make them wear them.” She raised a finger in the air to emphasize her next point, “it’s not about them, mind you. It’s just that the only thing that tastes worse than a dick, is lubricated latex.”
The more you know, I suppose.
(It is worth noting that I have no idea how this conversation started. I walked downstairs for a glass of water and simply found myself being asked about blowjobs. I like to imagine my great aunt would be entertained to know I’ve given up on dicks entirely.)
Anyway, lying in the dark in Montauk two years later, still having never given a blowjob, I offered my Nana this tidbit: I found out they make flavored condoms. That would solve Aunt Anita’s problem! Nana: *hilarious laughter* I’ll be sure to tell her that the next time I talk to her! Me: They also make glow-in-the-dark ones. Though I feel like that would be a little too much like turning a penis into a lightsaber. Nana: *contemplative silence* Sweetheart, if you need it to glow in the dark, you need more than just a condom I think.
I offer no wisdom or insight gleaned from this exchange. I know only that for years to come afterwards, if either of us noticed something truly absurd while out and about together, we’d point at it and just mutter “look, a glow-in-the-dark condom,” and the other would know exactly what we meant.
Charming the ROTC
“We’re going to Daytona Beach. You should come. We’re gonna stop in Fort Meyers so George can see her great aunt or something.”
So began my spring break trip my sophomore year of college. The only year that I went on what most would consider a “typical” spring break trip, as the two years after that I traveled via the geography department on my campus. Since my Nana lived quite close to Fort Meyers, we figured it only appropriate to stop in and say ‘hi’ to her while we were in the area. Which is how she ended up with 8 or 10 ROTC cadets showing up on her doorstep crazy early in the morning on an April day.
We had set out quite early the day prior intending to drive all the way through. The end state was that we ended up arriving at like 6am or something. Blessedly my Nana was still an early riser, so she welcomed us all in and got us settled with showers and naps. She stuck around much of the afternoon, keeping us company while we splashed in the pool, getting to know the boy I was dating at the time, and peppering my college friends with questions about pretty much anything she wanted.
They were wholly charmed, with at least one of them threatening to steal her away and make her an honest woman. Again.
Come evening, not wanting to witness the debauchery or “get in the way,” she headed a couple doors down to stay with a friend. She’d pointed us in the direction of the wine bottles and the glasses, asking only that we not ransack the expensive stuff, and making a remark about the cleaner being in the day after tomorrow.
I’m not certain what she’d expected to find when she came back the next day, early afternoon, but I don’t think a nearly spotless apartment was it. I had awoken to one of my friends vacuuming. Someone else was scrubbing a bathroom. A third person was unloading a dishwasher that I’d drunkenly loaded and run the night prior. I began stripping beds and doing laundry. By noon or so that day, when she came back over intending to say goodbye as we made our way a touch up the coast to George’s great aunt, the apartment was cleaner than when we’d gotten there.
Naturally, my Army buddies were welcome to come back to visit her any time they wanted. Though O’Dell did get warned that if he asked her to marry him again she was probably going to say yes and that would make things super awkward for me!
I think we’d all have been that polite and respectful of anyone we were visiting. I also think that my Nana made it easier, though, just by being herself. She was the type of person you wanted to be good to. Exuberant from the moment we walked in the door, ever the charmer, ever the entertainer, and wanting only for everyone around her to have fun. It was a simple task to want to repay that kind of energy, even if only in the form of a super clean apartment.
Swimming with Dolphins
Have you ever gotten sun poisoning?
No? You’re a sane and normal human for whom sunscreen is sufficient protection against the big orange ball in the sky? Fuck you and your melanin, I hate you both.
I have gotten sun poisoning.
In Key West.
When my Nana took me to swim with the dolphins.
Stop laughing, I’m not fucking joking!
The day started out fantastic. Obviously. There were dolphins! Does any day that starts with dolphins start out badly? No. Of course not. As I was with my over-protective Nana, I was slathered in SPF five million. Apparently that was no match for the Florida sun in open water, though. Around 3am the next morning I woke up to projectile vomit basically everything I’d consumed after my dolphin adventure. This continued. And continued. And continued. Until, around 7am, it was decided I needed a doctor.
There was basically no one in the waiting room at the hospital in Key West. Despite this fact, after waiting for over an hour, we left. Unsurprisingly, we actually had much better luck at a local family doctor who, despite having a waiting room full of people, was able to see me within 30 minutes or so. He prescribed a suppository which my Nana took me to pick up at a local pharmacy, and then I got to have happy fun times trying to shove drugs up my ass.
By late afternoon the puking had mostly subsided. My Nana had ordered Chinese food as she knew doing so would afford her the ability to order me way too much rice, which I ate tentatively but gratefully. We then got dressed in something resembling normal clothes and decided to salvage the afternoon with a trip down to the shore/board walk/shopping area. At some point I puked in a trash can. At another point my Nana convinced me a popsicle would probably be a good idea since I really needed electrolytes. At one point we walked past a jeweler that was selling gemstone globes and I lamented the fact that I was not feeling well enough to go in and look properly.
As the sun set, we found ourselves sitting on a bench watching buskers, my Nana eating some sort of street food and me eating soup of some sort, having managed to almost salvage 60% of our last day in Key West. I apologized for having ruined our weekend and my Nana kissed my cheek and told me any weekend with me would never be ruined.  
The next morning, I felt almost right as rain, though insanely hungry. So we went back down to the shops and such and got pancakes and french toast and all those other things that are delicious but terrible for upset tummies. She then detoured us passed the jewelry store, where we ducked inside and I bought my first gemstone globe. An expense I couldn’t afford, but that I’m insanely grateful I spent the money on. I love that sparkly orb so very much!
Half-way across the bridge back to the mainland, the flashing lights of an annoyed police officer showed up in the rearview mirror. When he walked up to the car and realized the young one was the passenger, I couldn’t tell if he was amused or miffed.
“I’m so sorry, Officer,” I said, leaning across my Nana and smiling as big as I could. “She brought me down here to swim with the dolphins, and wouldn’t you know I got sick and spent yesterday in the hospital. She’s just trying to get me home to a familiar bed and some soup. We’ll slow down.”
The Officer studied me for a minute before telling me to feel better, and letting us off with a warning.
“Out,” I said, pointing out of the car, as soon as he’d driven away. “You cannot be trusted with the keys, out!”
My Nana looked sheepish as we switched sides and I got us back to Naples, sans accidents or speeding tickets.
A month later, I called my Nana laughing hysterically. “They billed me,” I said, unable to control myself. “They billed me as though I saw a doctor. 1800 dollars! They billed me at the hospital.”
My Nana gasped, “They charged you that much to check your fucking blood pressure? You called and yelled at them, right?”
“Of course I did,” I said. “I told them they couldn’t have my money until they treated me, and they voided the bill. But still,” I sighed, still chuckling, “they fucking billed me.”
The family doctor that actually treated me? Still don’t know what I owe him. Either he figured out how to bill Tricare, or he decided an Army Officer puking her brains out was on the house. My guts thank him, either way.
Surprise!
In what had to be the strangest quirk about my Nana, she was probably the only grandmother I know of who didn’t like it when her grandchildren came to stay with her. Admittedly, she didn’t seem to like it all that much when anyone came to stay with her. Everything about our visits stressed her out. Having to plan for our arrival stressed her out. Feeling like she had to entertain us stressed her out. Having us interrupt her perfectly ordered living environment stressed her out. It wasn’t uncommon to feel like you were being shoved out the door by the time a visit was over because, in all honesty, you probably were.
This was helped immeasurably when my Uncle got his own place about 30 minutes from my Nana. Unlike her, he is not an overly ordered individual who likes his living arrangement “just so” and feels compelled to plan for someone’s visit. He really doesn’t care who’s there or not, he’s probably doing his thing no matter what. I started staying with him when I would visit my Nana, eliminating the major stressor of “human interrupting stable environment.”
I eliminated her compulsion to plan for my visit by simply showing up. Unannounced. Like a next door neighbor asking for sugar or milk.
The first time I did this I hadn’t seen my Nana in over a year or so. The visit prior had been… unpleasant… and I had needed some space to recover and recoup. My Nana, though one of my favorite humans, was an alcoholic. This meant visits, or parts of them, could occasionally be volatile. Initially, I had planned to go to Florida just to see my Uncle. He said he’d feel awful if he saw me and my Nana didn’t, though, and insisted I at least see her while I was down. I agreed, but only under the condition that he didn’t tell her I was coming. I didn’t want any of the nonsense and fuss that often led to her stressing herself sick (read: drunk) and, ultimately, wishing none of us were there.
So it was that on a warm February evening I arrived for a “condo  complex party” at my Nana’s, and tappity-tapped on her lanai door  while calling in a sing-song voice, “Nana, Nana, I’m coming in. I want a hug! And some wine!”
To say she was shocked to see me would be the understatement of the century. I was slightly worried I’d induced a heart attack at first. Shortly after the shock, however, came sheer and unadulterated delight. Possibly the first time I’d seen her be that delighted to see me since I was in high school. Five minutes later, when her friend Cornel arrived and I opened the door he went through the same series of emotions before saying, accusingly, “Ruth! You didn’t tell me Lyndsey was coming to town.”
“Well, I didn’t know!” she said, laughing. “She just showed up on my lanai, saying she wanted a hug and a glass of wine. Isn’t it the greatest surprise ever!”
I stayed with my Uncle the entire visit, and every visit thereafter, allowing her to keep her space as she liked it. We’d go to lunch, go to the zoo, go to the botanical garden, and sip coffee after my long bike rides. I had cracked the code. I had figured out how to visit my Nana, without stressing her out. Because she wasn’t stressed out, she didn’t get snippy or testy or nasty. On the occasion she drank too much alcohol, she mostly laughed a lot or talked about how much she loved us, rather than getting mean.
In the years that followed, I showed up at restaurants to surprise her, showed up at her boyfriend’s condo during a party, and walked into her place in the middle of the afternoon, wearing my swimsuit, to demand she come float on pool noodles with me. It wasn’t unusual for everyone in her social circle to know I was coming, except for her. After all, I had to plan to see them while I was down there, and I couldn’t do that if I didn’t tell them when I’d be in town! Everyone loved the joy she took out of my “just showing up” so much, though, that it was the general habit not to tell her.
The pandemic killed my ability to surprise her, because everything had to be so meticulously planned. Which is why, the last visit I made without my mother, I brought my wife as the surprise. My Uncle knew Lesia was coming with me, but my Nana did not. She was delighted, particularly since she’d picked up an obsession with puzzles and Lesia happens to be very good at them. We’d drive down in the evenings after work, have dinner with her, and Lesia and she would puzzle for a while as I scratched my head and glared at a singular piece with no intention of finding its home.
Of all of my visits, that very first surprise one will reign forever as my favorite one ever made. The look of delight on her face as I came into her living room demanding a hug, the sheer glee with which she told all of her neighbors, “This is my granddaughter. She came all the way from Ohio without telling me. She gave me herself as a surprise! Isn’t it wonderful!” was all the evidence one could ever need of just how much she loved me. 
(Even if she didn’t want me sleeping under the same roof as her!)
Wheel Chairs at Zoos
In 2018, my Nana made the last trip to my parents’ house that she would make in her lifetime. It was a trip that was made largely on accident. A year or so prior, we had all decided my Nana needed to get the hell out of dodge before Irene hit, since it looked like that bitch was going to make a bee-line for Naples. Though her condo was generally unscathed, Irene did hit Naples harder than most hurricanes, flooding entire regions of the city and uprooting hundreds of trees. My Nana rode it out with her boyfriend, at his summer place in Maine.
My mother had booked the ticket and had borne the brunt of the airlines’ desire to make big bucks by gouging the shit out of every purchaser trying to get out of the region before the storm hit. They then got harshly reprimanded by the federal government for that bullshit, and found themselves gifting basically anyone who had paid more than they should have with a free plane ticket. My Nana used it to visit my parents. Who tucked her into a car for the two hour drive to Cleveland so that she could see her granddaughter’s house.
My Nana had lived independently for basically forever. She was divorced before it was acceptable to be such and while she remarried a couple times, I don’t know that she ever took any of them all that seriously. Because of the era, there were certain things she’d simply been unable to do. Like buy her own car. Or buy a house. Or have a fucking credit card. So to her, the fact that I owned my own car AND my own house was a remarkable feat signifying how far we had come since she was my age.
Humorously, she ended up visiting us the weekend that our basement flooded, which meant she got to see what the worst parts of homeownership are like. It also meant that simply hanging out at our house wasn’t really an option, since the fans in the basement were so loud it made it difficult to think. As we’d had a hunch we’d want to do something, anyway, we settled on the zoo. It was an idea that made my Nana nervous, as she wasn’t sure she’d be able to walk the entire thing, but Lesia and I were unconcerned.
For $20 bucks, we rented a wheelchair, plopped my Nana in it, and promptly ran around the place like we were little kids pushing a shopping cart. We got running starts to go up hills, popped wheelies on stairs, and shrieked “weeeeeeee!” as we raced down ramps. My Nana was thoroughly delighted, my brother was both amused and embarrassed, and my mom was just happy her mom was smiling ear to ear the entire day. I think my father is now concerned this is how we’re going to treat him in his old age. He’s right to be concerned, we absolutely are.
Two years later, visiting her at her place during a global pandemic in which she had not left her condo in six months, I suggested that she, myself, and Lesia go to the local zoo. I had already looked it up, and we could rent a wheelchair for her so she wouldn’t have to worry about walking. There were a couple different animal shows we could see while we were there and everything. Wouldn’t it be nice to get out of the house for a bit?
“Are you going to say ‘weeeeee!’ when we go down the hills?” she asked, with a mischievous grin. 
Indeed, we did.
Pink Wine Glasses
“It’s pink!”
Such was my squeal of delight when, after an exceptionally long workday, my Nana proffered a glass of white wine in a piece of stemware that was, indeed, pink. Though I’m weirdly neutral on pink clothing, I’m a huge fan of random things that shouldn’t be pink, being pink. Pink wine glasses are basically the most perfect wine glasses ever.
To that end, I was delighted when she said, “Oh good, you like them? Take them with you when you go home!”
Which I did. On my very last trip to my Nana’s condo, she packed up those pink wine glasses and made sure they made it into the car with me. I gave her a hug, and told her I loved her, and thanked her for my pink stemware. Two days later, before meeting her and some friends for dinner, my mother and I began the arduous task of packing a months worth of stuff and those wine glasses got lovingly wrapped in t-shirts, underwear, socks, and pajamas. All four made the journey home in one piece.
There isn’t really much of a story to tell here, except that the very last gift that my Nana personally gave me were pink wine glasses. Glasses that I will cherish forever. Glasses that I will use as often as I can, because every time I use them I think of her. Glasses that make everything you drink look just a little pinker. Just a little brighter. Just a little happier.
It was a fitting final present, I think, as my Nana often strove to make my life a little brighter and a little happier. Now, each time I sip her favorite drink, I can capture some of that lightness, courtesy of a gleefully pink piece of stemware.
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