I'd like to believe that every twenty-something embarking on parenthood has the same ideals as me: to make the coolest, most badass kids on the planet. Of course I want to raise intelligent, proactive, caring little people, and because I have sons, it also really matters to me that they are sensitive and respectful and peaceful. But let's face it, that stuff is in the genes. All I really have control over is their cool factor. Getting knocked up in a yurt at the age of 22 and spending my first week in a family way wandering the streets of Amsterdam meant that I was surely on the right track to having some really radical children. So when my sons showed signs of being obsessed with sweatpants and Bob the Builder, I panicked a little. Parenting disaster! What was I doing wrong? 

While rocking back and forth in the corner of my room for a few days, I did some serious soul searching and came up with this incredibly useful style guide for myself and the parents of the world. If you care about the coolness of your kid, then read these five tips. You'll thank me. Or not, because sometimes saying "thank you" isn't as cool as a head nod.

Everybody knows that mason jars are so cool they're almost uncool, but are still definitely cool. If I'm at home, you might find me drinking a yerba mate with local maple syrup in vintage ceramic, but c'mon, I wouldn't be caught dead with a travel mug out in public. And those containers designed to look like they're disposable? Please. Glass is the coolest way to go, even for kids. Glass bottles are real for a reason, mom and dad. Get on board. 

Even if your three year old is holding a wide mouth jar by the rubber plug contraption for your stainless steel drinkable lid and drops the whole thing and shatters glass all over the street where hundreds of people are dancing, some barefoot, to local music in front of a historic theatre, he's still gonna be the envy of all those kids with dinky little plastic sippy cups. He might be thirsty the rest of the night because he watered the pavement instead of himself, but trust me, everybody there will know that you are serious about raising some stylish, not to mention eco-conscious (read: exra cool), little kiddos. 

I'm a pretty serious biker. I don't have any spandex or neon clothes and I'm constantly taking things off of my bike to make it sleek and beautiful instead of adding things to make it efficient and useful, but I still consider myself a real biker. I commute almost everywhere I have to go on my two-wheeled steed, hauling everything in my cart from groceries and softball gear to children and more children. Of course safety is important, so I helmet and strap those chitluns, even if I think they look a little geeky. They would look decidedly less cool with neck braces. 

When I'm riding around town with my kids, I know that I am the envy of every mother stuck in a station wagon or minivan, wishing she could just stretch her legs on the open road hauling upwards of 100 pounds of very valuable flesh. I know this because a lot of people wave and smile, completely approving our stellar alternativeness. I also know that when people get really mad at me for taking up the lane and yell things like "You're not a car!" or "You're gonna kill your kids!" they're just jealous that my children are way cooler than theirs. Seriously, safety is really important to me, I am very cautious with my kids. But coolness is super duper important to me, too, which is why it's even better when my kids are on their own wheels. Then we're all equally visible in our awesomeness!

A kid on instagram is a kid destined for coolness. My kids are so recognizable to the general internet population, they're only one step away from being the next teen pop stars. I know that some people worry about internet predators, but I tend to not get too bent out of shape about that stuff. I mean, they're always fully clothed, and it's not like they have their own handles or anything (although extra points to any parent who can get someone else to hashtag their offspring).

My sons are so adept at the importance of social media that if I pause from sharing a special moment with them to take a picture of it in order to show everybody how special our moment is, they're right with me and say "Put it on Facebook!" or "That should be your new homepage!" I have no doubt that when they finally get their own phones or Google glasses or forearm chips, they will never share anything dull. 

Want to boost everybody's coolness by association? Throw yourself into a few pics with some parent-child selfies. The family who views life through photo filters together, stays together. 

Clothing is the window into someone's character. We've all seen people with whom we might otherwise become friends were it not for them wearing yesterday's workout clothes and carrying around a Jansport backpack. I don't judge books by their covers, and I've trudged through my fair share of stylistically challenged phases, but I want my kids to have an easy life. I want people to know at first sight that they are cool and worthy of positive attention. I want it to be simple for them to get dates and job interviews, and then later charm everybody with their wise world views and charisma. 

Sure, I went into debt opening a children's clothing store so that I could have wholesale access to this country's best and freshest ethical and stylish designers, but it was worth it. My kids look hip. Plus, I read to them a lot. I'm sure they'll get scholarships for college.

Have you ever wanted to date somebody because they gave Kenny Loggins CDs as gifts or camped out in line for Nickelback tickets? No? Well duh, that's because those people are unabashedely uncool. Music is the number one barometer (after fashion, of course) for coolness, so it's not worth letting your kids listen to anything frumpy. Children's albums are generally absent of anything cool, unless they are by otherwise cool artists like Kimya Dawson or They Might Be Giants. 

What's that, kids, you want to hear another verse of Raffi? Sorry, boys, mama wants Radiohead. 

My kids are so cool that at this point they can dance like Michael Jackson and sing from their knees along with greats like Steve Perry and Pharrell. In our living room, fists are bumping and chords are strumming. There's no time for mind numbing music like lullabies. My kids go to sleep serenaded by my best versions of Arctic Monkeys and hits from Godspell or Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat. Nevermind if my oldest is still nervous when I mention Pink Floyd because at the age of three he thought an intruder was asking "Is there anybody out there?" Cool is cool, and I won't let my children miss out on being at the forefront of music. Besides, what do I know about life that they can't learn from Modest Mouse, Led Zeppelin, or the Beatles?

At the end of the day, our children are reflections of us, for better or worse. I say make it better, mold them into the cool kids you always wished you could be. Spare them the agony of getting beaten up in high school and shunned at office Christmas parties. When in doubt, combine as many of the above tips as possible, cramming so much coolness into your little ones that they'll be crapping it out with their strawberry kale chia seed smoothie.  

And if all else fails, love them. Love them for being cool, love them for being awkward, love them for being like you, love them for not. Kindness and compassion and trust and love are by far the most fashionable accessories you could ever use to adorn your children. Generation Rad is growing up in a world of openness and confidence, the likes of which maybe most of us were not lucky enough to be exposed. Despite what the people who stand at the fringe of a dance party might say, hugs and kisses are super cool. If you model positive relationships, then your kids will learn how to be righteous friends, and that's the coolest thing the world needs.

Skinny jeans and a good haircut are just icing on the cake. 

What is it about the west that draws us near, beckons to us from all corners and curves, calls us to come as if we were returning home to a place that is still unknown to us? Why do we always want to go there? Out west. Why do we always want to go out west?

For me, this time, the reason was Caitlyn. We're college friends who, amidst all of the other genuine but lofty "we'll keep in touch!" promises from friends of yore, have maintained a very close relationship. We haven't lived in the same city for more than a few months in the past 7 years, but we talk regularly, making daily phone calls to consult about family and men and jobs and the future and why we sometimes get stuck turning our own heavily toothed gears. She's my homegirl. After a year and a half into a two year stint doing food education on a reservation in northern Arizona, we decided it was time for me to finally come visit her in the desert. Ticket booked, loose ends tied up, I hopped on a plane on a Saturday afternoon, utterly thrilled about my ensuing adventure.

Caitlyn picked me up in Phoenix and it was on. It was well after dinnertime, but we found ourselves at a posh little place called The Gladly. As if the clean decor and rocking playlist weren't satisfying enough, the late night food and drinks were to die for. 

We enjoyed the delightful company of bar manager Brian Goodwin, who gave us some tips about where to go if we headed to the beach, which we wanted to do, and politely told us to avoid going to Tijuana, which we thought we wanted to do. The other bartender, equally smoking and entertaining, showed off his wicked eagle vest. We were sufficiently charmed by the guys - and the feeling was mutual; Brian covered all of our drinks and sent us on our way with a tip about where to get the best bloody mary in San Diego. Swoon. LIke, double swoon.

So we were off to California! With a couple of hours of sleep in the car at a rest stop, fueled by the purity of friendship and spontaneity, we headed west on our sandy adventure. We watched the sun rise over the desert, and I felt as if my insides might drip through the bottoms of my feet. 

About 90 miles east of San Diego near Jacumba, CA we saw a little sign for Desert View Tower. Really, it was a very small, maybe even handmade sign. There was no question that we'd pull over, unsure of what was in store for us as we winded backwards on a lonely, dusty trail, replete with glorious, confusing kitchiness. 

This Desert Tower is a special place. We were greeted by about a dozen mangy, loving dogs and the most wonderful blue sky and fresh air. The gift shop is heaven for lovers of all things weird, retro, useful, useless, and unique. It has everything, including an owner who's been living there for 12 years, watching people come and go from the not too distant highway, climbing on animal boulders and standing on a rickety viewing deck, soaking in the vastness of a desert paradise. He apologized for his generation's mistakes and urged our generation to revolt. 

And so we revolted. All the way to the beach.

We rolled into San Diego just in time to get the deservedly recommended bloodies at The Green Flash, a cute restaurant that has maintained its family-owned appeal on Pacific Beach. After a little sustenance, we dipped our bodies in the ocean and the sand, slept in the sun, and reveled in the humility of being at the edge of the earth. We headed to Ocean Beach to meet an old friend of mine, just in time to drink gin and wheat grass as we watched the sun slip behind the watery horizon. 

Feeling the lighthearted achievement of having seen so much by Sunday night, I got in touch with a friend who recently moved to San Diego and we made our way to her apartment for the night. Exhausted and thankful for a small couch and blankets on the floor, we slept soundly, and I dreamt of water. After a hot shower, fresh smoothie, and catching up the next morning, Caitlyn and I stepped out into the 80 degree day and hit the road for Los Angeles. 

The first stop was East LA where Caitlyn's friend Ernesto Yerena and other artists have an amazing warehouse space. We got to see his collection of social work, including a special Red Bull label celebrating Latino culture, and watch him making some sweet block prints that were on their way to SF. He's incredibly talented with a wonderful spirit, and has impeccable taste in music. Plus I learned a new word: ganas. It means gumption, and seemed fitting.

My cousin, Adrian, a very recent transplant to LA from Gloucester, MA, met us at the studio. Ernesto took us to the best taco restaurant in town, the Boyle Heights Guisados, and I treated him to lunch in exchange for a glamorous print. We said goodbye to Ernesto and headed on our way through LA, the city that welcomed us with open arms, the city that felt right, the city that somehow seemed like home to all of us.

I was getting messages from a childhood friend who'd moved to Los Angeles in October. We were giddy with excitement about seeing each other. Tyler offered his place to stay for anybody who wanted it, and we all slowed down a little bit. Adrian and Caitlyn and I walked around in the sunshine, strategizing the evening, and stopped to watch a hummingbird die. We felt a sadness for the bird but couldn't deny our own sense of life. I stood on a sidewalk with two of the very few people who I can hang with every single day, and decided that spontaneously landing in LA for a couple of days would be perfect. 

And Los Angeles was just that for me. Perfect. Caitlyn skipped out to spend the night with another friend from college while Adrian and I went to El Segundo to see the place where he's staying and have sushi with his roommates. Jaws played on the restaurant television and we chuckled at the irony. Tyler got off of work around 11 and we headed to Silver Lake to meet at his adorable house. We had a reunion of childish proportions, full of squeals and old jokes and so many hugs. He and his girlfriend Sarah took us to a cool spot for some drinks and we stayed up until 5 doing all the things that old and new friends like to do together. Tyler and Adrian drew pictures and I wrote poems on them and we all cuddled with the best dog in the world and life felt gloriously possible.

I woke up feeling fresh and in love with Hollywood, especially because I was seeing the Hollywood that Hollywood doesn't show you. Tuesday morning was dedicated to a leisurely and delectable Caribbean breakfast at Cha Cha Cha, followed by the laziest of lovely days at Venice Beach. Caitlyn saw another friend while Adrian and I drove to Long Beach for mouth watering crepes with Dana, a friend I used to know in Philly. Honestly, every little city within LA has such a cool flavor. I'm glad I saw what I saw, and I want to see more. The day was warm and overcast and the beach was empty and there was music on the boardwalk and Santa Monica seemed like heaven and it was one of those days that made me wonder how people get to where they are, how they find the things that are good, how I was so lucky to be there.

Waking up on Wednesday was bittersweet. Adrian was already back in El Segundo and I knew that saying goodbye to Tyler would be equally as painful. Caitlyn and I had aspirations of Joshua Tree, but instead we agreed that Griffith Park would be better, if only because it would allow us more time with Tyler and Sarah. So we hiked to the top of Los Angeles and looked at the city below like angels ourselves. We soaked it in like poor twenty-somethings with a choking thirst for love and adventure and a false sense of power, for lasting connections with people we've known and crave to know more. We soaked it in like angels.

My last full day on the west was spent driving from LA to Vegas via the Mojave. A big part of my motivation to visit Caitlyn was that I'd experienced many climates in my life, but never the desert. I wanted to go somewhere big and open and old and empty and dense and bright and dry and warm. The desert was that place. When we pulled off of the highway and tucked in among the bushes and sand, I took deep breaths, full of the clear air and peaceful longing that can only be felt in a place much bigger than oneself. The sun beat down behind us while the moon sneaked above, and I couldn't help feeling that it was all coming together. Whatever it was, it all felt together.

We rolled into Las Vegas after dark, marveling in fascination and terror at everything the city had to offer. We got a great deal on a hotel on the strip and had just enough time to drop our things and change our clothes before heading the New York, New York casino to see a Cirque du Soleil show for which my buddy back home scored us free tickets. Zumanity is meant to entice the senses, and it did just that. As if the acrobatics and dancing weren't sensual enough, every move was designed to mimic sex. Sex in a fish bowl between two girls, sex in a bathtub, sex alone from tall ropes, it was all sex. And it was good. Like, really good. I don't know what the rest of their shows are like, but I am a Cirque du Soleil believer. Just be prepared to get uncomfortably turned on.

We left the casino feeling tired and out of it, succumbing to the call of our hotel beds. Luckily for us, we were stopped on the street by a number of Vegas kids who offered and delivered a good time. Riding in a limo, scaling fences, a large man on ecstacy in a cold water bath, propositions to go into the bathroom of the Venetian, it was all there. We saw Vegas the way it should be seen, with sore feet and eyes half open. I lost $40 playing black jack and sank into the luxury of blackout curtains and feather pillows. 

It rained on Thursday, my last day. Rain in the desert is good luck. I don't know if I was giving it or getting it, but goodness abounded as Cailtyn and I traveled through the rocks and mountains and blooming cacti of Nevada and Arizona. We listened to Phantogram, John Maus, and Grimes. The music echoed through the gray vastness of the never ending landscape, a week of adventures and memories and the oozing pangs of newness written in the lines of my hands.

We arrived in Flagstaff with enough time to get huge cups of chai and visit Caitlyn's friend Alma for one last glass of wine. Alma is an amazing artist who let me try on an amazingly beautiful native necklace. It was gorgeous and felt grounding, something I probably needed before taking flight. I dumped some postcards into a mailbox and got yummy Thai takeout on my way to a shuttle that would take me to the Phoenix airport. Caitlyn and I hugged, thankful for the rushed goodbye. Lingering would have made it harder, and the end of the trip didn't need to be any less forward moving than the rest of it. 

We hugged, I gathered my things, headed for the shuttle, and gave one last wave to my friend, my travel partner, my fellow heroine. Our story as friends and individuals is still being written and I am honored to be on the same pages as Caitlyn. Next We made plans for next time, because we know that there will always more and more and more. Next time we'll meet in LA, next time we'll spend more time at the beach, next time we'll see the friends who we didn't have time to see. 

Next time we'll revel in the strange, comfortable beauty of knowing even less about the world. 

I've been told that a person should only wear jewelry with sentimental value. I break that rule every once in awhile when I find a cheap something or other, but for the most part I know the story behind the jewelry I wear. 

There's the blue beaded necklace that Amy gave me because it suited me so well when I tried it on, even though I originally think that she intended to keep it for herself. I have the Navajo earrings that Caitlyn brought back from Arizona, which I'm still gleefully incorporating into my wardrobe. Of course there's the textured copper crescent necklace with asymmetrical beads on the chain made by my incredibly talented jeweler friend, Draya. One of my most standout accessories is the unicorn rainbow pin that my friend Joe gave me for my birthday shortly before moving far away. I also love the orange chunky necklace my mom gave me and went to great lengths to replace when I broke it, the feather earrings I got from a street artist, the divinely smooth wooden pendant necklace that Jamie gave me for Mother's Day, the delicate silver bracelet that Jamie gave me for my birthday, basically any piece that Jamie gave me, and on and on and on. These are the staples. I put them on and take them off regularly, rely on their weight against my body, let their vibrant colors bring my face to life, build an entire wardrobe around them. 

There's one piece of jewelry, however, that I have never removed and often overlook as being an extension of my body. It's a simple, tattered ankle bracelet. While I've long outgrown my hemp choker and woven bracelet phase, I adore this stringy, knotted, beaded anklet. It's not just a piece of jewelry with a story behind it. It is the story itself, a souvenir of some great time and place. For about six summers in a row through my adolescence I traveled with friends and groups and sometimes strangers to Nicaragua with a non-profit called Bridges to Community. The organization was in its infancy on my first trip at the age of 15. I ventured south of the border, my first international trip without one of my parents, alongside my childhood best friend Leanne and her father Dave to build houses with families left homeless after various hurricanes and revolutions. Two week stints were spent polishing my Spanish, dancing, mixing cement, laughing, bartering, carrying bags of sand, playing futbol, building rebar and laying blocks, swimming in shark infested fresh water lake Nicaragua, hiking volcanoes, eating rice and beans, and generally expanding my love of the world and its rich, diverse cultures. 

It was on this first trip that we were introduced to a group of orphans who lived like the lost boys in what I remember to be tree houses by the lake. They ranged in age and learned early on to take care of themselves. One of the ways they did this was by making and selling bracelets. I'm sure it cost me about two dollars to buy the bracelet that I tied around my ankle, and I remember choosing the one that was the most beautiful, and the boys agreeing that it was perfect for me. I didn't have a plan for my ownership of the jewelry but it turned out that I never, ever wanted to remove it. It feels just right on my ankle, falling across the top of my foot, always reminding me of my years of service in Central America. No matter how annoying it is to have to remove my right sock carefully enough to avoid ripping the anklet, no matter how many weird puddles it leaves on sheets after I shower, no matter how old or ratty or out of fashion it might become, it is a symbol of my travels and friends, of my fortune having two living parents, and of the presence in my mind of people not being served by their government or peers or universe or whoever is supposed to make sure that kids don't get malaria and moms don't get asthma cooking tortillas all day. 

You can imagine my surprise when I discovered last week it was missing.

For 15 years I feared what would happen if I ever lost my ankle bracelet. I assumed it would be due to nothing less tragic than severing my foot from my leg or being victimized by grabby trolls while crossing a bridge. I stood in my closet, eyes wide open, staring at my naked ankle. Friends were waiting downstairs so I didn't want to take the time to search my house obsessively. Being winter, I hoped that it couldn't be much farther than tangled an inside-out sock or tight pair of pants, but I didn't know what to do and realized that it could actually be anywhere. I picked up my drink and remained calm, completely shocked at my lack of hysterical bawling. My favorite piece of jewelry, my bastion of worldly adventure was gone. What would I do?

Like any good disaster sister, I ate and drank enough to be distracted and explained the situation in passing as if it didn't bother me. I was almost bothered by how much it didn't bother me. Having recently experienced some serious bouts of missing a few faraway friends, I only assumed that I was being taught to let go. Maybe the anklet was never mine in the first place. Maybe I shouldn't be so attached to personal belongings. Maybe we had a good run and it's simply time to move on. Crappy, but sensible. I began the process of letting go.

What happened next in the saga sparks everything within me that makes me want to watch romantic comedies and listen to pop music and roll around in grassy fields with chubby bunnies and berries. I found it! I took a heaping pile of clothing into the laundry room and rather mindlessly shoved handfuls of articles into the washer until I uncovered a very familiar trinket. Still tied in what is proved to be the world's greatest knot, my anklet lay in waiting on top of my dirty jeans. It was never lost, and it slipped right back onto my foot like it had never been anywhere else.

As someone who very intently searches for lost objects and almost always succeeds in finding them, I find it interesting that I didn't drop everything to search frantically for what went missing. Maybe deep down I knew that I would find it. Or maybe I actually loved the ankle bracelet enough to let it go, fortified by our many years together to continue on with my life. Maybe I was feeling centered enough to shift my expectations from "this is how my life is and will be" to "now this is how my life will be, and it's different than I thought." I don't always love change. I'm open to the stuff I can manifest, but, c'mon, please don't go rearranging my shelves without asking me first! I think I learned that even though it can be sad to lose something, it's not productive to add the fear of being without something on top of the devastation of losing it. 

Most importantly, though, I understand all of those "if you love something, set it free" cliches more than ever. So if your bracelet or your dog or your car or your lover isn't where you thought it might be, find gratitude for the moments when you could anticipate its whereabouts, and if you ever find yourself wearing it again, never take for granted the way it feels on your skin.