Keiglets
The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs.
-
Happy Birthday Laura Ingalls
Somehow, despite our entire school year’s focus on Laura Ingalls Wilder, her birthday surprised us this year. Last week, the girls were at a birthday party for their friend when I realized that it wasn’t just our sweet friend Kate’s birthday – but it was Laura’s birthday too! Of course, it was too late that day to celebrate our pioneer girl. A few days after that I gathered my class, also known as my children, into a huddle of sorts at the kitchen table. (Actually – we often form a huddle of sorts when we gather.) I told them the plan. Each child had two tasks to celebrate Laura Ingalls.…
-
Is there an echo in this house?
The Family Circus cartoon used to feature an additional character called Not Me. Not Me was a regular guest in their family. He was frequently seen near accidents or broken dishes or toys left unkempt. (Does that date me terribly to reference The Family Circus? It probably does.) Anyway. We are occasionally joined by the little Not Me at our house, but our primary guest goes by a different name, maybe he’s Not Me’s cousin. We know him by the name Me Too. I think forty seven twelve times a day when I say the word “yes” to nearly any question I’m asked I hear a chorus of Me Too’s.…
-
Backyard Bird Count
I know I should be counting birds – and I guess I sort of am. My little birds. One pajama-clad at 2:30 in the afternoon. One binocular wearing. Several scattered across the sun-dappled dirty dead grassed yard. One perched on a fence. Pencils, notebooks in five diminutive pairs of hands. Flitting. Fluttering. Flightless. You absolutely are my treasure. My collection. My sweets. My song. This selfish side of me would see you stay tiny forever. Stay small and close and mine. Caged birds. Pretty and contained. Stagnant and stable. The pieces both of what I desire and what I’d never want. Birds – the most beautiful I’ve known. The ones…
-
The Years I Know I Will Miss
When I hold a newborn baby I remember infant Hawkeye, miniature Scout, Mosely Elliot, wilde little Fox, petite Piper. I remember them all. But my mind doesn’t stop remembering with the lavender-scented downy heads of our newborns. I can still smell the baby spit-up endlessly residing on my shoulder. The cottage cheese-like crud that built up in the chubby neck folds and reeked of formula on sticky hot July days. I can’t forget the sleeplessness that seemed to settle on my brain like a fog for half a decade. Half. A. Decade. At least, people. At least. And of course I would not trade the first year magical experiences…
-
In the Rearview Mirror …..
One thing I love about blogging is that it’s as if my memories are all filed away neatly and in chronological order. Even the memories I have forgotten. These days we’re living right now with kids seldom involve poop and spit up and although I can distinctly recall the smell and the horror of both, I mostly spend my current days not really thinking about the poopy spit up days. Which is all to say – it all moves so very quickly. But this same month, four years ago, life looked a lot different. And since I had the pleasure of looking back – I’m going to invite you to…
-
Gnome For The Holidays
We live here. Our children’s grandparents live there. It is sometimes difficult to connect in a daily manner from state to state with one another. This weekend we celebrated an early Christmas at our place with Papaw and Grandma. And we gave them a little gift in an attempt to bridge the gap of all those miles between Ohio and South Carolina. Meet Columbia and Columbus. They’re gnomes. They match one another exactly. (And their names coordinate – get it? The capitals of each state.) We all composed a little rhyme that set up the story of the gnome twins. Then the kids and the grandparents walked along the driveway…
-
it’s a numbers game.
Otto can count to about twenty before he loses all sense of reality. After that his numbers sound hilariously complicated. “I love you more than forty two million two twelve eighteen six ninety pancakes.” (That’s a lot of love, folks.) I’m going to borrow his math skills for the night. Today my name (if you know me as “Momma” or “Mommy” or “Mom”) was said six thousand fourteen two nine twenty nineteen times. At least. I believe I was touched by small hands, oh so many small hands, about eighty seventeen four thirteen times. The volume level in our home was about sixteen nine thirty three eighty times too loud…
-
real life conversations overheard.
Mosely and Bergen were chatting on the front porch. “Hey Bergen,” she says. “We have matching pants – both jeans.” “Yeah,” Bergen acknowledges. “Well, kind of, I guess,” Mosely changes her tone. “Your jeans are not really blue. They’re more like green and brown with dirt all over them.” To which Bergen Hawkeye responds, with a shrug of his eight-year-old boy shoulders, “I lead a rugged life.”
-
Merry Autumn Days
Merry Autumn Days By Charles Dickens ‘Tis pleasant on a fine spring morn To see the buds expand. ‘Tis pleasant in the summer time To see the fruitful land. ‘Tis pleasant on a winter’s night To sit around the blaze. But what are joys like these, my boys, To merry autumn days! We hail the merry Autumn days, When leaves are turning red; Because they’re far more beautiful Than anyone has said. We hail the merry harvest time, The gayest of the year; The time of rich and bounteous crops, Rejoicing and good cheer.
-
cue the laugh track.
Greetings from the Maybe She’s Our Funniest Kid files. “Hey, Mommy – doesn’t Otto look like Gerald?” Piper Finn called to me from the other room. “What?” I asked. “He looks like Gerald.” She was pointing at Otto. (Who, at the moment, looked like ……. Otto.) “Piper,” I asked. “Who is Gerald?” Piper’s hand went to her hip. She looked exasperated but explained mostly patiently, “Hark – the Gerald angel who sings at Christmas.”
Keep Reading . . .
sunday matters.
mid-week rambling.
downhill: a commentary on this thing called aging.
-
happy birthday willow.
“All I want for my birthday is to play dolls with my friends.” I love when wishes are so easily granted. Six is a good age. We invited a few dolls over. And their girls. Lemonade was served in tiny tea cups that once belonged to Piper’s namesake and birthday twin, my mother. London made her famous scones. (They aren’t famous yet actually, but they should be. They’re legitimately delicious.) She even created seven miniature scones for the dolls. With a generous dollop of fresh whipped cream and strawberries and blueberries – the table was set simply but sweetly. A strolling musician named Daddy composed an original spontaneous tune for…
-
baking. or I am going to miss my kid.
I was in the kitchen. Making oatmeal cream pies for Riley for a surprise going away party. Because that was her last Saturday in the United States for the next ten months. Because I love her. Because she’s my kid and I’m her mom and this is what I do. And maybe it was the oatmeal cream pies. Or the absolute solitude I was experiencing – a rare phenomena at this season of my life. I don’t know. I’m sure it’s everything. I was thinking about brown sugar and oatmeal and wondering if rolled oats were all that different from old-fashioned oats and why it really mattered anyway and suddenly…
-
and so the school year has officially begun ….
The internets was overflowing with them yesterday. Cute back to school pictures. Bus rides and classroom doors and lunch boxes and kitchen tables and posters announcing the grades. Monday was our day to start up again too. Four students attending Wildwood this year. Same number as last year. Riley exited stage right and Finnian entered stage left. I like back to school just fine although I can’t seem to explain how summer leapt by this year and my mind still can’t believe one of my own graduated all officially and stuff. This school year I’ve been more excited about beginning than usual though . We are using the Prairie Primer…
