I’ll preface this by saying that I think of myself, at least, as something of a minimalist. Years of urban living have taught me that every object in my possession has to have a very clear function, or else a very high sentimental value. The same goes for my bag — I don’t like to carry more than I need — and even more so for my wallet.
For years, I had a sleek black leather wallet that held only the essentials: bills and cards. A change pouch was there but too small to be of much use. It folded into neat, flat thirds.
Fast forward to my mom wallet-piphany: my bag is not my own. Rather than holding a carefully curated selection of books, notebooks, and lip gloss, it’s a scattered mess of diapers and snacks and a change of clothes and an old glasses case my son likes to play with, and sometimes an old phone, too.
That means my wallet is my new bag. It’s trim within its confines, but it’s definitely a much different animal. It’s got a nice, roomy too-harried-to-dig-for-change pouch. The smallest of my Clairefontaine notebooks lives inside, along with a bullet pen. On good days, I’m sometimes able to smash a tube of chapstick in, too. A key ring on the outside holds the fob I need to get into daycare, and there’s a wrist-loop because you can never have too many hands.
I guess it’s hard to show scale, but I’d say this thing’s about as big as my Space 17.
Now if only I could dissuade the baby from unsnapping it and scattering the bills…