HomeLife
How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. - Annie Dillard
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dining in.
Vacations usually involve more eating out than our regular weeks normally contain. Much more. I love the convenience. Love it. I love not cooking. I love not cleaning. I love choices. And refills. And spills soaked up by Not Me. However. I always walk away at week’s end being reminded that homemade really is . . . well, better. Not as if I have ever served tilapia or chicken stuffed with mushrooms (or chicken stuffed with anything actually). But homemade is still good. The cooking? Sure. But so much more, of course. The sharing of space in the kitchen. The buying local and cooking fresh. The eating of the same…
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Mozart – The Wonder Child: A Book Review
The School of Keigley is back in session. (And we still need a better name I think. It just hasn’t been a priority.) I know I’ve mentioned that we use Ambleside Online as our primary curriculum guide. Each year we study three composers. (One per twelve-week term.) Last year one of our three guys was Beethoven. (Remember London’s terrific artwork?) And this year we kick it off with Mozart. We listen to Mozart and we try to read a handful of books about the composer – if they’re available. And it’s often pretty hard to locate great kid reading material about dead composers that doesn’t read as if it’s dead…
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the week’s middle
Was yesterday only Wednesday? First regular week of school at house. Monday night, while chatting outside together, we all notice that Mosely had just conquered riding her bike sans training wheels. She was rocket fast and slightly reckless with some hardcore swerving happening. Then Tuesday. All morning Mosely asks, “Can we go outside? Can we ride bikes?” Not yet, I keep answering. Spelling. History. Copywork. Bible. Reading. Done. Done. Done. “Alright guys. You can play outside while I fix lunch.” Before I blink, the table is empty. Three minutes maybe. Otto needs a diaper change. I enter the tent he and Piper have constructed in the living room. I change…
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Add it up.
Numbers aren’t actually my “thing”. (Isn’t that a super silly phrase? My “thing”? I hereby promise to never use that phrase again. Until the next time when I forget and use it anyway.) But numbers reveal a lot in our house. I bet they do in yours too. So. Let’s play a game. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. (Numbers, of course.) On average, mind you. 4 gallons of milk per week. Toilet paper rolls – at least 3 each week. Cups of oatmeal to feed this gang breakfast – 5. 96 eggs (or more) consumed each month. 7 beds to make (or remain unmade) each morning.…
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on our own path.
Last night our friends Mandy and Jody brought some of their friends over to our house for dinner. Our six plus their one plus their five equalled twelve kids. Fortunately they didn’t decide to overthrow us – despite their larger numbers. This family and their lovely little blonde offspring are on a 50 State Challenge. They are traveling across the country on a grand adventure for three months – taking on wild family adventures in each state. I mean – their six-year-old kayaks by herself. And has been for years! Years! Shoot – the only thing my six-year-old has been doing for years is sucking his own thumb. It was…
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vanilla. vanilla beans. vodka.
This week I took my two-year-old son into a liquor store. (Or do people call them ABC stores?) I didn’t dare let the kid get out of my arms. Have you seen what they keep in that place? Like a bazillion glass bottles all stacked precariously high in tiny rows. It was the second time in my life that I have ever entered such a store. I was buying vodka. To make my own vanilla. Seriously – how cool is that? My friend Heather gave me the vanilla beans but I had to supply my own vodka. Mosely and I split the delicious-smelling beans in half and scooped out their…
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at that point: the anniversary post.
Sometime near the end of summer camp it happened. Our marriage made it to Year Sixteen. Sixteen years in. We’re at that point in our years together that our wedding gifts are looking pretty battered. A decade and half of years will do that, you know. The couple of towels that are still remaining after all those years are shaggy and worn and are mostly used for cleaning up messes or protecting furniture when you move it. The dishes – they look pretty chipped. The sets are no longer all together. For every one whole piece another piece has been broken or chipped or cracked. I have more cracked dishes…
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busy. busy. dreadfully busy.
The last few days have been busy. A good busy, but busy. Summer ending. Lesson plans being prepared. (Who knew teaching four high school classes to my daughter would take so much preparation? Oh, wait – I did.) Camp drawing to a close. Annual camp-ending traditions being observed and embraced. Oh – and raising six children who have ambitiously declared it their goal to make plans to swim every remaining day of summer. I have actually not sat down before this computer screen in three days. I have missed typing words. I have. But instead of typing I’ve been wrapped up with other agendas. Agendas that involve listening to this…
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indeed.
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these days
These are the types of days that you can’t manufacture. The days that I want to store up and stack up until they fall over. Teetering and towering on the edge. These are the days that quality time just doesn’t register and it all comes down to quantity time. It’s an abundance of time, plain and simple, that allowed these four heads to sit around and make up something to do. It was TV off, no chores assigned, afternoon free time that created this moment. I can’t fake that and I can’t conjure it up. And I don’t want to miss it. It’s so perfect and lovely in its innocence…
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a tradition (apparently a year in the making)
Yesterday was just one of those days. The kind of days that are just fun and silly and one of the reasons why I enjoy living at a summer camp. Last summer after camp ended our friend Andrew sat over at our house one afternoon and had dreadlocks put in his hair by our friend Stacy. It seems that was the first of an annual tradition. Last night Taylor and Mitchell were the receivers of the dreads, once again put in by Stacy. Those boys both have a lot of hair. In fact, Mitchell’s dreads aren’t even finished yet. (But they will be.) But that’s not the point. The point…
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how I would like to appear.
I’m always seeing other moms out with their kids as my kids and I are running errands, grocery shopping and just living life. And some of these moms seem just plain miserable. Which makes me wonder, how many times do I appear the same way? What do I look like when someone catches that ten second glimpse of my life and sees me with my children? What do they see? Not that I’m trying to impress people or put up a good front. Goodness knows, I don’t have the energy for faking it. I just wonder if the sum of my moments with my children is more positive or more…
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Southern Nightlife
I love the kind of adventure that just sort of finds you. It has been way too long since my friend Mandy and I had taken a girls night out. So long, in fact, that we couldn’t even figure out where to go actually. We ended up in downtown Greer and decided to try out a local joint called The Mason Jar. Our waters were served in mason jars. Obviously. I think I must have lost a bit of my mind when ordering. Although we did stay away from the fried bologna on the menu. But I didn’t venture far from that delicacy, I’m afraid. Everything I consumed last night…
