Chaos
Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure. - Rumi
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an odd assortment
I’m still sick. I think it has been six days of feeling Far Less Than Normal. Kevin had strep throat. London had strep throat. The bottles of amoxicillin in the fridge have outnumbered the jugs of milk. A cacophony of coughing greets my every morning and accompanies me throughout every day. Sentences are hard to complete and some prerecorded episodes of What Not To Wear are calling my name. So I give you today – a list. An odd assortment of true facts that are only related because they all happened here at this house and they are all true. (Silly me, of course they are true. I called them…
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Ringin’ It In.
I write a lot of posts about little kids. Our little kids. Because we have a lot of them. A lot of little kids. But we have a teenager too. And I’ve already shared about why posts featuring her name are less frequent than others. But we try to embrace these years of fashion and funk, tears and drama, breaking away and holding on in the same manner we embrace the poop and the broken pickle jars. (With a laugh and a joke. At least – the next day.) This New Year’s Eve might have found you toasting the past and the future with your friends, holding a fluted little champagne…
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mmmmm . . . good
Raise your hand if you think a peanut butter and Nutella sandwich makes a delicious lunch.
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Is this funny yet?
This story I am about to share actually happened last week. I had to wait that long to tell this story so that I could find it funny. I don’t know if it’s been long enough yet for me to think this day was all that humorous – but I’ll give it a shot. The scene: Two or three days in to a week where Kev was at an out of state conference. The set up: 1. Two kids with a total combined savings of $11.00 and a burning desire to purchase a Webkinz. (Webkinz = Marketing scheme designed to rob parents of cash cleverly disguised as a cute stuffed…
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Hello Holidays.
This weekend we finally opened our doors to the season surrounding us. (We’re a little slow like that sometimes.) We dug out the fake tree. Again. This year the result of our Fake Tree vs. Real Tree debate has nothing to do with travel plans. Instead, it has lots more to do with the logic presented by a seven year old. London somehow fell on the Fake Tree side of the argument. And she presented three very reasonable arguments for her cause. She articulately stated . . . 1. We already own a fake tree. It’s in the storage shed. It’s already free. 2. You have to water…
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Date Night
Our lunch table. Any day of the week. Normal. Wilder crying about something. Anything. Conversation about Legos and puppies being tossed back and forth and requests for more milk and another sandwich and do I have to eat all of this banana? Kevin trying to finish a story about his morning at work. Me ignoring milk pooling up around my ankle from a leaky sippee cup or something. Kevin just stops talking, takes a bite, then sighs and looks me earnestly in the eyes, “I love date nights.” And I get up from my end of the table (why do we sit at the heads?) and I walk over and…
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#
One. Person named Lacey who had not planned on cooking a turkey on Thanksgiving day. Five. Pounds of potatoes that the Keigley family consumed at dinner. Two. Times that Riley defeated me in a roaring game of Careers. Six. Servings of cranberry sauce Bergen devoured. One. Time that I convinced the entire family to play Chicken Foot with dominoes. Fourteen. Biscuits that Riley made from scratch for our family’s dinner. Seven. Bars of Ivory soap we used to teach the kids how to carve. Two. Successfully completed carvings. Twenty-four. Spears of Goodness crafted by Kevin for brunch. Thirty-six. Times that some kid asked us, “Can we have ice cream yet?”
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The Anatomy of a Haircut or The Longest Post I Have Ever Written
When you have six children and five of them are with you all day and those same five with-you-all-day children are all under seven years of age simple tasks become large hurdles to overcome. Or avoid. Tasks such as stopping by the post office to mail a package or to buy stamps. (So if you ever receive a letter from the House of Keigley then that might explain the outdated contents you may discover inside.) Tasks such as running into the grocery store for a gallon of milk. Going to the dentist for yourself. Shoe shopping for rapidly growing small feet. Or getting a haircut. Getting a haircut is kind…
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Son.
Is it just me, or do I keep stacking up experiences for which I must apologize to my sons? So far the primary victim has been Hawkeye. Apparently, the littlest man of our house is now current game as well. Earlier this week, there was much giggling from the kids’ bedrooms. (All such crimes seem to be accompanied by much much giggling. A warning, I’m sure.) London hops out and spreads her arms wide, “Presenting . . . ” Before I could see the presentation with my own two eyes, London offers an explanation. “It’s hilarious, Momma. Otto can wear all of our dolls’ clothes.” And then the one-year-old fashion…
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If You Are What You Eat – Then I’m In Trouble
Sometimes I like to describe my day by sharing a ridiculous true-life incident. And sometimes I get a kick out of breaking down the day’s events into numbers. But today? Today I am going to cruise down a new avenue. I think I’ll chronicle my yesterday according to what food items I consumed. How do you like them apples? (Them apples? Get it? A food joke.) No time for breakfast on Tuesdays – Bible Study morning. Which means getting ready (and getting five kids ready) to leave the house by 9 a.m. (Sure, that doesn’t sound early to people employed outside of their homes. I know. But to people employed…
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I’ll Pay Your First Therapy Session, Son
I might have witnessed Hawkeye’s first discussion in his future therapy session. I should have known. I was warned at the bedroom door by the first sentry. Mosely, with arms flailing the air. “You don’t want to go in there!” As I approached “there” (a.k.a. the closet) I heard scuffling and I felt a hand trying to keep the door closed. However, I am stronger, for the time being, than my five-year-old son. So I pushed through and opened the door. Perhaps I should have heeded all warnings. There was my boy, just minutes ago attired in orange shorts and a camo shirt like some sort of mixed signal for…
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Autopilot
Have you ever driven some route, some route so familiar, that when you reach your destination you cannot even remember the path you took to get there? You know you must have taken a right at the gas station but you do not even recall seeing the gas station? It is as if you are on autopilot. That’s me. That’s today. That’s been this week. I see that it’s Friday. I know Monday must have occurred. Clearly I went to bed four nights since then and awoke four mornings. But I don’t recall any of them. The kids are not malnourished and our math worksheets have been completed but I…
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30 seconds
Kevin just wanted thirty seconds. That’s not much. Seriously. It isn’t anything actually. 30 seconds. All this father of six asked for was thirty seconds of calm and relative quiet at our dinner table. (Is that what the soundtrack of your life sounds like too?) Anyway. 30 seconds. Kevin explains the rules in his official Dad Voice. No talking. (He allows Otto Fox an exemption based solely on his age. Solely on his age and his dashing good looks. Solely on his age, his dashing good looks and his irresistible charm.) No wiggling. No exploding. 30 seconds. That’s all. The kids blast him with a series of logical questions. “What…
