Bread Buns and Baby Buns.

Suddenly, it's fall. There are billowing clouds in the sky and a constant breeze that brings down the temperature a cool ten degrees. And in the evening time, the weather is perfect enough for me to almost open a window. Key word there being almost. It seems like London can tell a difference too. She discovered her drawer of winter clothes and, naturally, wanted to try everything on. The pink coat is her favorite.

I've been wondering lately: Is my child this girly because she was born that way, or because I happen to rub off on her, considering we are together every minute her perfect blue eyes are open? If it's the latter, our boys are doomed. 

We spent Saturday in Amman, visiting local handicraft shops that provide work opportunities for women. The first shop was exclusively pottery, and I wanted to buy everything I saw. I settled for a picture of my favorite bowl, and the promise that if we had money, Kyle would definitely buy it for me. The next stop was olive wood carvings. A husband and wife run the small business on the top floor of an apartment building. They employ men and women who are blind, disabled, and handicapped. Kyle and I walked around, visited with the women who were cheerfully sanding their figurines, and took a tour of the piles of curing olive wood.

The program director and his wife then took us to their favorite restaurant and bakery. The bakery seemed like it was the length of an entire city block. Kyle and I walked back and forth, eyeing all of the sweet warm bread, croissants, and pastries. We finally settled on one large, chewy pastry, soaked in some sort of silky honey-maple reduction. 

We got in to the taxi to drive home from our adventure, the taxi driver took one look at the pastry in Kyle's hands, and said, "That will make you fat." Everyone in our taxi burst out laughing, and we proceeded to pass the pastry around for everyone to enjoy. Kyle and the taxi driver were off to a playful start, and they had a solid flowing Arabic conversation for the next ten minutes. Out of nowhere, the taxi driver blurted in English, "NO WAY, MAN! I thought you were 42, or 78!" Apparently, Kyle had told the taxi driver his age. This prompted another round of laughing out loud. It was my favorite taxi ride yet. 

On Sunday, we ran out of diapers thirty minutes before the Carrefour (our local grocery store) opened. This left us in a predicament: Either let the poor girl walk around in an overflowing diaper, or take the diaper off and let her wander around the house as a half-naked baby. It was an easy choice!  The slap-slap-slap of her baby feet on the tile was somehow even cuter that morning.