Get a handle on a growing collection of kids’ artwork
This week you’re shooting photos of your little preschooler or kindergartner on the front steps, backpack slung over her shoulder on the first day of school.
This week you’re shooting photos of your little preschooler or kindergartner on the front steps, backpack slung over her shoulder on the first day of school.
So far my favorite Olympic moment isnt Ryan Lochtes 400-meter individual medley or Dana Vollmers world-record butterfly or Missy Franklins impressive backstroke.
So my children are away with my parents for a couple of weeks, and I almost hesitate to tell people because they expect me to twirl around in circles with outstretched arms, smiling toward the heavens like Maria von Trapp in the Austrian Alps.
We’re a little swim-crazy at our house these days.
I’m not sure when it started, but local school districts and businesses are conspiring to kill summer vacation.
Growing up, I rarely cooked.
I sent my daughter a photo message recently – a version of the “Keep Calm and Carry On” poster that said, “Keep Calm and Sing Me Soft Kitty,” a nod to one of our favorite TV shows.
Not long ago, my teenage daughter had a friend sleeping over.
I believe in making the bed.
One of my daughter’s new favorite phrases to type, say or shout is “YOLO.”
Maybe it’s because my writing life began when I wrote copy for my high school yearbook — actually, we called them “annuals” in North Carolina — but I think the adult world would be a much kinder, friendlier place if we still signed one another’s yearbooks.
We were driving down the road when the old Eurythmics song “Sweet Dreams” came on the radio.
A few rose bushes in front of our house have grown tall and gangly, thorny and unkempt.
You’ve heard the cliches:
When tornadoes threaten, as they did last weekend, I carry the same few things to our basement storm shelter:
In a world where children can register for gifts at Toys R Us and where lavish, over-the-top birthday parties have inspired reality television shows, it’s nice to hear about kids like Nora Lo Nigro.
Hate all you want on 8-year-old Palmer Kiefer and his parents.
Those overzealous parents in Colorado Springs probably thought they meant well last year when they busted through a pink-ribbon rope at their town’s annual Easter egg hunt.
Every so often, when my husband gets a hankering to terrorize our 11-year-old son, he’ll ask Jack whether he has a girlfriend.
Parenthood is a secretive affair.