My friend Jeanie is an expert in parenting strategy, having studied child psychology in grad school and learning a thing or two from her own six(!) vibrant, boisterous kids. I’d long admired how she manages to set high expectations for her kids without constant nagging, bribes or ultimatums, and a few years ago, she spilled
Tee season, check. Bee is 100% a tee-and-leggings gal (dear apple, meet your tree), and I’m often asked where our favorite modern kids tees hail from. Here’s the thing — tees are tees are tees. Whether you’re snagging them from Goodwill and garage sales or ordering them from your favorite international boutique, it matters not.
Well, I’m certainly no expert on winter survival with small children in tow (my yellometer often creeps up in these dark, cold months), but I’m determined to learn. Below, my tried-and-true playtime hacks – a few spins on everyday activities that have been keeping our home (relatively) peaceful, fun and busy: Read a book backwards.
You want inspiration. Insight. Advice, wisdom, a lifetime’s worth of perspective, and you want it served in one tidy spot to lap up in five minutes or less, no? You could try meditation. Prayer. Call a mentor, perhaps book an elusive five minutes with your therapist. Or you can sneak into your kid’s bedroom and
I’m at the dentist. The hygienist Deb and I are making small talk, which means she’s talking and I’m nodding, mouth wide open, trying my best to nose breathe. Book’s out, right? she asks. Ehh hehh, I answer. She talks of her new granddaughter, reminds me to floss. Asks me about Scout, how he’s attaching,
con·trac·tion kənˈtrakSH(ə)n noun 1. the process of becoming smaller. a shortening of the muscles occurring at intervals before and during childbirth. Scout, as we know him, had his first contraction in a corner table at Wendy’s. Two Frosties, two singles (one, no onions). Large fry. Extra ketchup. Could you ever adopt? a boyfriend asks
Consider it a preemptive strike. Each December, roughly mid-month, I attempt to rid our home of its thin layer of excess. Ken loves this about me, my Grinch-like tendencies to Subtract during The Great Season of Addition, but I don’t know. Consider it a gift in white space. (Like snow.) We will forever be on
Mom? Can God turn himself into a wall? The question arrives from a backseat littered with cashew crumbs and flashcards atop CDs and board books. We’re on our way to a family reunion in southern Indiana, and I know we’re getting close because the hills make our bellies jump. What do you mean? I ask