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.
One of the greatest shifts in my marriage, possibly in my adulthood as a whole, has also been one of the smallest shifts. It has slipped by unnoticed in the mundane tasks of laundry cycles and dish duty, a simple phrase that has ever so slightly changed the energy in our home: I’m doing this
A few nights ago, I hopped a red-eye home from LAX with a carryon of sweaters and books, toothpaste. I’d gone camping with this crew, although camping is perhaps a reach to write. One morning, I woke to find glitter in my boot. — Whenever I teach journaling classes, or writing classes of any sort,
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