At one of my final appointments before having Hallie, my doctor asked if I worked. I told her that I work from home designing blogs and writing one myself. She then asked if I had adequate childcare lined up. “Well…me,” I replied. She snickered and told me to line up extra care stat. She also told me how to up my dessert game with a newborn. Her secret: puff pastry. Read more
I didn’t go to school to study it. I’m guessing you didn’t either. (On the off chance that you did and can somehow still tolerate this space, I apologize for all the cringe-worthy sentence structures.) Yet somehow we’re all editors. I guess we’ve always been editors to a degree—choosing what we share and what we don’t. But now it’s forever stained into the internet—into your blog, your Instagram feed, and Facebook wall. It’s neatly housed in one space—to be read, to be enjoyed, to be critiqued as a body of work reflecting your life. Read more
It’s rhythmic. It’s predictable. Seven days a week, it’s the same song streaming in the background. As much as I want to hate it, I love it. Let’s be honest, I crave it. She craves it too. Hallie’s little 1-year-old body, always in search of a new adventure, craves the rhythm of everything else. The rhythm of breakfast, lunch, and dinnertime. Of naptime, though we can’t seem to hold a decent beat here. Of school time and bath time. The rhythm informs. It lets us know where we are and what’s coming next. The rhythm is a schedule begging to be filled in. Read more
Who first believed in you? Family members don’t count. For me, it was Mr. Serie. He was my 8th grade art teacher. Art was a 6-week elective then. Or was it 12-weeks? I can’t remember. But despite all my goofing off in the class, he pulled me aside and told me I was good at art. He didn’t have to do that. And I probably wasn’t all that good. But I went on to paint lots of pictures, take lots of art classes, and major in graphic design. All because Mr. Serie told me I was good at something. Words are powerful. Read more
“Be somebody who makes everybody feel like a somebody.” —Kid President
I need to tattoo this to the inside of my hand. Most days I’m just making sure I feel like a somebody. We have two mirrors in our tiny apartment—one that’s covered in so much dust I don’t have to worry about the reflection as I pass. The other, in the bathroom, I quickly skirt by until the end of the day. That’s when I usually catch a glimpse of the disheveled person walking by. Read more
If you’ve never tried baked blueberry cake donuts, today is your lucky day. Believe it or not, I was never a huge donut lover growing up. But give me baked blueberry cake donuts? Don’t ask for a bite. When I was a kid, the baked blueberry cake donuts shelf was the only one I looked to during my Dunkin’ D visits growing up. If it was empty, another flavor wouldn’t do. I didn’t even mind the awful film it left in my mouth. Read more
I’ve been alluding to it for awhile now. Talking about it like it’s not consuming every square inch of our brain (the little we have left after becoming parents). We’re building a house. I’ve just started calling it our home. A house is an object made from lots of materials. A home is a place where life is lived. We’re building a home. To get this experience, we feel extremely lucky, but it comes with exhaustion too. It’s rare that a day passes without me saying, “I’m never making another decision again.” I’m being overly dramatic, but we’ve made a lot of decisions in the last couple weeks. And no decision is made without a mood board over here. I wish you could see my desktop (actually I’m glad you can’t). I have 10,000 thumbnails of screenshots from revised boards. It’s silly and excessive, but we’re dreaming up a home that we plan to spend a lifetime in. So come on in, but don’t tell me what you think. If I have to change anything…..I can’t make another decision.
