In which The Five-Year-Old celebrates an unexpected windfall
That’s right, bookshelves. Your overstuffed days are numbered.
It’s time for the decennial pruning of the books here at Caterpickles Central, during which we cull the one-time airplane reads, brain candy, travel books, baby books, potty training manuals, and other books we’ve outgrown in order to make room for the stacks and baskets and tote bags full of books in our various to-read piles.
While I was sorting through one of our shelves of white books upstairs (we organize our books by color because with this many books in the house, there’s really no other viable system), I came across a baby names book.
The Five-Year-Old, pouncing: “Don’t donate that, Mommyo. I have a use for it!”
Mommyo, carefully: “Why do you need a book of baby names?”
The Five-Year-Old, matter-of-factly: “I need names for my stuffed animals.”
Mommyo, surprised: “Oh. That is a good use for it. Here, it’s yours.”
The Five-Year-Old carted the book off a little way across the room — just far enough to give her time to escape in case I changed my mind — and sat down on the floor to examine her prize.
The Five-Year-Old, reading: “The Big Book of Baby Names. Sixty hundred — no, that’s thousand — sixty thousand baby names.”
The Five-Year-Old, excitedly: “Great! I’m rich with baby names! I’ve got 60,000!”
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