July 28, 2014
by Tricia

Date morning

Sometimes on a Sunday morning when the weather is nice, we’ll head out to an open air market in the city. We’ll stop for coffee and pastries at our favorite of the many coffee shops that line the streets and then walk around in our sugar haze, gazing at the fruits and vegetables, jewelry and small wooden toys. Rarely do we come home with anything. It’s more about the outing.

Often, M and I will look longingly at the cafés, the people sipping coffee with a newspaper, passing their early Sunday hours slowly and quietly, and we’ll remember when such a thing fit nicely into our lives too. A lifetime ago. These days, Sunday mornings more often mean a kitchen covered in flour, dire warnings to small people to keep their small fingers away from the waffle iron, and about a half dozen reads of The Little Blue Truck all before the market even opens. And when we do make it out to the  market, we don’t even think about the newspaper. Instead we swallow gulps of coffee while rescuing the syrup bottle from an untimely death on the floor and laughing with our chocolate covered companions.  These days, Sunday mornings are also lovely but sometimes I miss newsprint on my fingers.

That’s sort of the funny thing about parenthood. You enter into it and immediately take on the belief that you must leave your things at the door. Your love of drinking an entire cup of coffee while it’s still hot, reading the newspaper, hearing yourself think. Never again, until the kids have been dropped off in their college dorms, will we enjoy a slow, easy Sunday morning. We believe that to be true and, thus, make no effort to change it. That’s just the way it is in this life of a parent.

But it’s not true.


a date night flight

Earlier this year, we made a resolution to have more date nights. As in, once per month. We asked our Miss N to be our babysitter and she not only agreed but also has rather consistently checked in each month and helped make sure that we will make it happen. Two people can’t always make sure a date night happens but three? It definitely increases the odds.

So we scheduled and planned. We didn’t force ourselves to get fancy and go someplace big. More often than not we’d end up at our favorite wine bar, the one that doubles as a hipster coffee joint, which was just our speed. But by 9pm, we’d be yawning and trying to figure out how to stay out a little bit longer, feeling like we had to in order to make the whole thing worth it. Date night is incredibly important and something that we need as a couple, now with small children, more than ever. But it wasn’t working for us.

Knowing us as she does, Miss N pointed out that she is just as often free in the morning as she is at night. And date morning was born.

Yesterday morning we sat and lingered over cappuccinos. We strolled around that same open air market. And we capped it all off with mimosas while lazily gazing out across the river. We stayed out from breakfast until after lunch and we soaked in every minute of our date. We talked and not just about the kids. We talked about the things that normally stream through our heads as we are making our way into the day but rarely have the time to share. I’m not swearing off of date night just yet. But I’m loving date morning.

July 25, 2014
by Tricia

Lovely Little Things, 25

Oh this week. This is sort of a critical week for my lovely little things. Because I didn’t write last week. I was happy and grateful but tired and distracted and I just couldn’t make myself sit down long enough to write (and, when I did, I sorta fell asleep). So this week, this week when I am also happy and grateful but a whole lot more distracted and tired, this week I need to write. Because this is the moment where a routine fades away if you don’t come back to it.

siblings walking

So here I am. At the end of a week that was so overwhelmingly full. And even though much of that fullness was good, fullness can make it hard to pull out the gratitude. So here I am.

This week’s lovely little things.

finding camaraderie

Meeting new people sorta terrifies me. Knowing that people are watching and reading and seeing everything I put out, people other than my husband and best friend, it makes me feel anxious if I think about it too long. One might wonder why I came to blogging in the first place, given all that (I wonder somedays too). But if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met Emily or learned about INDIGENOUS. I wouldn’t have connected with all of the wonderful people who shared my story and my new love on Wednesday, who share my passion for doing good and my quest for making it work in our lives, however those lives may look. Meeting new people sorta terrifies me. But connecting with people who share my passions and interests and loves? That exhilarates me.


I wanted to keep my daughter up last Friday night. To greet her aunt and uncle when they arrived. It seemed like the ‘fun mom’ thing to do. But the timing didn’t work out and my little girl was far too mushy after a long day at camp so off to bed she went. But my aunt specifically requested that my daughter wake her up the next morning, a request I relayed between stories and bedtime prayers. And that, not only being willing but actually requesting a pre-7am wake-up call, well it made my girl’s night. We are so blessed to have family that delights in delighting our little people and helps us see them in a whole new way.

friends (not fridges)

Yeah, it’s on the fritz again. I can’t even talk about that though because I’m still smiling, thinking about how the few things we had actually re-stocked up on are now safely chilling in our friend’s fridge and freezer. Friends who lend you fridge space are among the best friends of all. So much so that I may leave that bottle of wine I put in their fridge this morning. (Or, at the very least, friend, let’s drink it together next week!)


The weeks that have passed since that ending and this new beginning have been quiet. I’ve had time to wander, look for my place, find my footing, loose it again, and then find it again. I’ve had time to breathe a bit and really think through what I want. And it’s been so lovely. The kind of time I always craved. But this week, things started to pick up. This freelance career might be taking off, catching a little air, just a little bit. And for all the rough, this part is pretty darn exciting and fun.

favorite words

I finished Glitter and Glue by Kelly Corrigan this week, making it one of the fastest books I’ve read this year. I was drawn to it every night and everything about it, the story, the honesty, the discovery along the way, and the way I identified with so much of what she wrote, pulled me through it so quickly. Sprinkled throughout were lines that just grabbed me and I found myself emailing words to myself at least once every time I opened it up. This was one of them.


Happy weekend, all. Remember to show the world the woman inside you. (Or man, I know there are a few of you out there too!).

July 24, 2014
by Tricia

Growing Together: Golden Spoons and the Blankie

growing together

With my daughter, it was a monkey. A little stuffed monkey with a rattle inside. She sleeps with it still. My son has his cheetah. A small stuffed cheetah, swag that I brought home from a conference but somehow more important to him than the pluto or goofy we bought him at Disney.

Today, Lisa shares her story of her littlest and a blankie. I feel the same way about the day when monkey and cheetah are no longer clung to in the same way.

I met Lisa a month ago at Blog U and we even hung out in her dorm room so she feels like an old college friend! I am so honored to have her here today. Enjoy her words and then be sure to visit her at The Golden Spoons!


My youngest daughter, my “baby,” will turn seven in just a few short weeks. Somehow, seven seems like such a huge leap from six. It’s second grade instead of first. It’s more independence and more personality shining through. It’s hard for this mama to wrap her heart around it.

It’s also this:

girl and blankie

That’s my sweet girl still groggy one morning after having just rolled out of bed. She is snuggling a familiar friend – one of her many “blankies.” In times of fatigue or fright, these rags that are nothing more than old cloth diapers once used as burp cloths, are her trusty companions.

When she was an infant, I would nurse her and, then, hold her on my shoulder with a blankie slung across it to catch the inevitable. As I patted her tiny back, she would, eventually, rest her head on my shoulder and fall asleep with her delicate, little cheek pressed against the softness of the cloth.

As she grew, she continued to find comfort in those blankies. She would cover her face with them, taking in their clean scent, as she dozed off. She carried them with her everywhere and I did not dare to leave the house without a primary and a spare.

Time marched on, though, and the blankies became less necessary. She went to preschool and they stayed in the car. Then, she went to kindergarten and they stayed at home. Now, at almost seven, she still snuggles them through the night and whenever they are not a hindrance during the day, but she doesn’t need them like she once did.

Nevertheless, she clings to them still. Metaphorically, I cling to them, too. You see, they are the last shred of babyness left in her; left in our lives.

When we had her, our third daughter, we knew with confidence that she would be our last. I have never regretted that decision and have no desire for a fourth. However, with that decision, every single one of her firsts also became a last. The last first words; the last first steps; the last first birthday; the last first day of preschool and kindergarten. Soon, the very last day ever of having a six year old. I am extremely grateful and proud as I watch her grow. I appreciate her increasing self sufficiency and her ever blossoming personality. Yet, there is something so incredibly bittersweet about all of these lasts firsts.

The pacifiers and diapers are long gone, but the blankies remain. As she, again, takes in their scent and feels their softness against her freckled cheek, I cling to the last remaining morsels of a rapidly disappearing phase of life. As I look forward to the future, I also hold on to the past.

One day, she will spread her wings and fly away, but, even then, I’m certain the blankies will stay. Perhaps, then, I will be the one pressing them to my cheek, soaking up tears; finding comfort in their softness and the perfume of days gone by.


Lisa Witherspoon is a former preschool teacher turned blogger and freelance writer, who lives in North Carolina with her husband and three amazing daughters. Fueled by coffee and chocolate, Lisa writes about the joys, frustrations, surprises, and chaos of motherhood on her blog, The Golden Spoons. You can also connect with her on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest.

July 23, 2014
by Tricia

Do you know how your clothes were made?

Before my girl was born, I went to Africa.

I went partly for the adventure. And I went partly because I wanted to help. I wanted to make a difference. Do some good. I’d volunteered for dozens of local organizations and I was ready to take the next big step. I was ready to step outside of myself and my cozy little place and make a difference for people who lived in a vastly different world than I did.

I expected to get hooked. To fall in love with the desert and the jungle, despite the heat and the bugs. I expected to plan many return trips, deeper into the heart of Africa. I planned to return home, bring new life into this world and then swiftly bring my new little love back with me, initiate him or her early into the way of doing good and making a difference and stepping outside of our cozy little world.

But it didn’t happen like that.

I spent two weeks in Africa and I didn’t feel as though I helped much at all. I did some construction work, but not much. Save for a little painting and some nail hammering that the actual construction team had to supervise, I didn’t feel that I’d made a dent in the huge job that was building an HIV hospital in the small, poverty stricken town. I connected with a few kids over books and there is one little girl, Dora, who still sticks out in my memory. I have a photo of us together and it’s one of my favorites from the trip. But volunteers streamed into her village every other week or so and I’m sure that our afternoons spent under the shade of the trees near her school soon faded and melded with those of all of the other men and women who dipped into her life for a few days one summer.

women in ghana

In the weeks and months after my return from Ghana, as my belly swelled with new life, driving me into an adventure of a different sort, I began to question the idea of doing good.

I began to doubt that it is possible for someone like me to change a life, let alone the world. I suspended belief that it was possible for me, one woman, one mama, one person with a very big heart but what feels like achingly few resources, to even make a dent in the problems that plague us.

I still grapple with this, a good six years later. As we round out my daughter’s fifth year on this earth, I feel that I’ve barely shown her an inch of the path of good-doing. We haven’t volunteered much. We rarely donate. And when I engage in a little social good, I don’t talk about it with her. The world I dreamed of as my Accra-bound plane took off, of me and my little people in far away places with hands and hearts made for helping, it has vanished. And I’m still grappling with how to replace it.

How does doing good really work for people like us? What does it look like?


Slowly, I’m starting to pull together pieces of the puzzle.

I’m starting to realize that doing good starts with the way we choose to live here. It doesn’t have to be as big as a big ‘ol plane ticket and shocking my body into near meltdown on an 8-hour long flight. It can be as big as intentionally selecting the coffee that we brew, the fruit that we buy, the threads we choose to curl up in. It can be as big as reading and learning what fair trade really means. And exploring whether or not the products that float in and out of our cozy little world are sustainable. Whether the people whose fingers wove that fabric were treated and paid fairly for their art.

A few weeks ago, Emily of INDIGENOUS organic + fair trade fashion reached out to me and introduced me to Ethical Fashion. We live parallel lives, Emily and I, both of us raising a 4-year-old little girl and 1-year-old little boy and we instantly connected over our shared motherhood journey. But it wasn’t long before I dove into Emily’s other world – that of social media and design for INDIGENOUS.

INDIGENOUS elevates artisans in the poorest regions of South America to world renowned status in the handicraft textile market while paying a fair living wage. They work with over a dozen fair trade field organizing teams and quality control centers that coordinate over 300 artisan work groups.


And this is it, of course. Good with purpose. A piece of the puzzle. I went to Africa 6 years ago just aimlessly looking to do good. INDIGENOUS has set up camp in South America to do good with a purpose. To meaningfully change the lives of people with opportunity and fairness. To meaningfully do good in the world through sustainable and responsible practices. It’s starting to come together for me.

I’ve been sold on clothes for a cause, threads for good, for about as long as I’ve been blogging and I am delighted to add INDIGENOUS to the list of companies I turn to to make a difference with just my own choices, fulfilling my own basic needs.

Emily sent me the Aerial Poncho to review and can I just gush for a minute? Because I’m in love.


It is soft and beautiful and that shade of white that my children’s fingers will never be allowed to touch. The perfect date night, client meeting, conference going attire. If you have plans to see me between now and forever, don’t be surprised if I’m draped in white.


Even better, check them out yourself. They make the most beautiful pieces that I want to live in always. And each item comes with a QR code on the tag. Scan it and learn about how your clothes were made. My poncho was made in Callale, a small town high in the Andes, by a woman named Silvia. Silvia has lived in that small town all her life, in poverty. With INDIGENOUS, she learned hand-weaving skills and is paid fairly to work with beautiful organic cottons to make pieces like my poncho.

Each time that I meet a new person or organization who has figured this out, this doing-good path, this way to make a difference, I feel a little bit more hope that my dream of following such a path with my littles may not be so far fetched after all.

Learn more about INDIGENOUS and slide into some beautiful, organic, ethical fashion.


disclaimer: I received the Aerial poncho for free from INDIGENOUS. All opinions, thoughts, and ideas are my own. All dreams of doing good – those belong to us all.

July 21, 2014
by Tricia

Looking and seeing

Every day, I look at my babies with the same eyes.

walking over the bridge

Tired eyes. Red and dry from the exposure to the elements. Every day. I look at them every blessed day and I study them in detail. This bump here. That bruise over there. Hair that needs to be washed, fingernails that need a trim. Every day I look closely and study and my tired eyes wash over them, translating to my brain the list of things to attend to. To fix. I see cuts and scrapes and dirt beneath fingernails and remnants of breakfast in the corners of mouths.

Every day I scan, looking for the little.

Missing the big.

In my constant scan over them I miss the minutiae of their growth. I miss that her face has continued to mature. There’s that photo of her. I took it just last month. And there she is, my baby. The chubby cheeks that push up into big brown eyes when she smiles. There they are. I had thought that all of the baby had all but melted away months ago. But the melting happens every day. Every day drops of chubby cheeks and tiny pudgy hands melt away, into smooth lines and fine features. Giving way to the woman she is becoming. Every day I pour over those features and yet, I miss the melting. I always miss the melting.

I miss that his hair has continued to grow. A mess of curls now sprawls atop his head and a new one forms every single day. I always feel that his hair is so long and it’s been so long forever. Until I look back and realize it wasn’t there before. It’s been growing all along. Lengthening and curling and waving around his face. Every day I comb that hair and try to tame it’s wild ways and smile appreciatively when someone notices his gorgeous curls. But I miss the growing. I always miss the growing.

I look at them every day. I scan their bodies for health and cleanliness.

I see the little specs of blueberry and eggs.

And I miss the rest.

feet and flip flops

Family comes into town and there are hugs and squeezes and through the eyes of an aunt and an uncle, so much has changed. She is so much taller and bigger. His curls, just look at them! He’s got new tricks, she has new words, and it’s a marvel a minute the entire weekend through. With their eyes, their fresh eyes, dry only for want of seeing them more and soaking in every waking moment, they study them in detail. Look at that face he makes! See how luxurious her eyelashes are! You can just see how much they love each other.

The delights that meet their eyes awaken all senses and for two days straight, aunt and uncle feast on a sea of giggles and cries and hugs and kisses. Every movement like a little celebration.

As it should be, of course. Because every movement is. A celebration of the growth and the growing, the reaching and the grasping. We really do live in a time of a marvel a minute. That the bumps and missteps and bruises in between overshadow those marvels is my fault. It’s the fault in my eyes.

Family leaves and they take their eyes with them. And I am left feeling blind. Wondering how do I keep seeing my children while looking at them? It’s trickier than it should be, this seeing while looking. When we look, we miss so much.

But when we see, we capture it all.