This morning, when I ran to the door to buzz in our babysitter, I jangled. “Coins?” asked Caroline, as I swooped to pick her up, football style, using her ribs as a hand hold and my right hip as a saddle, trying to get to the door before the second buzzer sounded and C started crying (she suffers doorbell intolerance).
I like the multi-currencies though, when they aren’t weighing me down. Later, when I sort them to store, I'll admire their quaintly ugly faces (coin design, death by committee), remember the sweat of figuring each out while fumbling to pay, and try to calculate the number of coffees they could buy if we were back, traveling again.
But standing there, holding Caroline with one hand, pulling up my sagging blue jeans with the other, I think only about the relative weight of the things we value. “Coins indeed,” I say, and give Caroline my favorite – the silver danish koruna tooled with hearts around the edges, and a donut hole in the middle.