hings don’t turn out the way you expect them to.

Take this flower pot, for example. Just one of several carefully considered diversions for children at my friend’s daughter’s birthday party (she really does host the most relaxing backyard get-togethers, I swear), this particular pot was one of an entire flat of them, set out alongside paints for whomever might want to make one their own. There were glitter tattoos, hair bling (I just kind of guessed at what that might be; it seemed self-explanatory), water balloons and a last-minute scavenger hunt, too. But between her ankle and her long-standing aversion to having anything sticky on her skin, that pretty much left the flower pots for Peaches and, after a piece of chicken and a spoonful of hummus, she made her way over to the paints and pots.

She lost track of time there, painting the pot inside and out. I had forgotten until Peaches returned to the table with it that there were plants, too—sweet pansies and other flowering beauties whose name sticks with me—purchased together with the pots, intended to fill up the inside of each one as a final gift to attendees.

But Peaches had already filled hers well and truly up. There was no room left for even the tiniest flower because that bit of beauty would only serve to bury what she’d so carefully painted there. Don’t get me wrong; it’s still plenty functional! It’s function just isn’t probably what our hostess envisioned it would be—it’s so much more.