Mosely Ella Claiborne
A cup brimful of sweetness cannot spill even one drop of bitter water, no matter how suddenly jarred. - Amy Carmichael
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a couple of seven-year-olds
It’s usually at night when I am most aware of it. Lying between London and Mosely in their single loft bed. Listening to them recount their days. Answering the same series of questions London asks every evening about the next day. “What’s for breakfast? What’s for lunch? What’s for dinner? What are we doing all day? How many hours until morning will be here?” It’s during this nightly ritual that I notice all the details I have been too busy to see all day. The way these two girls really know one another. The way Mosely’s two new front teeth are inching their way fully into her wide little smile.…
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Mosely: Defender of Truth, Lover of Justice
I attended a writer’s conference this weekend. I’m still mulling over my take-away thoughts scrawled in blue ink in my brown moleskin. One of the topics was about discovering your passion as a writer. The key speaker, Marybeth Whalen, advised us to think about what brought us joy as children. “What were you passionate about at six?” she challenged us to consider. And she shared a simple story about a friend of hers who is about to begin a business/ministry targeted to women, using fashion as the hook. And how this woman has a photo of her first grade class where she is a mini fashionista amid the casually dressed…
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it’s funny because it’s true.
The following conversation occurred during last night’s bedtime routine. Location: London and Mosely’s bedroom. Kevin: Good night, girls. London: Good night Daddy. I hope you feel better. [Kevin has strep throat. He feels not well. Very not well.] Kevin: [Overwhelmed with love for her consideration] Thank you London. I feel so blessed that you are my girls and how you guys show me that . . . Mosely: [Interrupting this tender moment.] I lost my lip. I think I ate it.
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We’re Still Here. (Except When We Weren’t.)
If you follow our lives primarily through this blog, then it might appear as if Mosely turned seven last week and then life stood still at our house. No posts. No comments. Internet silence. Well. Life did probably stand basically still at our house. But we did not. Stand still, that is. In fact, we were on the move on Mo-Town’s birthday too. We were headed south. (For an event I will probably write about tomorrow. I say “probably” because I can’t ever really guarantee if my day will include writing or cleaning up vomit or playing board games or baking dozens of blueberry muffins.) We landed near the ole’…
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6 + 1 = 7
Yesterday Mosely was six years old. Today she is seven. (Blink. Blink.) How did this happen? Happy Birthday Mosely. I hope you enjoy your Barbie birthday cake and your pink and purple star pinata. Mosely Turns Seven from Lacey Keigley on Vimeo.
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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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One Thing Leads To Another
Once upon a time there was a little girl. Let’s call her . . . . Mosely Elliot. Mosely Elliot had a loose tooth. That loose tooth came out. (During church. With the help of her older probably-should-have-known-better-than-to-mess-with-a-loose-tooth-in-church sister.) The next day Mosely wants to instantly spin the cash load of two dollars that some fairy traded for her tiny old tooth. I am convinced by many children to drive to the dollar store. After a fruitless half hour Mosely declares that purchases made at the dollar store have a short shelf life. Her money’s on the stuff she can acquire at Wal-Mart. Aaack! I am somehow coerced into the…
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good morning.
I was wading through our laundry pile a few nights ago. It wasn’t as bad as it was this week – but it was no walk in the park either. As I folded kid clothes I tossed all of the kitchen laundry into one gigantic, lumpy pile. And then I carried that lumpy pile of wash cloths, cloth napkins, hand towels and the random ShamWow and deposited them in the living room where I would deal with them the next day. That was my plan. The next morning, the sun rises as usual. And Mosely creeps into our room and pokes her head next to mine, as usual. “Mom –…
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Looth Tooth
Mosely’s been letting her front tooth dangle next to her bottom lip for about six weeks now. We’ve put numbing gel on it and tried to yank it out. (With her permission, of course.) But it stayed stuck. We’ve watched it float across her tongue and poke out in weird directions, but it never fell out. She’s eaten crispy apples and tried brushing her teeth really hard. (Another suggestion made for her by her.) That tooth just kept hanging around. Mosely has never lost a single tooth yet. She was so afraid she would reach the ripe old age of seven and still have all of her baby teeth. (I…
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Sometimes Being A Parent Makes You Say Bizarre Things
Kevin said the silliest thing the other day. He was sitting at his desk (read: an old kitchen table set up in our bedroom) and looking through the doorway at Piper Finn and London. He sighed. And that’s when Crazy exited his mouth. “Man, Lacey. We need to have some more kids.” I am sure I gasped. Dropped something. And suffered a neck injury as my head spun off my shoulders. “Whuh?” Yes. That is the sound most closely resembling the noise I made. “WHY?” I asked incredulously. (Obviously incredulously. I mean – come on. More kids? We have six of them already.) “Just look at them. They’re growing up…
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Yes, You May.
The other day Mosely said, “Hey Mommy, can I pick out my own clothes?” Pretty sure we had no plans of leaving the confines of our home, I took a gamble. “Sure,” I agreed. Mosely appeared in a too-big shirt and a slightly-too-corduroy-to-be-seasonally-appropriate skirt. (Actually, Mosely picks out her clothes pretty often and mostly does a great job.) It’s just that she has a certain pattern. A specific look to which she seems constantly drawn. And it looks a lot like this . . .
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Mosely Elliot Claiborne Keigley: The Interview
I assume you realize by now that our home here is nearly overrun by small children with small feet and small hands. And I take full responsibility for that fact. (Well, at least partial responsibility.) It seems these small humans are always changing, evolving, growing, becoming. It is my duty and my privilege to make note of this process. Therefore, I have interviewed the third daughter in line here so that you too may see how she is doing, what she is thinking and try to capture a glimpse of what makes this brown eyed beauty so unique. Let the questioning proceed. For the record, will you please state…
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Yes, You Can!
This weekend I took Bergen, Mosely and London to a community theatre’s production of Oliver. (It’s from my favorite Charles Dickens’ novel and I only just read it for the first time last year. How did I receive an English degree without reading that novel, Cumberland College? How?) I love community theatre. I miss it really. (And watching the show reminded me of how much I liked that stage scene. And I think I did a pretty decent job when that was my field of expertise. Despite what that one off-off-off-off Broadway director said when I brought him his requested red candles. “No. No,” he scolded me. “I want…
