HomeLife
How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. - Annie Dillard
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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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Thanks Giving.
I am thankful. For these people. Who fill up my heart. And crowd me out of my own bed. Who make my life happy. And make my life loud. Who add purpose to my life. Direction to my days. Who cry and laugh in equal measures. And make me do the same. I hope you are spending your day being thankful with the people who color your life as well. Happy Thanksgiving.
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Piper at Play
In this house, I have found that there are many situations in which it is simply best to not ask any questions. The big kids were outside. Fox was taking a nap. I was sitting at the desk, tip-tap-typing away. Piper was playing by herself in the sunroom. I overheard her tiny voice saying lots of “honey” and “sweetie”. “What are you playing Little Willow?” I called to her. “Oh, I am playing that I have two husbands,” she came in closer to explain. “Two? Hmmm. What are their names?” “Big Foot and Big Monkey.” I don’t really need to know any more.
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The Cereal Survey
Apparently, the Keigleys eat cereal in an odd manner. And by “apparently” I mean Emma says we do this. We’re kind of fastidious about the temperature of the milk. And by “we” I think I might mean Kevin. And by “fastidious” I mean that the milk must be at maximum possible coldness. As in, the pattern is always the same. Leave milk in fridge. Choose cereal. Pour cereal in bowl. Get spoon out of drawer. Face your body in the direction in which you plan to sit with your bowl of cereal. Quickly grab milk and quickly pour milk. Do not be the last person to get milk poured. Even if…
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Backseat Conversations
A lot of amusing comments are tossed about in the backseats of our trusty Suburban. I can hardly drive for all the laughing. That’s not really true. It would probably be more accurate to say – I can hardly drive from all the crying. Anywho. (Why did I type that? I don’t even like it when people toss that nonsensical word into the empty spaces in conversations.) So. (That’s my preferred conversational pause filler.) Um. Here’s what I heard from the backseat on a recent outing. Piper: I’m making my hair pretty wet right now. Me: (Somewhat alarmed.) With what? Piper: Love. Me: Seriously, are you using spit? Piper: Ummmmmmmmm.…
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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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keep clicking. please.
I can’t deny it. I get pretty stoked when someone asks me to write about the things I normally write about on my blog on their blog. I like Nikkie. I like her writing. And what I like best about it is this . . . her honesty. Her vulnerability. Her clear desire to chase after God despite all the past that could keep her running in another direction. Her family looks a little bit like ours – a handful of kids, a mix of adoption and natural birth. And that’s what I wrote about for her today. Family. It starts a little something like this . . . …
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perspective.
Cuddling with Bergen before bed is sweet. And fleeting. I know. In a recent cuddle-fest, I kissed his ear and whispered, “I love you son.” “I love you too, Momma,” my pint-sized reading machine replied. “Berg – do you know how much I love you?” “No, Momma. I don’t know how much.” And he probably doesn’t. He really can’t. Because he’s five years old. So by his very length of life, he lacks what it takes to understand. He lacks what only age and time and experience can bring you. He lacks perspective. He won’t really understand how much I love him until he’s older. Until he has seen more…
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more than.
We’ve been doing a little rearranging around the house recently. (And Kevin’s not even out of town!) And rearranging often prompts me to clean places I have not cleaned in years. Thus, I discovered a dusty copper bin. Brushed it off. (I’ll sweep later.) And dug around inside. The extra eagle for back up. (But we know Piper will refuse – he doesn’t even resemble his counterpart. It’s no stunt double here. It’s another being entirely.) And my old backpack. From college. Gift from my mom – freshman year. So much decision went into choosing that bag. Color? Brown. (Should match with anything. Not a trendy color.) Durable. But…
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the original
It seems as if in almost all cases the original is better than the imitation. Like popcorn. (The real kernels popped on your stove taste better than the microwave variety.) And hot chocolate. (The little paper packet mix has got nothing on heating up genuine milk combined with real cocoa powder.) And the original Chick-fil-A sandwich. (Don’t even get me started on the inadequacies of that spicy version.) I guess Willow feels as if the same concept is true about her toys. Old Eagle is loads better than his new, never-been-loved, duplicate.
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The Leaf Song
A few days ago we were heading out on some routine errands. London hopped into the car with two pieces of rolled up construction paper in her hand. “Mom, do you ever like to write songs?” she asked me. “Sure,” I told her. “That’s fun to do. Do you make up songs too?” London admitted that she did and added, “I make up new words to tunes I have already heard and they mostly sound like this” and then she hummed a melody. She pushed her orange construction papers to me. “This one I made up to sound like this.” And she sung it for me. London said she wrote…
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big benefits
“So how many of these children are yours?” I hear that question almost every time I leave my home and venture forth into the world as we know it. Grocery shopping takes more than an hour. (A lot more than an hour.) In part because I have five young children with me. Also in part because I am sorting through coupons, doing (very) slow mental math and calculating good deals. And also in part because I am stopped frequently by strangers. Yes, I know I look as if I am running a daycare. (I kind of am. I just make no income from said daycare and the students are in…
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hawke: a running/ jumping/ reading miracle
My boy. My Hawkeye. He no longer has a mohawk. Which makes me sad. But when I last trimmed the hawk, the Hawke would not sit still under the hair trimmers and I managed to mangle the hawk past all recognition as a legitimate hairstyle. He’s just a mess of a little man. But I love him. So much. He can read. Seriously read. Looking at a cook book sitting on our counter, he says, “Mom – is this Southern Fixin’s?” (Which might sound like a corny name for a cookbook. But man, the recipes are amazing. It’s my go-to cookbook for all things delicious.) Sitting on the counter (I…
