I have a friend whom I've known since our first week of college. She was raised in a tiny Northern California town by two often-naked hippies who bestowed upon her a rather unusual name. She is brilliant but a terrible speller, a fashionista who can't pass up a thrift store, a self-proclaimed baby hater, and a delightfully amusing weirdo. She also happens to be a NewYork Times bestselling author.
So when this friend emailed me earlier in the summer requesting my address because she had a present for my girls, I was suspicious. It is a well-known fact that my friend has no desire for children. She tolerates them now that most of her friends have spawned but she very much enjoys her carefree, childless existence. I could not help but wonder what the heck was going to come in the mail.
Then the package arrived and well, take a look:
That's when I realized that being weird can be perfect.