Should you be as predictable as I am in your home storage / decor choices, then chances are you have a couple bolga baskets laying around. Mine tend to take a beating. They hold odd-shaped toys, books + magazines, current needlepointing projects (tangles! it's exciting), and they tend to get a little misshapen after a while. They'll bulge or tilt, sometimes they sag, it's rather depressing. Sometimes a basket shows up from the manufacturer freshly folded in on itself + misshapen from the get go. When this happens, you'll need to reshape your bolga basket, and luckily, it turns out it's actually incredibly simple. 

Cheyenne Mojica stopped by with her magical camera the other day, so I roped her into shooting a little How-To with me real fast. This is about as professional as it gets over here! Not a single iPhone involved!

How To Reshape a Bolga Basket
You'll want to save this one for later.



"To my Shirley Jean from your Natalie Jean--
I am dedicating this book to you, Granny Goose,
but only if you hold your mouth right."

My mother sent me this photo over the weekend. It was kind of a moment for me. 

My grandpa still shoulders most of the responsibility of caring for my grandmother through her advanced stage of Alzheimer's. It's a lot of work, and it takes a lot out of him, so from time to time his kids will step in and host my grandma for a few days. Helping her with her medication, taking her shopping, and soothing her occasional moments of panic, that's the job. This weekend was my mom's weekend. I know it can be especially tiring sometimes, but my grandmother has always been a hilarious piece of work, so I imagine these weekends, while hard, are probably still a total kick in the pants. That Shirley is all class. She knows how to work a room. She also knows how to terrorize a poor shoe salesman. The woman shops. By now, her Alzheimer's is to the point where she is no longer able to read a newspaper ad, let alone a book, so even though I'm not sure she understood what exactly she was seeing when my mother gave her a copy of my book, still. The fact that she was able to see it, to hold it in her hands, means more to me than I could ever say. It's almost like a bit of beautiful closure on this really lovely journey the two of us have taken together.

When Abrams contacted me to make this book with them, my first thought was, Why???? Are you crazy??? My second thought was, You want it to be about what!? Because while I am highly comfortable writing about all sorts of deep + embarrassing feelings or all of the sillier things I like, I am far, far less comfortable positioning myself as some kind of advice-giver on aaaaanything. Abrams requested a traditional coffee table blog-to-book kind of deal; a lot of photos, all lifestyle advice--such is the market (for a while they wanted recipes? disaster!)--and that really scared me. But hell if I was going to turn this down out of fear! (I did almost turn it down out of fear, like, five times.)

"Shirley's Drapes" is what did it for me. It opened the floodgates. I have a really strong visual memory of the moment it started to come together. I was sitting in my baby sister's bedroom looking out the window over my parent's driveway, trying to describe how to apply false lashes and feeling a little sick to my stomach, when I overheard my mother on the phone. My grandpa had called her because suddenly my grandmother could no longer remember who he was, and he wasn't sure what to do. My mom told me the story of how, just that afternoon, he'd walked with my grandmother to their wall in the laundry full of old photographs and mementos, hoping she'd be able to remember something. And it was there hearing the story, while sitting at the top of the stairs with my mom, the phone lifeless in her hand and her face full of emotion, that I realized what I had the opportunity to do. Shirley's legacy. I had the chance to preserve it--to preserve her--and to honor some of the things that she taught me to love + take pride in. I am eternally grateful to Abrams for the chance I've had to write this for her. There may have been a bit of song + dance to make sure as many essays as possible could make it in the final manuscript--Abrams wanted a ham sandwich, light on the infertility; I was prepared to write a Reuben--but you know what? Ham sandwiches are really, really good. Are you kidding me? I love ham sandwiches, especially when toasted with some melted cheese and mustard . . . and anyway, as far as ham sandwiches go, I happen to think my ham sandwich is probably the best one you can get. Definitely Zagat rated at least, let's be honest. ;)

My grandma is such an example of inner strength, love, sacrifice, determination, and substance. She is the fiercest and most nuanced woman I know. A lot of that came through in what could be considered terribly superficial ways. My grandmother led the life of a homemaker. She thought about drapes. We spent a lot of time together antiquing. She had very strong opinions on the way to make a bed (hospital corners), where to buy your clothing (only the finest department stores or she'd make it herself), and what makes up a proper pancake (Krusteaz, with cottage cheese). She was also a force for good, for love and support, and for immeasurable courage. I am so grateful for her legacy.

I am so proud to be her granddaughter.

so this came up in the comments below (you should read it!) and it made me confused, and then i think i realized my error. so i will make that comment right here too. ready? only more wordy this time.

so, there may be trouble in my lunch meat analogy, in that we are all coming to this lunch meat analogy from differing views on lunch meat.

for instance! keep in mind, not everybody likes a reuben. they're really pretty heavy and greasy, and not to mention hard on the heart burn. also, sauerkraut. tell me, do you really love sauerkraut? i mean i do, but i also like beets. truthfully, i don't even think i could in good conscience say that i prefer a reuben to a ham sandwich, honestly. while we're here, i might say i like a tuna melt best? if i had to choose one sandwich for the rest of my life. 

so what i should have said, clearly, and what i will say in the future any time i again have the opportunity to compare something i have written to some kind of food, is this: that one is like the best, freshest, most expensive toro sashimi from japan, hiro-dreams-of-sushi style, and the other is like a really amazing steak, perfectly cooked, like just nice and pink inside but not cold, cold pink in a steak freaks me out, also involving some kind of specialty truffle oil. 

OR, i could just default to the classic apples / oranges metaphor, because that was all i was really going for, was that it's two different things that should be enjoyed differently and analyzed appropriately, and that i was, and am, pleased as punch, honored out of my gourd, really, to have gotten the chance to write a ham sandwich / freaking expensive raw tuna / orange, and that i would be equally as excited someday in the future to write a really well-steamed plate of broccoli.

also that i am damn proud of my ham sandwich! damn mother effing proud mother effers! 
and i hope i didn't give anybody the impression that i wasn't. 

thank you, as you were. :)

brandon wishes to point out that it's been a house rule for almost a decade now that i'm not allowed to make overly complicated metaphors, and i should really listen to him from now on. point brandon.



brandon took this of us at the american museum of natural history last weekend. it's a new favorite. i can't put my finger on it, but it does it for me.

So hey, wow, this week, eh?

Well, so St Patrick's day. When is St Patrick's day NOT exhilarating? It was hugely exciting day for us, which my two ginger leprechauns and I celebrated by watching Once Upon A Time + eating lots of soda bread with raisins in it. (I think I finally get why people watch this show. IT'S BECAUSE OF CAPTAIN HOOK ISN'T IT.)

We also did all the green things that you do, you know, green things and stuff: mirror selfies, super awesome outfits . . . we picked up the dry cleaning from the green cleaners place, it was a fun time.

Aaaaand wink practice. Yes, at "Old McDonald's." Hey, it was a holiday!

I came home to this little set up one afternoon this week when Brandon was working from home. How cute is THAT.

Oh yes, and then there was all this . . .

sweet readers sending me hashtag hugs, my book on a SHELF, and cute, my husband paid full price for me! as someone pointed out when i instagrammed it--i suppose that does make me a ten cow wife! haha!

So, wow, this week. On the one hand, this week was completely normal. Huck went to school, Brandon went to work. I wrote in cafés + tried to answer emails + met with future collaborators + did the laundry + then accidentally broke the screen on my laptop and decided to just live with it, you know, as you do, but then on the other hand! ON THE OTHER HAND.

And I just wanted to gush and say THANK YOU! Thank you for writing such wonderfully kind reviews on your blogs + instagrams. Thank you for letting me know what resonated with you! (Like "Shirley's' Drapes." Oh gosh, I've been so excited for you all to read that one that I almost couldn't stand it, and it makes my heart so full to finally share it + get such sweet feedback.) And! The support on social media!! Thank you for hashtagging all your photos of the book so I could air-hug all of you from all the way over here. Sooo many air hugs! This has been a hugely wonderful experience, I can't even find the words. So thank you. I hadn't thought to expect any of this. Thank you and thank you and thank you. And to those of you who bought this ham sandwich and maybe wanted a Reuben, well. Next time I would love to write you a Reuben. But this one, it's ham. Yes I am comparing my book to a sandwich. You know.

So this afternoon. This afternoon I came down with a raging case of the What's Nexts. You know those? Otherwise known as the Nowwwwww Whaaaaaats. The last time I had a case this strong was the day I walked out of the Testing Center at BYU after finishing my very last final. That feeling of WELL, CRAP. NOW WHAT. You know the one?

I was asked this question in an interview the other day, this "What's next?" question. I hadn't yet caught the What's Next bug at the time and so the question sort of threw me. Like, What's next? Well, I have to pick up my kid from school in a couple hours . . . ??? But no, that's not what they meant, so I said, "book tour!" because, well, that is what is next. A book tour! How fun, right? I still shake my head at this, like, whaaaaaaaat. It's a two-parter. First comes Europe. I'll be in Paris April 4-8th, Amsterdam the 8-10th, Berlin the 10-12th where I'll be speaking at The Hive, and then London the 12-14th. Specific times + locations of signings + readings + possible meet ups are still being ironed out, so look for that once we have all our duckies in a row (and if you have recommendations, do you KNOW how much I want them? THIS much. Please! Send them over). There'll be a follow-up stateside tour landing something-June-y-ish that is still very early in the planning stages, so, you know. Posted / I'll keep ya. 

But yes, the What's Nexts. They're here, and pass the lozenges + the tissues, cause I got 'em pretty bad. Completing this book has felt like this great closure for this giant chapter in my life. The 2005-2015 years, they done feel archived. And it's like an entire section of my brain has just been vacated. I'm finding myself giddy with the options. What's next!? It's a hallway of options! Which doors should I open?! It's kind of exciting. I'm ready to dig in and see what I find. You know. Posted / I'll keep ya. 




Soooo I wrote a book, and now you can buy it. You can buy it! It's so weird! It's been in the top ten on Amazon in style + fashion for over a week now! SO weird. If you preordered it, it should be arriving on your doorstep some time tomorrow. You can buy it, and you can read it, and I now live in a bizarro reality universe where dummies like me can be called published authors and give Skype interviews to publications in South Africa and plan book tours to Europe and give presentations at conferences. There are 36 copies of a book with my photo on the cover staring at me from my living room floor as we speak, 36 copies of me, me, me, me times thirty-six, and when I walk past them I have to stifle a laugh and the urge to roll my eyes, because, COME ON. Who's idea was this, who came up with this one? How one earth did I manage dupe somebody into thinking this was a good idea? It's too weird. Is this real life? I think it is definitely too weird.

So I went into the Barnes & Noble in Park Slope yesterday. I also bought a green bagel yesterday, and saw Fifty Shades of Grey yesterday, and it was a really good bagel, and mostly a really stupid movie, and I enjoyed every stupid moment of it. The movie ended and I left the theatre and I checked my phone and I saw that a reader had just bought my book, like, in the person bought my book, in a store. And then my heart was pounding. And for the first time in this whole book-making experience I thought to myself, THIS MIGHT ACTUALLY WORK. This might be a thing, a real, real thing. And it might be okay to feel proud of myself? It might be okay to feel excited about this.

In the middle of the movie a part of the ceiling broke open, and then all this water started falling like a waterfall, everywhere. There were just three others with me in this theatre seeing this embarrassing movie, and it managed to open right above this really nice old lady who was probably in her 80s, and I thought to myself, what are the odds!? Of all the seats in this big empty theatre, and it falls on her. And what is she doing here anyway?? I tried to picture her reading the books on the subway, it was kind of a fantastic thought.

My phone in my hand, I made my way out the theatre doors and into the bookstore doors ten windy blocks later feeling distinctly outside of myself. All these parts of me scattered everywhere; hair in my eyes, hair in my mouth, fingers frozen solid, a little out of breath. I nervously bit my thumb as I wandered slowly from aisle to aisle, limbs gently thawing, face kind of buzzing. I eyed spines carefully as I passed, trying to guess where it was I'd finally find myself. We had a lot of discussion over how to categorize this thing; Is it parenting? Is it essays? Nonfiction? Style? Interiors? Marriage and Relationships? Self-help?? Is there a "Really Dumb" category? There should be, definitely I'd be in that one. I was not in self-help. Good. Not in marriage, kind of relieved. Not in essays either, that's too bad (maybe next time?). I passed the information desk and an employee there looked available, so I decided to cheat and ask him where I was. "Can you help me find a book?" "Sure, who's the author?" "Um, me?"

H-O-L, B-R, O-O-K. Yep, that's it. Yeah, it's a long title.  

He led me to the back of the store. A-ha! Parenting! Parenting??

And then there I was, just sitting there looking at myself, face out, like you could just buy me or something. Two copies left. It was weird. It was really weird. I have 36 of them staring at me from my living room floor, why should this be weird? "Would you sign them?" the guy asked, and I said back, "I'm allowed to do that??" My clueless was totally showing. He nodded to me kindly as he handed me his pen, and then off he went to get a few of those special "Signed By The Author" stickers that I've sometimes seen on books before, and then I was like, holy shit. If I could go back in time to Moscow and tap on my office door and peek around the corner and say, "Hey, get this," what would I have said back to myself? The whole thing is rather asinine.   

I knelt down on the floor. It was totally surreal. I looked around at the other shop patrons and felt so incredibly strange. My fingers were still pretty frozen and I kind of desperately wanted to disappear, which was not a feeling I was expecting to feel in that moment. A second employee rounded the corner while I sat there with my face scrunched up, pen hovering midair, contemplating what the heck to write. "I'm not vandalizing I promise," I said once she was standing right next to me. "It's mine. I mean, I wrote it." And then I thought about how funny it would be if I drew a mustache on one of the pictures of me.

Side note: It is probably going to be difficult for me to ever top that mix of simultaneous embarrassment + pride + complete stupidity that I was feeling in that moment.

She congratulated me on my accomplishment. I frowned at my poor penmanship. We talked for a minute. The other guy came back with the stickers. And then I ducked on outta there feeling sort of like I was naked.

When I got home, I cried.

Let's be real here. I am not anything special. I'm not the first blogger to publish a book, and I certainly won't be the last. My book is probably not going to change your life. It's not horribly profound or all that impressive; I'm unimpressive, in fact. I'm not the prettiest. My sense of style + home decor aren't terribly unique, my grasp on marriage and parenting are decent at best. I'm not an expert on anything, except for maybe what kinds of foods you should avoid while drinking a Diet Coke, like bananas, you shouldn't ever eat a banana with a side of Diet Coke unless you want your mouth to mimic a science fair volcano, but do you see what I mean here? Why on earth should anybody care what I think about anything? I'm fickle. I tend to change my mind about things almost constantly. I don't have an impressive education. Also, I'm a flake. I'm a total flake, and I have a hard time answering emails on time. I get hung up on very unimportant, terribly shallow things. I haven't called my mother in weeks. The laundry sits wet in the washing machine long enough sometimes that it starts to smell bad and I have to run it a second time before it hits the dryer. I'm sure I don't deserve these opportunities, and if I happen to read any negative reviews I will agree with every word of them and it will definitely make me cry. The nastier things people have written about me online are most likely true, let's be honest. Who the hell do I think I am, anyway?

Right? Total Luther Heggs moment here. Pages flying in the wind.

But this, I think, is what it comes down to:

Our stories are worth telling. Even the dumb, imperfect ones.

Our weaknesses, our humiliations, our struggles and insecurities. Our flaws. These are the beautiful bits. These are the parts we should be celebrating in each other. These are the parts I am proudest to be sharing.

This afternoon I had the weird honor of reading my very first book review online. Kerri Jarema wrote it for Lydia Mag, you can find it here. I read it with my heart in my throat, my breath in the air, and when I got to the end of it I felt a little lighter. She gets it, I thought. There are people that get it. Not everyone is going to get it, it's true, but I can't forget to remember that there are people who will get it.

It's small, but it's there. I'm starting to feel a little bit proud of this thing. I'm starting to feel a little bit excited. 

And to you that "get it," however few or however many you are, the book is for you. I wrote it for you. I wrote this for you because I've been so blessed by you + your strength + your companionship. Well, I wrote it because a publishing company asked me to and offered to pay me money, but mostly I wrote it for you. Because I like you. I like this little tribe of ours. I'm proud of us. I like to picture my book finding its way into your hands and into your homes. I do hope you enjoy it. I hope it cracks a little smile, and maybe half a chuckle. Half a chuckle and I've won the world.

It may not be much. I may not be much. But together we're a lot. I wrote it for us. 



Happy weekend my friendlies! 

Let's cut right to the chase: here are some links to a few things I've enjoyed this week! 

It's Friday the 13th! For the second month in a row! What does that mean? How often does that happen? Are we are all screwed!? All you need to know right here, written the last time this happened, in 2009. *Spoiler alert: We'll probably be fine.*

My book comes out on TUESDAY and you should totally buy it. ;)

How not to embarrass people who use your restroom, on Apartment Therapy. The comments on this one, people. The comments.

THIS TWEET. #Luuuuuuuke

What would Joan, Nora, and Fran be wearing right now if they were in their 20s? Right up my alley. Oh my gosh. Right up yours, too. (Not, like, UP yours.)

Girls who steal. As a somewhat recent experiencer of "petty theft," as the author calls it, I found this really powerful, and so very important. I think this is a topic is of ultimate importance, really. A female acquaintance once said to me, "I know what it feels like to be mean just because I enjoyed the power." As a woman, my greatest hope for the world is that we someday get to the point where women no longer do this to each other. The short-term loss of being kind is real, I'll be honest; in my experience it is often very painful to be the one trying to be kind + open. But the long-term loss of not being kind, I think, is far, far worse. And now I am rambling, next link! 

An interesting take on the modern fashion world.

Sign me up for this!

I'm SO late to this party, but, Generation Like (thanks, Nicole!)

From rad reader Chantel in the comments on yesterdays post, "Irrational parenting." (thanks, Chantel!)

Run Liz Run, in The New Yorker. I don't know why I enjoyed this so much, but I did.

Ryan Adams + Natalie Prass cover She's Like The Wind

No makeup for a year? Can I just say--these days I'm down to just brow gel, mascara, and tinted moisturizer in the morning, and it is weird, and it is wonderful, and ultimately bafflingly trendy, and I don't get it, but I love it, but I don't get it, but I love it. (We're getting our links with a side of my dumb opinions this week, whee!)

Speaking of--power brows.

Also on Man Repeller--these rules of Netflix binge watching made me laugh.

The real Manhattan subway map--there is nothing truer. via @joannagoddard

I would like to wear this entire outfit please.

In need of any bolga baskets? I'm asked all the time where to get one, and the answer is, right here! Or also, here!



Every now and then our man Henry Holbrook will say THE weridest things. He's like a fount of non sequiturs and has a really wild sense of imagination these days. So here are two tiny snippets of awesome that I just had to share-slash-document for time and all eternity, all thanks to Huck's preschool teacher, who emails us at the end of each day with some of the more random conversations from that day's class. 

(backstory: the children were discussing cork board, a new material to use in their classroom construction projects)

What do you notice when you look at it really closely?

It has tiny holes.

It's hard and floppy.

It bends!

Maybe some spiders live in there!! 

(backstory: it was a classmate's birthday, so the class was going around making birthday wishes for him)

I hope four is your best year yet!

I hope you get a new toy!

I hope you get a new book.

I hope you travel to the jungle! 



I wear a lot of stripes. I'm a sad, sorry cliché of myself, it's true, it's true. :) White tee shirts, stripes, things with triangles on them, more stripes. Bouquets of freshly sharpened pencils. I'm okay with it. I've made my peace with the gods of boring; they've assured me that I'm totally their favorite. In any case, I wear a lot of stripes, and I feel every now and then an urge to pass along my striped wisdom. (Two syllables, stri-ped. Makes you sound both obvious and pretensious, isn't that a delicious combination?) And so! Allow me to benefit ye masses, as it were! Partake all in my addictions! 

It is nice being boring. I think you should try it.

Here comes a post on my favorite stripes + where to find them. After the jump.



Well hello! A few notes from the weekend in case you care, the first of which is, my kid.


Huck got to play supermodel on Saturday for an upcoming issue of Babiekins Magazine, and I will tell you this much: kid can really rock a hair + makeup chair. I can't get over these photos , I just can NOT.

He knows it. You can tell he knows it. 

Technically going down Friday but weekend-ish anyway, is this: I got to meet a lot of lovely creatives last week, quite unexpectedly + randomly, including Scosha right up there, the owner + designer behind Scosha jewelry. And then I went + had an apple cinnamon homemade pop tart at Toby's. This was exciting.

rings: wwake, scosha, and erica weiner
And then I was in the neighborhood of Mociun, so I went in and my head exploded from pretty.

It's pretty, right? Should we move in?

And then I went + sold some clothes to Buffalo Exchange. And now I have detailed for you all of my retail conquests. It was a pretty productive Friday all around.

On Sunday, Huck + I took some plant inventory. Very serious work. We re-potted a few of the growth spurt-y ones + switched around the order of some of the plants along the windowsill. 

Huck + his euro mullet were quite the handy helpers, it was a total party. Also helpful, Kaufmann Mercantile, one of my very favorite independent shops based here in Brooklyn who I've recently started working with on various bits + things, so they sent over some gardening pieces to aid + abet in our green thumb quest--a planter, mister, a pair of pruners + a garden trug (new vocab for me, trug!) Pretty much the most beautiful items ever, I love what a great eye for edit they got going on over at the Kaufmann Merc. Hooray for us, Brooklyn!

And then we watched a lot of Tinker Bell and the Legend of the Neverbeast while eating peanut butter + nutella sandwiches. I mean, a lot of Tinker Bell, and a lot of Neverbeasts. #sendhelp

Otherwise, Brandon watched some soccer, and Barry says hi.

Hi back, Barry. 

Happy Monday, chickens!



You know that phrase, "all boy?" I've never much liked that phrase, because what does that even mean? But if there were ever any boy who'd be called all boy, it is Huck. Huck is all boy. Whatever that means. Fart jokes, constant moving around, every story he writes at his preschool literature group ends with somebody pooping, he's got the manic energy of your classically mischievous, get-into-trouble, cannot-sit-still little boy. 

Huck also has a thing for lipstick. Any time I leave the house in lipstick, Huck insists on a wearing some himself. Because lipstick is beautiful, and who wouldn't want to look beautiful?

I love Huck at this stage, because at this stage there are no limits to what a kid is allowed to like. Tinker Bell movies? Awesome. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? Rad. Zombies? Obviously. Rapunzel? Yeah, Rapunzel has some really cool hair. At this age, Huck is allowed to like whatever he wants to like and society is pretty willing to give him a pass, and I hope so much to be able to preserve that little bubble of freedom for him for as long as humanly possible. It is such a fun time. Huck gets the concept of gender, instinctively I think all kids know exactly who + how they are, even if names or definitions are limited. But right now that's the extent of it. Nothing is "girly," nobody has cooties, there are no reputations to protect, everything is curiosity-driven, and enjoyment comes purely from a true gut level.

A lot of this story is not mine to tell. Huck is at the age now where his own private life is rich + full + his to control. But from a parenting standpoint, a little bit of it definitely bears recording. This has been such a fun, exploratory time, for all of us. We're trying to let any gendered ideas be as wiggly as can be, and when Huck asks body-oriented questions, as kids do at his age, we try to be as literal and straight-forward as possible. We've been exploring the idea that the difference between boys + girls comes down to just hormones. When you think about it, all our parts are basically the same, except our hormones have made some parts bigger and some parts smaller, some function differently, and truly, those hormone levels can be found all over the spectrum, can't they? Closer to one end or closer to the other, somewhere in the middle, it's all gravy. We feel like it's the first tricky parenting concept we've come up against, and we both feel really good about how it's working out so far. (The other day Huck asked, "Who made me, mom?" and I answered proudly, "Me!" But that's as far as that one's gotten.)

Brandon gets a lot of credit for this one, Brandon is probably the most forward-thinking old-fashioned guy I've ever known. You want nail polish? Rock it, Huck. You like those pink skinny jeans over there in the girl's section? Dude, so do I, let's get them. Lipstick? Sure, you want red or pink? From day one Brandon has encouraged Huck to be proud of what he likes, it's been such a pleasure to watch. Brandon is a fantastic dad. 

The other day, Huck got his hair cut. His hair had reached that nutso shaggy stage where he was starting to look like an orphan from an 80s sitcom. Hair cuts are a collaborative effort at our house, the kid knows what the kid wants. My job is only to execute the final design. He very firmly requested a swoosh in the front--the swoosh is all-important--and then it needed to be long in the back, like Rapunzel's. I told him, "Huck, that is called a mullet. I don't think you want a mullet," to which Huck said, "but it's COOOOOOL." And so, we mullet-ed. 

I tried to err on the side of the Euro mullet. You know, more soccer, less Billy Ray. ;) I gotta say, I'm feeling it. Only a kid like Huck could pull this off, right? He is so proud of his super cool hair. I am so proud to be his mom. Some days I'm so proud I could burst. He's just such a rad human being to hang out with + occasionally shout "no running in the house!" at. Four is shaping up to be pretty all-right. It's a really good time to be Huck's mom :).



By this point I've mostly perfected the out-and-about-with-a-four-year-old tool kit. At all times, I am exceptionally prepared. By now I'm like a professional junk-toter, it's my super power. My left shoulder has gotten kinds of stronger than my right. Ship me to Paris, I'm doomed to be a hunchback! I try to only ever carry the barest of essentials, because things can get out of hand real fast and suddenly you're carrying your entire house around with you, and that helps nobody. So, should you find yourself on the run in the city with a toddler, or just by yourself and you want to feel prepared, here are the things I never leave home without: