In theback in 1976, we didn’tknow that mom was taking us 5 kids shopping atyardsales and flea markets out of necessity. We just knew it was fun & that we were going to get ‘new’ school clothes & toys.One of the benefits of growing up sandwiched inbetween cornfields & hoglotsis that you becomeblissfully unaware of anything that sounds likeNeiman Marcus or Barneys. This morning, we found a postthat the a best of FleaMarketStyle mag is out, (it includes afeature on a$300 flea marketbudget makeover challenge i did for a porch at camp)I haven’t seen the issue yet, but it reminded me ofhow much fun it was growing uphitting upswap meets & junkstores. For as long as we can, we want to hold onto this little window whereCharlie remainsblissfully unaware of Barneys. my hope for her is the gift I got as a kid:Where her self worth is not defined by the name brand on the tag.She feels good decorating her room with hand me downs & flea market treasures.That she can grow updiscovering pride &confidence in how she candressherself,decorate her room-and express her creativity without needing the false endorsements of the pricetag.I secretly always hoped she would find the same joy in these ‘junkin’ excersions. And I’m hoping that she’ll still be up for this when she’s a teenager, in college & when im driving a rascal in some god-forsaken flea market when im too old to walk. This portrait of Charliegirl in her flea market finds by @bobcoscarelli. //// $300 challenge flea makeover porch before and after ///