Seven Red

So for about six weeks Ellie has been into finding money that we’ve left around the house and hoarding it in a little wooden box. Well, we said, we’re going to get you a piggy bank. Of course, because doing that is out of our usual routine, weeks and weeks go by with only the promise of a piggy bank, kinda like the promise of a moderately useful banking system in the US. Then I go on this trip to Davis, CA for the inimitable Computers & Writing conference, and suddenly find myself in the Sacramento airport not having bought the kids a promised present. The last time this happened I had to go get a present at Target and pretend I had gotten it during my trip. That wasn’t going to happen again. So I go into the airport gift shop, ready to be robbed blind for some tourist trinket, and what do I see staring me in the face but a tiny little piggy bank painted with various scenes of Sacramento. Score, I thought. Double score. I wrap the damn piggy bank up and stuff it between various layers of clothes in my carry-on, hoping it doesn’t break en route. Needless to say, my plane is delayed and then delayed again, and we sit on the runway in Sacramento for two hours. During this time I call home and tell Ellie that I got her a present, which raises her excitement level. I miss my connection in Minneapolis, and have to sit there for another two plus hours, and once again I call and talk up the present, not having totally forgotten this time. So this morning, I get up and Ellie is right in my face asking about her present. It’s time for the big reveal, so I pull out the wrapped up piggy bank and take the tape off so Ellie can extract it from the newswrap. She peels through a layer. Then another. Then another. My present! My present! Finally, she can see the piggy bank. She grabs it, looks it over, screws up her eyes, and tosses it across the room. Smash, and it cracks right in half.

But the addendum: It cracked so perfectly in half that she was able to crazy glue it back together, and Ellie now claims to like it. I know, however, that she probably doesn’t. A broken bank for this time of broken banks.

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