Oh my darling, Ikea. How I love thee.
I love your miles and miles of cheap furniture that I can assemble with only that L-shaped metal thingy. I adore your little wooden men that we had to bring home and name Woody.
I gaze longingly at your brightly colored (and clean) play area and I dream of the day when I trust you enough to leave my children while I shop in blissful solitude. I adore your huge rolls of art paper that will surely entertain my children for many an hour (and probably wrap a present or two).
Your shelves full of candles, lanterns and glassware call to me from afar (from all the way across town). All so beautiful and affordable. Your rolls of paper tablecloths make my party so pretty.
I know not how I have survived 37 Christmases past without a white metal tree from which to hang your boxes of blue and silver baubles?
I crave your sweet confections in boxes and bags covered with Swedish poetry. I know not what they say, but they call to me nonetheless. Most of all, my darling Ikea, I love the sweet, sweet scent of cinnamon that beckons me from your doorway. Tempting me and lovingly providing the most delectable bribe that compels my children to behave.