Confessions of a Life-Long Beatrix Potter Enthusiast

I do agree with those who believe that the effects of eating too much lettuce is considered "soporific". I have suffered those effects myself; sleepy, satisfied. It is a summer malady, to be certain.

I commiserate with the rage of Tom Thumb and Hunca Munca when they tried to eat some of the lovely dishes set out in the dolls' house, only to find they were nothing but painted plaster. Can you imagine a greater disappointment?

And I confess to an affinity for a certain mouse.


A woodmouse, to be exact. Mrs. Thomasina Tittlemouse. Her creator, Beatrix Potter, fashioned the characteristics and features of this little friend with such sweetness; I've been known to fancy myself as a creation of hers from time to time.






I've clattered my dust-pan at the errant beetle found in my kitchen. I've sent uninvited ladies in their red spotty cloaks home to their children, and spiders, of course, are never welcome. They cause such mischief with their cobwebs scattered about my house, yes, but even more they are, by design, an unattractive blemish on my otherwise tidy, clutter-free home.







I long for distant storerooms in my home, where I could fetch cherry stones and thistle down for dinner. To negotiate passages in my tidy apron, as I carry my lantern high to rout out any more unwelcome guests of the eight-legged variety.







I've also been known to grow weary before I've finished my chores. Had I a rocking chair, I surely would spend my rest time snoozing in it, chin touching chest, hands resting gently across my lap.







Mrs. Tittlemouse is timid, but firm. She is tidy to a fault, but certainly a wonderful little hostess, even when she is unkindly visited by a frog whose tendency for the phrase, "Tiddly, widdly, widdly!" would be enough to drive this hostess to cross words of her own.







Were you to drop in suddenly today, you would be welcome. If you do not care for thistle-down, and cherry stones cause you indigestion, why then, won't you have a saucer of honey? You may warm yourself by the fire, and I shall sweep discreetly where your feet may have left a print on my clean floor. A cup of tea, pleasant conversation, and I promise not to worry about the dishes until you must fly away home, friend.

For Eliana and I, it is a treat to enjoy these together. There are sweet stories, beautiful music, and laughter in every moment. And even more often, it is this we delight in. Accompanied always by a special blanket, which I purchased at a flea market when Corban was a baby, but, as it happens, turned out to be a little too "girly" for Daddy to allow.




It fits the bill perfectly now, don't you think?