I meet the Little Spoon x Dusen Dusen Everything Else Tote in a café, where it sits proudly on the chair across from me. Folded neatly into itself, it looks effortlessly stylish, like the kind of tote that knows it’s the moment but won’t make a big deal about it.
“I mean, I always knew I was going places,” it says, adjusting its strap. “But being a limited-edition designer tote? That’s next level.”
It stretches slightly, expanding just enough to fit a full day’s worth of kid snacks, wipes and an iPad before effortlessly snapping back into a sleek, folded pouch. The tote catches me staring, “You know I can actually fit two grocery bags worth of stuff” it says. It’s showing off. I let it.
Me: How does it feel to be launching with Little Spoon and Dusen Dusen?
Tote: Iconic. Life-changing. For the parents, obviously, not me. I already knew I was special.
Me: What makes you different from other totes?
Tote: I mean, where do I begin? First, I’m upcycled, waterproof and durable. I understand that parents don’t have time for high-maintenance accessories. Second, I collapse into a pouch, but when duty calls, I expand. Not to be dramatic, but I am the Swiss Army knife of totes.
Me: How does it feel to have dethroned Trade Joes for the most beloved tote of the summer?
Tote: Oh Joseph? He’s an old friend. Look, I understand deeply the feeling of shame when you get to the checkout line and you’re debating whether you can carry around all of this stuff like a raccoon because your tote is still hanging on your doorknob. And you know, I know Joe gets it too. But I’m out here trying to end that pain by being bright enough to scream “don’t forget me!” but compact enough to whisper quietly in your pocket. It’s a delicate balance, being both the loudest and the least annoying thing you own.
Me: Do you consider yourself an “Emotional Support Tote”?
Tote: Absolutely. I carry snacks, toys, emergency wipes, someone’s existential crisis and at least one thing that was meant to be taken out weeks ago but somehow wasn’t.
Me: That’s a lot of responsibility.
Tote: Tell me about it. I work overtime. Parents should be paying me.
Me: Speaking of responsibility, what’s the worst thing that’s exploded inside you?
Tote: You want a top three? Fine, let’s go with a pouch of applesauce, an uncapped marker and an entire bottle of hand sanitizer.
Me: And yet, you survived?
Tote: I’m still standing. Baby-approved. Toddler-resistant. Your groceries will be fine.
Me: Last question. What’s your perfect day?
Tote: A long walk, a quick stop at the farmers’ market, a child gently placing a single sticker on me (instead of aggressively covering me in 50) and then being placed neatly by the door instead of tossed on the floor. But let’s be real – I’ll probably end up in a stroller basket with three crushed granola bars and a mystery receipt from 2021.
