A little friend of A.’s just turned one and his dad got his mother a delicate ring with two arching gold bands like arms cradling a tiny pearl. It’s a reference to their lovely pregnancy metaphor of their baby boy as the pearl growing cradled in his mum. Nice, right?
Early on in my pregnancy, before we knew that A. would be a girl or even an anything, when you need to call your pre-baby something other than “it,” we called her Danger, which would, of course, be her middle name, but would leave room to select the first name later. It seemed like a really good choice. As in, “Danger’s my middle name.” Right up until she was born, I was pulling for that as her middle name. How cool would that have been? Come on, right? On the playground? Awesome, right? Yeah, I lost that argument.
Anyway, I tell the charming pearl story to R.
R: So I should get you a gold throwing star for A.’s birthday.
Me: What?
R: You know: A. was “Danger,” so, you know: a throwing star.
Me: Ah. Yeah, that’s nice. Do that.
So much for nice jewelry later this month. I wonder if gold is effective in weaponry. Seems kind of soft…
Displaced 
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