And there are Passover preparations, which no dam of orderliness or reason could ever contain. We're staying at home for Passover for the first time in forever, as the lovely husband wasn't ready to face time in the city of his childhood just yet, with his grandmother so freshly gone. So we're building a new tradition. New can be good. New can be a little unsteady. The spray is everywhere but I have high hopes for this holiday.
Sweet G has taken to declining anything that doesn't suit him by describing it as not perfect. He asks for a strawberry and you hand him one and being three, he wants the other one, no matter which one you offered, you know this game, yes? He wants the other one, every time. So he says to you: No, I can't have this one. It isn't perfect for me.
I am so taken with this phrase (and its speaker, of course). There was nothing wrong with that other strawberry (or crayon or blue shirt); it's just that he's made a determination and now only precisely his dream of the moment will do. There is no good enough, there is only perfection or nothing at all.
The important part, to me, is not in the strawberry he does choose but in the one he rejects. It's good, fine, even. I'll eat it, and I do. This cold snap at the onset of spring isn't perfect, but the cherry trees are blossoming. Staying home despite my personal preferences isn't perfect, my every other member of my family is excited to make the holiday here and so I will be excited, too. Being too busy to write isn't perfect when I remember how much I miss writing and ache for that quiet time in which to do it, but a happy, bustling, event-filled calendar? It's not perfect. But it's very, very good.