There's just something about Pottery Barn, specifically Pottery Barn Kids, that gets me sort of all warm and fuzzy. I can't put my finger on it, but I turn into just another materialistic, cooing suburban-esque housewife when it comes to that store. It's a bit embarrassing to admit, but it has started to hinder me in that direction.
I think it was about the time I was pregnant with Bailey that I was starting to browse through their delectable dishes of pastel and primary colored bedding and furniture designs and decor. I was falling for their tempting wiles and before I knew it, I was looking forward to their latest treasures. Now, I never actually bought anything, but I was still anxious to view their splendid little trinkets and overly priced linens.
And lately, I've been spending even more time with them as I've been carefully considering their various items, picking and choosing exactly what I must have, when and where. And it's getting so troubling that when I received their catalog in the mail today, and grabbed it from my mailbox right before picking up my delightful redhead from preschool, I found myself so addicted to their merchandise, I wanted to read the pages and stare at the photographs at red lights more than I wanted to drive so I could actually get my child. It's an addiction, I tell you. A fairly dangerous and expensive one, much like cocaine. That explains it perfectly, Pottery Barn Kids is like cocaine for the suburban mother, much like Gymboree and Janie and Jack clothing.
Yeah, Pottery Barn Kids, you definitely have me hooked. Just don't expect my husband to share in my infatuation.
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