HomeLife
How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. - Annie Dillard
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Field Trip Friday: Happy Cow Creamery
Field Trip Fridays are quickly becoming my favorite part of this school year. First we have math class and then we pack our lunches, load up and head out. (We listen to our composer – Mozart – on the drive, plus an audio book.) We’ve been to the apple orchard, the zoo and to DuPont Forest for a fishing class so far. Sometimes we go alone, sometimes with friends. This past Friday, our field trip was far from alone. We visited Happy Cow Creamery with over one hundred other home schoolers. (Yeah – over a hundred. What in the world?) (This picture makes me laugh. The nose-holding, the closed eyes,…
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Henry Huggins: A Book Review
Aren’t there just a few authors from back in the day that just seem to stick? A few names that everyone was reading in fourth grade? I don’t know who your names were, but a few of mine were Judy Blume, Cynthia Voigt and Beverly Cleary. Beverly Cleary created that pesky little icon Ramona. The kids and I have listened to loads of tales from Ramona while traveling in the car. For school Bergen Hawkeye and I read out loud to one another from various books. We take turns reading each paragraph. (I love hearing his inflection and watching him laugh when he gets a written joke. Plus, I am…
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so here it is.
The future rarely looks like the past. And change is the only constant. In some ways it seems as if our family has been rising and falling with the ebb and the flow of change for the last decade. Yes. Decade. Adoption. Vocational changes. Pastoring at a start-up church. Birth of baby. Quit teaching high school. Bi-vocational ministry. Adoption. Parents move far and far away. Birth of baby. Leave church and pastoring job. Mother passes away. Grieving. Birth of baby. New job. Relocation to another state. Kevin’s mom passes away. Marital crisis. Birth of baby. Recovery. Healing. It makes me weary just to type that insufficient collection that says…
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I’m Sure I’ll Make Time.
“Mom, when can I go running with you?” Hawkeye asked me this week. For the thirteenth time. “I don’t know. Maybe this weekend.” I replied. “So. Why do you want to run with me so much son?” “Because I want to hold your hand while we run.”
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Does Sunday Look Like This To Anyone Else?
I think our church is only missing one thing. And, to be honest, I’ve never seen this one thing in any church where I have ever attended. I’m not even sure what it should be called. But I know what its purpose will be. What every church needs is a detox room. A space between the nursery and the sanctuary. A Something In Between. A space to help you move from Chaos to Calm. Some passage to buffer the dichotomy of the two extremes. Seriously, if I was a nursery worker I wouldn’t want to see me enter the yellow two-year-old room. The passing off of Wilde Otto Fox alone…
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the soccer experiment
Soccer season is playing out quite differently this year. Last year three kids were on the same team and Kevin and Riley coached them. Talk about a family event. And we normally just play soccer in the spring. But this fall, all that changes. It’s a bit of an experiment, actually. (But isn’t all parenting, at some level?) This season it’s a Mosely-only soccer show. Mosely only has practice every Tuesday. Mosely only has a game every Thursday. Mosely only. And all the little fans sit on the sidelines and cheer for Mosely only. And of course by cheer I mean – Hawkeye throws his stuffed rabbit into the air…
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wednesday.
Today I am sleepy. Walking about two steps behind myself. A bit buried under the demands of homeschooling four children, maintaining clean laundry for eight people, preparing meals for those same eight people. I like my job/life. In fact, I love it. I just wish I slept more last night. (And the many nights preceding last night.) Which means today, I have no real inspiration for writing. Nothing to share, really, except I wish someone would come to my house and clean the kitchen counters for me. But my sweet husband did take over the breakfast and math routine this morning so I could lounge in bed for a bit…
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My Life Is A Cartoon
A lot of my days feel so Family Circus. Yesterday was the first day of our homeschool co-op for London, Mosely, Bergen and Piper. You remember when the Family Circus cartoon would show Billy’s day with little foot steps representing his travels throughout the day, with loads of back tracking and detours? That’s what Monday felt like. We all arose early, dressed, breakfasted on peanut butter toast laid out across the counter, no time for plates. Checked backpacks, lunch boxes, water bottles. Times Five. (Otto Fox wanted his own tiny version too.) Dropped Riley off for her dual-enrollment classes at a nearby college. Parked the car at the co-op building,…
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matters of the heart
Well. We are in a new phase of parenting. Smack in the middle. Our oldest daughter is – gasp – dating a boy. Now, aside from the feeling of impossibility of that much time being allowed to pass, there’s some other issues this rite of passage is stirring up in Kevin and I. And I can just go ahead and give this disclaimer in writing right now, although I’d assume that every one of you already knows this. We’re pretty much not perfect parents. We are probably making parenting mistakes even as I type this post. And we will make more. Loads more, I imagine, if the Lord is gracious…
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is it the thought that counts?
I think it was last week. Or maybe it was two weeks ago. But when is not the point. We were hanging out in our kitchen, some friends and I. And I admitted to not following through on some act of kindness I had meant to do. Ryan consoled me with the cliche, “It’s the thought that counts though – right?” And we both sort of laughed. But then our conversation shifted into a more serious gear. And we realized, you know, it’s not the thought that counts. In fact, the thought doesn’t count at all, actually, if that’s all you ever do. Who cares what you think? What does…
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Piper Speak.
I love when my life just writes blog posts for me. It’s so easy. Piper Finn came wandering into the kitchen – apparently the room of our home where I spend the majority of my days. She had discovered a piece of ripped paper and a tiny notebook. Treasures to her four-year-old self. “May I have these?” she requested. The paper was a map of a hiking trail in Georgia from our end-of-summer adventure. “Sure.” I told her. (Pleased to have an easy yes for once.) She was thrilled and began right away sharing her good news with her unimpressed siblings. “Here’s my special map. Mom says I can keep…
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Dear 18 me.
My husband is a genius. He just invented a time machine. It has its faults, of course. It can only go backward, not forward. And there’s only one age where this machine stops. 18. Oh, and it isn’t actually a time machine. It’s just a website. But on this website you can write a letter to yourself at the ripe old age of eighteen. I’m writing a letter to funky-headed, self-absorbed, weird-outfit-wearing eighteen-year-old Lacey over there today. Which, I think, implies two things. One. You should click here and read my letter. And. Two. You should join the fun and write a letter to eighteen-year-old you. (And please, for the…
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bad word
The kids have recently been introduced to Kevin’s old collection of Garfield comic books. They love them. Odie has become a common name in our house and we often hear tales of what Garfield thinks about lasagna, Pooky and Jon. Last night, sitting at the kitchen counter, Bergen made a mysterious request. “Mommy, can I say a bad word just for fun?” I looked up from the stack of dirty dishes I was conquering. Hesitatingly, I answered, “Sure, son.” He grinned. “I hate Mondays!”
