Growing up, my parents went to great lengths to give my brothers and me everything we needed in a way that didn’t break the bank and fortunately, we lived in a town that supported this lifestyle. Milford in the ’90s had its own Hostess outlet (remember those?), Thriftway, Kmart, and Big Lots—and there always seemed to be a rummage sale happening, somewhere.
As a kid, I didn’t appreciate my parents’ thriftiness, feeling self-conscious in my secondhand garb and ancient L.L. Bean backpack. When I became a parent, I spent way too much money on name-brand clothing and Pottery Barn furniture, reasoning these items were “investments” that could be shared with future siblings.
The thing nobody tells you about kids, though, is that they destroy everything. Wardrobe changes happen multiple times a day, to the point where I ended up dressing Julian in plain white onesies that were inexpensive and could be bleached. Most of the aesthetically pleasing wooden toys I purchased were completely dismissed by my babies, who preferred playing with the TV remote or a random kitchen gadget. And the Pottery Barn rocking chair? That got covered in spit up almost immediately, and never was the same…