As readers of the Thursday poetry series will know, one of my very favorite San Francisco rituals is the Saturday morning farmer's market at the Ferry Building. This was true seven years ago, when those poems are set, and it's just as true today. Back when I was pregnant with Mabel I used to sit on a bench there (probably eating some enormous amount of baked goods and fruit) and watch all the families with little babies and small children and think how fun it would be to bring our own daughter there, once she existed. And, though common wisdom would have us believe that a pleasure frequently handled in anticipation can, once it arrives in actuality, seem a bit dull or stale, that is far from being in the case in this instance. Wandering around and feeling the oranges with Mabel is every bit as joyful as I thought it would be. Indeed, more so, since I never really could imagine in advance what it would really feel like to have this whole new awesome person woven into the fabric of our lives. Well, obviously I'm still a bit drunk on birthday sentimentality. You can expect that to continue for another day or two. I figure I get a week.
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