I simply can’t say enough about HandCrafting Justice, a partnership in which women from developing countries have an opportunity to better their lives by making and selling handmade items under decent working conditions for fair wages. The organization absolutely stole my heart with their mission of economic justice for women – to say nothing of the fantastic items they offer on the website.
Have I mentioned that my kitchen and its various electrical appliances intimidate me? That sometimes even the the relatively benign coffee pot has turned on me in my hour of need? One morning not long ago, it tried to brew up something completely undrinkable, thereby ruining my entire day. Lack of decent coffee has that effect on me.
With a baby born smack-dab in the middle of a hot Mississippi summer, there was nary a pair of booties to be found in my house. But when Idiscovered I was having a January baby this time around, up in the Northeast no less,you better believe the first thing I did was search for some fantastic footwear.
If my mother wants to buy my girls clothes from Neiman Marcus, who am I to argue? But you won’t find me in there. Yeah, I’m practical. Maybe too practical. I want the cute designs you see on designer onesies, but it’s so hard for me to shell out the bucks when I know that they’ll be coated in bodily fluids in no time.
I think that most every girl dreams of being a ballerina at some point. I did, even as I was rolling in mud puddles or pummeling a soccer ball. I confess in fact that I still harbor fantasies of a steamy pas de deux with Baryshnikov.
Oh, Misha. If only.
If for some insane reason, the man you woke up next to this morning did not shower you with myriad expressions of his undying love, affection and willing monogamy, do not panic. Do not cry. Simply take matters into your own hands.
I think I’ve officially exhaustedthe pawning off of my daughter’s artwork to her grandmothers as gifts. Her cute drawing on plain white paper is a hard sell as a birthday gift, when you gave the same thing a few months back at Christmas.
In an ideal world, every child would rush to the craft drawer immediately following his birthday and handwrite a heartfelt thank you note to acknowledge each gift. After which, he’d clean up his workspace.
When I was a kid, like so many others, I was convinced that my toys came alive at night and had tea parties. I only wished that I could catch them, just once, and join in the fun.
More and more, I am asked by friends to point them towards something reeeeeally special for their cousin’s/sister’s/husband’s supervisor’s wife’s baby shower. Not just the same old special that I recommended to someone else, but reeeeeeeally special. I’m pleased to say I now have a new option to add to the list.
With the abundance of battery operated musical instruments out there screeching out some bizarre electronic form of "Twinkle Twinkle," I find it totally refreshing when I stumble upon some really great instruments that kids actually have to play themselves.
When I had my first child, the hospital sent me home with this pastel green diaper bag with little Peter Rabbits all over it. It was cute. Really. It was. However, getting the husband to carry it without complaining–well you can only imagine.
Let’s get one thing straight right away: I don’t cook. I avoid it whenever possible. I’m not good at it, I don’t enjoy it, and I’m damn lucky that my husband is happy to take over in this department. When I’m on duty, it’s Frosted Mini Wheats all around!
It wasn’t so bad growing up with an uber-organic mother. Until suddenly a candy-giving holiday crops up and you have to settle for some bizarre carob ball and a coloring book.
These daysI’m finding myselftorn between grabbing my fabulous yet unwieldy diaper bag, and stuffingone of thosediaper clutches into my already cluttered purse. But thanks to mom and designer Adrienne Jones, I’ve now got a third option.
Ask any guy what he wants for Valentine’s Day and I guarantee you it tilts more towards the naughty then the romantic. My feeing? Save the gushy cards and get a little wild for your man.
I rarely brag about my toddler, however, I will say that at 2.5 years old, she’s drawing better than I am. The only problem I have is figuring out what to do with the piles of colorless pencil drawings she creates daily, except tape them to the fridge and pop the rest in an old shoe box.
I go by that old shopping adage that if you’re unsure about something, walk away; if you’re still thinking about it the next week, it was meant to be. (I also sometimes go by the adage, what the
There is hardly an American child alive who doesn’t go through a superhero fantasy phase. When my daughter decides she wants to be Wonder Woman, or Super Girl, or The Amazing Flying Ballerina-Lawyer, I will happily indulge her. But not with those scary dioxin-emitting plastic costumes from the store.