Some people (fashionistas) can tell a lot about a woman by what kind of purse she carries. Well, I see an important corollary to that theory: you can tell a lot about a woman by what she carries in her purse. It's like that credit card commercial slogan: what's in YOUR purse?
When Miller was visiting a few weeks ago, she was very amused by the choice of reading material that I carry around in my sizeable purse. Once upon a time, I might have carried a novel, perhaps something reasonably challenging. Now, if I so desire, I can choose from "Colors!" and "Mr. Brown Can Moo! Can You?"
Yep, a key sign that you're a mother: your purse is stuffed with board books and small boxes of raisins. And a dusty binky at the very bottom, to be used only for extreme emergencies. Used to be, I carried around about forty-eleven lipsticks, but now I have raisins. Okay, the truth is I still carry around a bunch of lipsticks in my purse, just only about six or seven, but I also stuff in the boxes of raisins and board books. At least I only have one cell phone now, though. That helps.
Also, I am never without a package of Wet Ones. And also a small bottle of Purell. I never bothered with these things, pre-baby. I mean, I was a big girl. I could wash my hands in the sink. Now I won't leave home without them. I can actually feel a frisson of panic when I get down to the last couple of Wet Ones in the travel case if I don't have a spare pack stuffed in there, too. Have you ever tried to hoist a squirming, excited 27-pound toddler who's wiggling all three thousand of his arms and legs up to a (sopping wet) sink counter in a public restroom and tried to wash his hands? Uh huh. And then you have to deal with the drying issue. Hot air blowers? Perhaps not. Wet Ones are my friend, my loyal friend.
It's not so much that I don't want to carry around the interesting novel anymore, though. I just flat out don't have room for it, not even in my giant saddlebag of a purse. So my own books live on my nightstand. I've got Don Delillo's "Falling Man" on there right now. And Lucinda Franks' nonfiction "My Father's Secret War." Plus, er, some mindless fluff that doesn't require me to read, er, every single page.
But I refuse to cull out any more lipsticks. A girl's gotta have standards.