1 Comment

Creating a Family Mission Statement

Right after Erman and I got engaged, we began making lists–lists of things we needed to start saving and preparing for, things to get or get rid of once we merged our lives, things we needed to do for our wedding, and people we wanted to celebrate with.

But our lists weren’t just about the wedding day. From the start, Erman and I have tried to focus on a bigger picture, beyond the “I dos,” setting our sights on the kind of marriage, home, and family we want to create together.

When I was in college, my best friend/roommate’s father tragically passed away. At the funeral, inside the memorial program, their family mission statement was printed alongside their family photo. I had never heard of a family mission statement, but I could see how their family’s focus was actualized in the lives the children were living. I loved the idea so much, I filed it away as something I wanted to do with my own someday-family.

So one Sunday, Erman and I sat down to figure out what our family’s overarching focus would be. We started by just brainstorming–spouting out words and ideas, goals that were important to us, and characteristics we wanted to exhibit in our own lives and teach our children.

fullsizerenderAfter our brainstorm, we combined like ideas and I wrote up a master list. Because it’s something we want to teach to our children, I tried to find a clever way to present it so they could remember it easily. I started with a numbered list that rhymed, then tried to make it a poem, and finally settled on an acrostic, where the first letter of each line spells our last name.

Each word was carefully chosen and we plan to recite our mission statement each week at the start of our Family Home Evening activities. I later realized that there are 11 letters in our last name. Those 11 lines, plus our family motto (written at the bottom of our document) equals 12, which means I’m also having grand visions of focusing on one “value” each month some year down the road when our kids are older and we can memorize scriptures, meaningful quotes, and discuss the ideas and lessons behind each point.

I ended up changing “Family Mission Statement” to “Family Manifesto” because it sounds so much more solid, in my humble opinion. I like the oomph behind “Manifesto.” Once I had it to a place where both Erman and I were happy with it, I hired Elisabeth Wing at WingMade to design/illustrate it so I could print and hang it in our home. I’m beyond delighted with how it turned out. Elisabeth is so talented and I love how she drew inspiration from traditional Turkish embroidery to illustrate the floral motif.

unnamedI encourage everyone to create a Family Mission Statement. It’s a great way to build family pride, encourage family unity, focus your efforts, and instill what’s most important to you in your children. Here are the points of our Manifesto and the thought behind them:

We are a family that 

Exhibits trust and love in God. 

First and foremost, we want to teach our children to love and trust God, but more importantly, we want to teach them how to manifest that in their lives. Faith is an action, not just a nice thought or a simple utterance. We want to always make sure that we are loving, trusting, and praising God with our not just with our words, but turning that love and trust into action as well.

Runs to help others. 

This point started as simply “give service” but it lacked something. Finally, I realized, there was no power or urgency behind it. One of my favorite scriptures is found in Mosiah in The Book of Mormon: “For are we not all beggars?” Erman and I want to be people who move swiftly to lift, help, and assist others. And we want to teach our children that we are a family that runs to make that happen.

Creates a welcome place for all. 

As a Southerner and a former-eastern European-Muslim, hospitality is extremely important to both of us. We love to have people in our home, host dinners and parties, visit with friends, and find ways to extend an extra measure of love to all who cross our threshold. We want it to be apparent that our home is a welcome, safe place for everyone, regardless of religion, race, background, choices, etc. But beyond the walls of our own home, we want to teach our children that no matter where they are, they can provide kindness and hospitality to all, that the seat next to them is always open.

Is generous with our abundance. 

This goes back to the notion of “are we not all beggars?” But it’s slightly different than running to help. Beyond the action of service, we want to always be aware of our abundance and find ways to live simply so we can share with those who have less. We want to teach our children about the mindful donations we offer and the variety of organizations we support financially. We also want to encourage their own philanthropy and giving.

Never stops learning. 

Originally, this point focused on education, and while education is definitly important to us, we want to focus more on a love of learning. Erman and I both plan to get advanced degrees, but we also have lists of additional things we want to learn–from online or rec-center classes, to community education opportunities, to books we want to read and skills we want to research. We hope we can teach our children to love learning no matter where it’s available and to seek both a good education as well look for opportunities at every age and stage of life to expand their minds and skills.

Marvels at, takes care of, and travels this beautiful Earth. 

Erman and I love to see the world. We love to take drives to look at the changing leaves in the fall, pull over to watch the sunset, or point out a particularly beautiful tree. We love road trips and plane rides, new cities and new foods. We have a travel bucket list a mile long and goals to save for those opportunities. We want to help our children see the wonder in this amazing, vast, diverse, and breathtaking Earth, to take seriously their role as stewards of her protection, and to make traveling to see it all a priority.

Always owns our mistakes and our awesome. 

We want our children to know that mistakes are okay. We own them, learn from them, become better because of them, and move on. They need not feed shame in our house. There is nothing to be gained from hiding errors. On the flip side, we want to raise our children to be confident about who they are and own their awesome–a little phrase I say to people (usually girls and women) who hem and haw about their talents, skills, and characteristics that make them amazing and unique. Own your awesome! Know what you’re good and and be proud of it!

Understands that hard work is more important than talent. 

I do not care if my kids are the brightest, most talented kids in class. I care that they worked hard, that they put in the effort, and can feel the pride that comes from doing hard things regardless of the end result.

Remembers to pray always. 

God is at the center of our lives and our home. We are His children and He loves us. If we are to navigate this world successfully, we must communicate with Him. And a relationship with anyone depends on your willingness to talk to them, God included. We are a family that prays. We pray together and for each other. Erman and I pray as a couple. And we will teach our children how to access the divine power that comes from communion with heaven.

Expresses love and gratitude freely. 

Graciousness is, in my opinion, becoming a lost art. We want to be a family that recognizes when we’ve been blessed and says thank you. And we never want there to be a question about our love. We will say it and show it–to each other and all we meet. Everyone is worthy of love and should hear it daily.

Really hugs tight. 

We’ve found that most resentment, annoyance, and anger can be defused with a hug. At night, when we say family prayers, we end it with a family hug and boy do we squeeze tight. We shoot our love out of our arms and into the other person. Touch does wonders for the soul and like it or not, we’re huggers.

Share This!
Share On Twitter
Share On Linkdin
Share On Pinterest
Share On Reddit

The Ranch

I’m in Florida visiting my Gram. It’s been almost a whole year since I’ve been here, and it feels good to be in a place that has so many happy memories. It’s funny how things change, and yet … they don’t.

My granddad was the one who first called it the Ranch. He said something like, “If George Bush can have a ranch, so can I.” And from then on, so it was called. Yesterday, while I was out and and about, I caught some video … thought maybe you’d like to see where I am and what it’s like here. Plus, I don’t ever want to forget.

 

The Ranch from Krista Maurer on Vimeo.

Share This!
Share On Twitter
Share On Linkdin
Share On Pinterest
Share On Reddit
3 Comments

It’s Christmastime. And the Maurer family sings.

Christmas is in full swing ’round these parts. As is tradition, we trekked to a tree farm and chopped down our Christmas tree the day after Thanksgiving. That night we played Elf on repeat (I say this ever year, but seriously how is that movie so funny every. single. time?!) until we were finished decking our halls.

Apparently we’re real pros because it only took us one and a half showings of Buddy’s adventures in a magical place called New York City. Our first year decorating in this house, I think we watched it six or ten times before we were finished.

Our tree is darling as usual, and I love to sit on the couch at night and just look at her sparkle. Speaking of sparkle, I’m going to a dinner party tomorrow night at the fanciest hotel in Salt Lake City and I bought a pair of glittery gold spike heels to wear to it. I might be more excited about those shoes than anything else currently in my life. I’m not sure if that means my life is lacking or if the shoes are abnormally awesome. (Of course it’s the latter, duh.)

Christmas music is playing non-stop in my car and at home. I’m strict about my no-Christmas-music-before-Thanksgiving policy and this year was no different. But I feel like every year the holidays come sooner and end faster. (I know everyone says that.) And so now that I can listen to Christmas music, it’s all I want. I just don’t want to wake up one morning and have it suddenly be January (which is actually how most months creep up on me). I’ve been working on a list of things to do and see too, to help that effort. Let me know if you have any good ideas.

Speaking of Christmas music, I was working on my computer tonight, editing some photos with my holiday playlist on shuffle, when all of a sudden a blast from the past came pouring through the speakers.

Long ago, when I was still in college and even before my mission (so we’re talking 15-ish years ago), my family recorded a few of our favorite songs we love to sing together. It was nothing professional, just us standing in the sanctuary of a Catholic church with a microphone and a friend at the piano, but it was so fun to listen to. I hadn’t heard it in ages. I particularly loved listening to the tiny voice of my baby sister, who was somewhere in her elementary school years when we recorded it.

The song, “Sleep Little Lamb,” is one of my favorite Christmas “carols.” It’s a little fast for my preference in this recording, but I wasn’t in charge of that operation ;) so …

Anyway, I thought you might like to hear it too. Click Here to Listen. May the start of your Christmas season be as happy and sparkly as mine has been. xo

 

Share This!
Share On Twitter
Share On Linkdin
Share On Pinterest
Share On Reddit
2 Comments

Warm Washcloths At Bedtime: That’s the Stuff of a Happy Childhood

I stood in front of the mirror, feeling more present, more deliberate than usual. Most days I race through the motions–floss, bush, mouthwash, eye-makeup remover, wash face, rinse face, apply skin repair serum, then moisturizer, then wrinkle cream, blow nose, wash hands, rub on hand salve, swipe chapstick–and climb quickly into bed. But for some reason, on this night, I was paying attention to every movement, every step, of my regular routine.

When I got to the “rinse face” step, I closed my eyes and moved the warm washcloth carefully over my eyes, across my cheeks, and slowly down my neck, holding the heat there upon my nape as a flicker of a memory burned in my mind.

My paternal grandmother’s name is Sally. She and my Granddad lived on Hilton Head my entire childhood and I really can’t recall any important event of my adolescence where my Grands weren’t in attendance, right alongside my parents.

As children we loved sleeping over at their house. We’d watch movies in the den and Granddad would read us stories. We got to take baths in Grandma’s tub, which was surrounded by her stacks of romance novels. She would fill the tub with more bubbles than water and we’d splash and play with the golf balls she had sitting in a plastic Cool-Whip container on the rim of the tub.

After a sufficient soak, she would dry us off and lather us in her yummy, smelly lotion. We then got to choose one of her t-shirts to wear to bed. I always chose the yellow Vagabond Cruises shirt with the tiny dolphin on the front. It was always perfectly soft and perfectly worn in.

We slept in the lilly-wallpapered room upstairs with the twin beds covered with dark green quilted bedspreads. On one bed sat a life-sized Raggedy Ann. On the other was Andy. And on the shelves above the bed sat every Care Bear in existence. Once Grandma started a collection, she finished it, by golly. My favorites were Tenderheart and Good Luck Bear.

Once we’d chosen a bear to sleep with, she would read us a story. My favorite was a book about Too-Loose the Chocolate Moose who would melt when it got hot and leave his chocolately footprints all over the forest.

After the story, we would say prayers and she would tuck us in under the yellow flowered sheets, which, like the t-shirt, were perfectly soft. And then that’s when it got really good.

As we got situated, she would get a really warm, really steamy washcloth from the bathroom and run it over our faces and necks and hands. She told us that her mother, our Mama Maude, did this very thing for her at night when she was a little girl.

And oh, was it cozy and warm–the most peaceful and happy thing right before bedtime. Then she would wind the music box, turn on the night light, and close the door.

As I stood in front of the mirror, with the warm washcloth pressed to my neck, I felt as though I were six again, draped in a soft yellow t-shirt, buried under soft yellow sheets, with my Grandma right there beside me.

Share This!
Share On Twitter
Share On Linkdin
Share On Pinterest
Share On Reddit
1 Comment

Hilton Head: Day 3

Day 3 was Sunday. It consisted of going to Church. Coming home from Church. And then playing with my smoochy-pop of a niece, who is also a star of a dancer, for the rest. of. the. afternoon. H-E-A-V-E-N. Let me show you:

My Happy Dancing Niece from Krista Maurer on Vimeo.

She will stand at the stereo as you push the buttons and say, “no” until you get to the song she wants. She’s very much a fan of Justin Bieber and Far East Movement.

But then again … maybe she’ll be a ballerina.

Little Ballerina from Krista Maurer on Vimeo.

After the dance parties died down, dad grilled up steaks and we had friends over to celebrate his birthday. And holy hannah, were those steaks good. Who knew my dad could grill like that?! I had no idea. He even made his own spice rub for them. What the?

I also squeezed a nap in there somewhere too. But, wow. What a great day.

Stay tuned for Day 4. And until then, I’ll leave you with smoochy’s laugh. She had my phone, turned it on, and was videoing herself (yes, she knows how to work an iPhone … better than me).

Such a Goose from Krista Maurer on Vimeo.

See Day 1 Here
And Day 2

Share This!
Share On Twitter
Share On Linkdin
Share On Pinterest
Share On Reddit
4 Comments

She Did It

When she said she was going to do it, I’ll admit—I was nervous. I mean, I know she’s 25 and married and a big girl. But she’s still my baby sister. And the thought of her running in the middle of the night, by herself, through the mountains of Utah, had me a little nervous. All I had were visions of mountain lions and/or scary men hiding in bushes.

So when her Ragnar relay team said they needed someone to drive the vehicle support van, I didn’t think twice. I jumped.

Not that there was anything I could do to keep a mountain lion from attacking, of course. But it was the best available option for this over-protective big sister. At least I could be there at her relay exchange points to cheer her on and make sure she arrived when and where she was supposed to.

Little did I know how I could somehow grow to love her even more as I watched her run up and down mountains.

As she began each of her three legs, I wished her luck and tried to remind her that she could do it. And then I prayed every minute she was gone (literally) that she would have the strength, mentally and physically to finish.

When she started her last leg–a seven mile stretch over steep hills and knee jarring declines–I could see she was spent. She had already run 13 miles over the course of twenty hours with little to no sleep, and there was no vehicle support allowed on the route to make sure she had enough water, stayed cool, or kept going. I had the hardest time driving away. I waved out the window until she was no longer a spec in my rear-view mirror.

Once out of sight, I drove quickly to her finish line and waited. But when it seemed like it was taking her longer than it should, I got a little worried. Was she alright? Was she injured? Had she given up?

But there was nothing I could do. So I just stood. Facing the mountain. My eyes fixed on the bend in the trail where she should eventually appear.

People milled around me. Her team mates tried to find shade and rested in the van. But I stayed, feet planted as the sun burned hot, praying to the God of the mountain in front of me that she would make it.

When she turned the corner and into my view, I breathed for the first time in an hour. Then I straightway went to the finish line and began to scream. She needed to hear me yelling. I needed her to hear me yelling. Yelling her name. Telling her she could do it. That she could finish.

I will never forget her face as she crossed the finish line. And I will never forget the weight of her limp, victorious body in my arms as I held her and told her again and again how amazing she was and how proud I was of her.

My baby sister? She is a champion.

Share This!
Share On Twitter
Share On Linkdin
Share On Pinterest
Share On Reddit
5 Comments

My Weekend in Pictures [via my iPhone apendage]

I am back from my extended weekend in Florida. And despite the circumstances, it was a really nice trip. I love it there. Oh Southern coast, you lace my dreams like the moss in your trees. Someday I’ll return for good.

1 morning on the river . 2 seesters . 3 Sunday wandering . 4 riverbank where we scattered Granddad’s ashes

1 spanish moss . 2 lazy afternoon with Heathcliff and Catherine

1 manatee in the river . 2 its tail . 3 off the dock . 4 mama and her babies

Our time was filled with family and friends, a sunset service on the river bank, a Saturday memorial, lazy meandering around the Ranch, reading, sleeping, snuggling/smooching/chasing/adoring the niece, entertaining cousins, delicious food, manatee watching, and general relaxing. If only Granddad had been there.

Perhaps he was.

Share This!
Share On Twitter
Share On Linkdin
Share On Pinterest
Share On Reddit
1 Comment

Here, Without Him

It is a very odd thing to be here in this house and not have him here too. The television is silent, his chair empty. But his captain’s wafer crackers are still on the counter. His notepads, filled with wobbly numbers and reminders, on the table. It’s as though he has simply stepped out for a minute and will return any second.

I woke up early and came down the stairs to find Grandma in the living room. I hugged her and asked her how she was doing. Fine, she said. The girl who has come to live with her is taking good care of her, although, Grandma says, she’s not as good of a cook as you. This makes me sad.

For nearly two years I didn’t have a job and could have easily come here to take care of her. To make her eggs and toast and tea in the morning. To make sure she’s taking the right medicines. To just … be here. But now I do have a job. So that means I can’t. I can’t be here. I can’t cook for her.

The tears come at the most random of moments. Like the other day when I was opening my mail. I slid my finger under the flap on an envelope and got a paper cut. And I thought how I should get a letter opener. And then I caught a memory of Granddad opening his mail with his knife. Insignificant, really. I know. But that was just how he always did it.

After talking to Grandma for a minute, and making her toast, I went outside to take a turn in the golf cart. It was less than a year ago that I rode around with Granddad, listening to his stories as the morning air grew thick with Southern humidity. And today, it was a lonely ride without him.

I followed his daily route, stopping to pick up the debris and air plants that had fallen from the trees during the night, just like he taught me. I rode down the street to “check in” on the neighbors and their horses and on the way back, I picked up the newspaper. Just like he always did.

And now I sit in his chair, the leather worn soft and broken on the arm rests, his can of cashews to my right, really wishing he was here.

It is a very odd thing, indeed.

Granddad and me, after my college graduation (2004)

Share This!
Share On Twitter
Share On Linkdin
Share On Pinterest
Share On Reddit
1 Comment

My Weekend in Pictures

Part 1: The long drive to Arizona… which involved an off-road detour through the middle of nowhere when the freeway was shut down…

Part 2: Two Braves Games

Part 3: My sisters

Part 4: The cutest niece ever

Part 5: Our sweet rental ride

If you can’t tell, I broke down and got an iPhone. And now? I can’t. control. myself. I love it so much I sleep with it. Kidding. (but not really.)

Share This!
Share On Twitter
Share On Linkdin
Share On Pinterest
Share On Reddit
5 Comments

His Favorite

He passed away about an hour ago–my Granddad, just one day shy of his 82nd birthday. And I’m sitting in a dark loft looking at the pictures I took of him last summer when I spent a week on the “ranch” with him and my Grandma before coming back to Utah.

I keep hearing his voice answer the phone. The way he’d say “Hello” with the accent on the “He” and a scoop in pitch as he made his way to the “llo.” And I’d say, “Hi Granddad!” and he’d answer, “Well, which one are you?” “It’s Krista.” “Krista! You’re my favorite! Where are you calling from?” “I’m still in Utah.” “Well you sound like you’re right next door.”

He answered the phone the same way every time, regardless of whether it was me or my sisters. And we all knew he meant it when he’d tell us we were his favorite.

Granddad could read a mean storybook. And he’d do it for hours on end. When I was a little girl, he’d pull me up onto his lap and we’d read. And read. And read.

And he’d scratch my back. And we’d play “hot spots.” And then, when I would climb down he’d catch me in the “clampers” as I was walking away. The clampers were his legs, and if we girls walked “too close” past his recliner, they would pop up from the floor and grab us in a lock and toss us back and forth. And every time, we would squeal and laugh as if we hadn’t seen it coming. Or as if we hadn’t walked “too close” on purpose.

Every Sunday we’d go to Grandma and Granddad’s for dinner. Granddad sat at the head of the table and clockwise from him sat Grandma, then me, then Kaycie, then Mom, then Karly, and then Dad. Every week. And before anyone ever took a bite, Granddad would announce, “Well. Everything’s very good girls.” Every week. And then Grandma would roll her eyes.

At some point during the meal, you could always count on him to ask if any of us had ever heard the “famous Maurer horseradish story.” And everyone would groan (in jest) because he’d told it a million times. That was part of the joke–part of his shtick. And he loved it. But I always answered no, that I hadn’t heard it before. Because I always wanted to hear it–not that there was much to it. But it was a great story and I loved hearing him tell it. “We’d have been bigger than Heinz.”

When we were in plays or recitals, no matter the size or prominence of our part, at the end of our performance during the curtain calls, he’d yell so loud from the audience, “Yaaaaaay Krista!” It was so embarrassing. But you also listened for it, and could count on it, just like the horseradish story, or the clampers.

I can see his hands, particularly his fingers–the way they extended long and straight. He kept a calendar by his chair and when I finally left home for college, he began writing the days I’d be coming home for Christmas and summer vacations. “Let me get my calendar,” he’d say. “Now when are you coming home? I need to write this in.”

Last year, after my summer on Hilton Head, I took a week to stay with him and Grandma and one night after they’d gone to bed, I sat in his chair and reached down for the calendar. Sure enough, there in his scratchy, wobbly handwriting was my name and a line extending through the days I’d be visiting.

One afternoon, the afternoon before I was to fly back, I found him sitting in his gun room with all his tools and knives and ammunition and coins–a collector, he was. He had big-band jazz playing on the stereo and we spent the better part of the afternoon talking–him telling stories mostly. Some I’d heard, some I hadn’t.

And when it was time to head in for dinner, I gave him a hug and thanked him for a perfect afternoon. To which he replied, “You’re my favorite, you know.”

Yes, I know.

Share This!
Share On Twitter
Share On Linkdin
Share On Pinterest
Share On Reddit
4 Comments

Welcome to the Ranch [a photo tour & a little family history]

Every morning while I was in Florida, after breakfast and 30 minutes of Fox News, my Granddad would say, “Well Krista. Get your shoes on and come take a ride with me in the golf cart to go get the paper.” I, of course, did as I was told and we would drive around the property, picking up any debris that had fallen from the trees, inspecting the grounds, checking on the neighbors, and talking.

That is how I came to know the story of how he acquired this land. He told me twice. And I loved it just as much the second time, as I did the first.

He was a 30-something businessman–an entrepreneur, if you will–and he’d just purchased a Shanty Boat called the Lazy Bones in Florida. And so, he packed up his family (my grandmother and their two boys, one of whom was my dad) and moved them from Pennsylvania to Fort Myers in the late 60s.

One day he saw a sign for “virgin Florida jungle” right on the Orange River. The price tag? $30,000 with $5,000 down. Always a risk taker, he decided to buy the 20+ undeveloped acres even though he wasn’t sure how he was going to make the first payment. A few weeks passed and the deadline was coming up. He still didn’t have the money, so he called his realtor and told him he might need to sell some of it off. He then chose the choicest 10 acres and put the rest up for sale.

Within a couple days the realtor called back with the news that he had sold the 13 acres for $34,000. He, the realtor, would keep $4,000 for his commission and Granddad would get the other $30,000–essentially getting his property for free.

My dad helped clear the land. I always think about that when I wander around through the trees and brush. And this is where he grew up–on a river in the Florida “jungle,” taking tourists on cruises through the Everglades.

And that, is the story of how my Grandparents came to build their home here in Fort Myers.

Share This!
Share On Twitter
Share On Linkdin
Share On Pinterest
Share On Reddit
2 Comments

Dress Up

Last week as my dad walked toward me on the dock I couldn’t help but laugh. There he was, Jack Sparrow incarnate, grinning wide, willing me to acknowledge what a great pirate he was.

He had just finished captaining his bi-weekly “Most Excellent Pirate Expedition” cruise. Minutes before, 50 sword-wielding, eye-patch-wearing kids had disembarked the boat and went running up the ramp to find the “treasure” (but not before stopping to ask me, “Arrrrrrrr ye a good pirate or a bad pirate?).

“So what do you think of your old dad dressed up like a pirate?” he asked.

“Well, you do make a great pirate,” I replied.

“This doesn’t even phase you, does it?” he continued, nodding to his costume.

I smiled and shook my head.

“You grew up in quite an interesting home, didn’t you,” he laughed. “This kind of stuff is just normal, huh?”

And it’s true. With an actress/singer/music teacher for a mother and a composer/bass player/captain as a father–let’s just say … things were creative.

I never thought twice when my mother left the house in broad daylight dressed up like a clown, or a rabbit, or a cat. And dad as a pirate? Well, I didn’t even bat an eye. (You should see the two of them as Raggedy Ann and Andy.)

The vast majority of my childhood memories revolve around the shows and concerts mom and dad were in. Life just bobbled back and forth between the harbour and the theater. And I loved hanging out backstage in the dressing rooms–the glow of the light bulb-lined mirrors illuminating the ladies as they applied their lashes and lipstick before slipping into their fantastic costumes. And soon enough, it was us three girls staring in the mirrors.

Well. We may not have light bulb-lined mirrors at our house (Mom: we should totally get some of those. How fun would that be?!), but through the years, our family has amassed quite a fantastic dress up closet. Chuck full of sequins and feathers, there is a costume for every occasion and every age. From spiders to Spanish senoritas, we’ve got the wigs, hats, gowns, and capes from just about every Halloween costume (mom sewed them all), every dance recital, and every show.

And said closet? Is in my room.

This spells hours of fun on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I thought you might like to see a few of my favorites:

Moral of the story?

Start a costume closet for your kids today.

Share This!
Share On Twitter
Share On Linkdin
Share On Pinterest
Share On Reddit