God's Pursuit of Me 2 comments

Farewell Old Friend

By laceykeigley on July 30th, 2010

You know what I am through with?

Pretense.

Maybe it’s my age.

(I did just officially get older last week.)

But I don’t feel the need

(nor the desire)

to appear to be what I am not.

If you ask me how I am – I will tell you.

I won’t say “fine” when I am not.

No, I don’t plan on giving you more than you asked for or disparaging people in my path to being “real”.

But I don’t care to be pretend any longer.

And I don’t want you to be that way either.

You don’t have to share your deepest secrets with me when I ask you how your day was but there’s no need to sugar coat your perspective.

I can handle it.

Or I can’t.

Whichever.

I don’t post about every bad day I have or every lousy moment I experience or every parental mistake I make.

(Although I do share an awful lot of that stuff.)

Sometimes I try to focus on something beyond that though.  I try to shift my perspective and remind myself of the good,

which mostly outweighs the bad.

But I don’t think that’s pretense.

Because if you see me in person,

if you ask me face to face,

I’ll share the other side too.

The grittier stories.

The I-can’t-believe-this-actually-happened tales.

Because they are both true, of course.

They are both happening.

I think pretense is when

you pretend

the rotten isn’t real.

You act like you

have it all together

when you do not.

You pretend that

you

are

not

broken.

I’m not down with that kind of pretending.

And maybe it has taken most of my life to realize that.

That’s the kind of pretense that I am shoving out the door.

And it’ll be okay if you don’t meet me half way.

If you aren’t up to the age of vulnerability yet.

Or ever.

But pretense is no longer my friend.

He’s not a companion I choose to seek.

It just seems to me

that pretense

leaves so little room

for

grace

and

miracles

and

God’s strength

being broadcasted

through my weakness.

And that’s what I want to be all about.

HomeLife 6 comments

a little change goes a long way

By laceykeigley on July 29th, 2010

You know I love to rearrange furniture.

But sometimes I don’t have that much time.

Or that many options.

(There are only so many ways one can rearrange three pieces of furniture in a narrow room when one’s husband insists that all three pieces of furniture face a certain wall featuring a certain screen.)

So I change what I can.

I alter all of the containers, jars and stuff sitting on the kitchen counters.

I give my favorite glass oatmeal container a touch of new life with a cute label and a bit of ribbon taken from my birthday flowers from Leanne.

I switch the locations of all of my sugar and flour containers, stashing a sweet red tin with whole wheat flour next to my mom’s old glass sugar jar.

The labels on my rows of spices stored in the old Coke crate received an update.  The blue Ball Mason jar with its golden flax seeds moved across the kitchen for a new view.  An old enamel strainer with a red rim found new life holding coffee and the coffee grinder.

I actually decluttered a bit as well, choosing to store a handful of glass containers inside the cabinets for the next few months, until the urge to switch everything strikes again.

I ended up with an empty space on the counter beside the sink and an empty jar with a fun red lid.

That was unacceptable.

So I filled the little glass jar with dish washing detergent, stuck a tiny metal scoop into the powder and called it utilitarian art.

It’s really just a few changes and a bit of shifting here and there.

But it made me happy to gaze upon my newly switched counters.  To change my perspective.  To look at what I already have and see it all with fresh eyes.  To coordinate my reds across the room and to take pleasure in the truly simple aspects of life.

A good life, really.

A blessed life.

God's Pursuit of Me, HomeLife 2 comments

today

By laceykeigley on July 28th, 2010

What day of the week was today?

I don’t remember.

Do you ever have days like that?

I awoke to chaos in my room.

It came to meet me in my bed, actually.

In the form of a two and half foot screeching two-year-old who had experienced a bad dream about lions and monkeys and tigers.

And here it is – some 14 hours later.

I don’t think I heard anyone call me by my given name.

What did I even do today?

Uh.

I watched Otto conquer two steps.

And then I watched two steps conquer Otto.

Twice.

Little bruiser.

For 14 hours today

14 hours in a row

someone was near me -

tapping, touching, asking, whining, showing, clinging, hugging.

There was no moment when this was not true.

14 hours.

I exaggerate not.

I didn’t see the outside world until 5:30 p.m. – I don’t actually know why it took me so long to step outside.

It seems I simply never made it that far to the door.

I

am

spent.

Exhausted.

But here’s something interesting.

I realized something pretty startling to me.

Something I almost missed.

Just about overlooked.

But am so grateful I did not.

Despite the loudness, the running, the chaos reverberating against the walls of our house because it was just too hot to play outside,

I didn’t lose my temper today.

My discipline was not anger-based

(although there was loads of it dished out).

I was pretty calm.

I laughed.

We read books.

We made monkey bread.

The kids put on a show from the story we read.

(It involved more mess, more loud noises, more jumping and more shouting.)

We cleaned.

We made messes.

Laundry was folded

and folded

and folded

and put away.

We were busy – very little television was watched.

And through it all

one thing

remained true.

One thing remained steady.

Through absolutely no strength of my own.

With absolutely no praise due in my direction.

God was enough.

I was sustained.

And I don’t know how

exactly.

(There was no voice from the heavens.  No hand reached out to pick me up.)

Or,

rather,

I do know how

exactly.

He was sufficient.

Simply sufficient.

And He showed up in a hundred little ways

and that made this day of exhaustion better.

14 hours later,

and I think I didn’t accomplish anything

and you might think that too about your day.

But you did.

And so did I.

I served my family three meals.  You probably did too.  That’s huge.  Colossal really.

(And good meals – one from an Eating Well magazine even. That has to count for something – right?)

I met a tangible need my family had.  To provide strength and sustenance from food.

I did that.

I read books and stories to my children.

I put on a band-aid (which wasn’t exactly necessary for her physical well-being, but maybe it helped her mental well-being).

I settled arguments, oversaw crafty activities and monitored chores.

I mothered my young crew.

I am exhausted from the sheer demands of normal life.

I am.

But I am not defeated.

And I will be able to wake up tomorrow and do this job again.

Not because I am strong.

But because God is.

HomeLife, Piper Finn Willow 1 comment

grocery list

By laceykeigley on July 27th, 2010

It was that time again.

Cabinets looking a bit bare.

Fridge filled with containers holding leftovers mostly unrecognizable as former food.

I needed to go to the grocery store.

I always make a list before I head to the store.

But today,

Piper made the list for me.

This is what she said we needed.

I wrote it down.

As she spoke it.

Because that’s how you make lists – right?

No editing allowed.

I promise.

Piper’s List

Pizzas

7 bunny rabbits

Some peas

6 suckers

We need 7 marshmallows

Some cantaloupe

Some watermelon

Cheese

Some bedtimes

Blankets

Pillows

Kids

Some rings

Spoons to mix

7 sugars

I’ll see what I can do my Willow.  The watermelon sounds good and the cantaloupe is a must.  But those rabbits?  I don’t know.  And kids?  What?  Are you crazy?

HomeLife, Mosely Ella Claiborne 8 comments

Mosely Elliot Claiborne Keigley: The Interview

By laceykeigley on July 26th, 2010

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 your full name and age?

Umm.  Mosely Elliot Claiborne Keigley.  Ummmm.  Six and a half.

Mosely – what do you think of the name your parents chose for you?

Umm.  I think it’s fun and I like it.

Do you have any nicknames?

I don’t know.

Does Daddy or anyone else call you a name other than Mosely?

Umm.  Dad calls me Mo-Town.

What do you think of that?

It’s funny.

Right now – tell me your favorite movie, favorite song and favorite snack.

My favorite snack is, hmmm, goldfish.  My favorite movie is Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.  [I think that's a TV show, but we aren't here to argue semantics.] And my favorite song is “Pulverize”.

Pulverize?

Uh – yeah.  Pulverize.  It’s a Jonas Brothers song.

You mean “Paranoid”?

Yeah.

[Thanks again, Riley.  Thanks a lot.]

How would you spend one day if you could do anything you wanted to do all day long?

Color.  With markers and crayons and pencils.  And markers.

Have you ever touched a snake?

Yes.

Why?

Because I wanted to see what it felt like.

And what did it feel like?

It feeled funny.

Do you think insurance is overpriced in America?

[Laughs.]  No.

Why not?

Uh.  I don’t know.  Anyways, what’s insurance?

It’s something grown ups buy to help them pay for their doctor’s bills.

Ah.  Oh, then yes.

What is your favorite place to vacation?

The beach.

Why?

Because it’s fun to play in the water and to play in the sand.

Do you think I’m funny?

Yes.  [Laughing.]

Why?

Because sometimes you say funny things.

Do you think Aunt Emma is funny?

Yes.  [Giggles.]

Why?

I don’t know.

Who’s funnier – me or or Aunt Emma?

Umm.  You!

How about me or Daddy?

Daddy.

What?  Why?

Because he has funny voices.

Just voices?  That’s all?

Yeah.  Because he can do Donald Duck’s voice and Minnie Mouse’s voice and Goofy’s voice and Mickey’s voice and Daisy’s voice.  And . . .

Okay, I get it.  Daddy’s funny.    Are you funny Mosely?

[Deep intake of breath.]  No.

Really?  Why not?  I think you’re funny.

[Snorts.]  Uh – why do you think that?

Because you make me laugh.  You snort.  You crack me up with your funny words and your crazy expressions.

[Gives me an expression.  A crazy expression.  And then says - "Write that down."  I can't explain that I cannot write down an expression.  I do wish I could however.  It's a good expression.]

Do you sleep in a bed?

Yes.  [Much giggles.]

Why not sleep in a hammock all night?

[Snorting heavily.]  Because that would only give me bug bites.

Yes.  That’s true.  What else gives you bug bites?

Um.  Ticks.  Mosquitoes.

Do you want a kitten Mosely?

Yes.

Can you get one?

No!  Dad won’t let us.  He doesn’t want kittens.

Why doesn’t Dad want a kitten?

‘Cause you need to take care of it a lot and uh, the dogs will try to get the kitten.

Mosely – have you ever thought about what type of job you would like to have as a grown up?

A tooth doctor job.

Oh.  Interesting.  Why?

Because we can help and use different tools to get cavities out and check your teeth and brush your teeth and you help people not get cavities.

Hmm.  What would you do if a kid came into your office and was crying a lot and was really scared?

I would see what’s wrong.  And he will say, “My tooth hurts.”  And I will say, “Probably you have a cavity or your tooth is very loose.”

Listen, Mosely – there’s been this rumor around here lately that maybe you know aliens.  Is there any truth to that accusation?

No.

Really?   You’re not from another planet?

No.

Hmm.  Then why do your siblings keep saying that you are?

I don’t know.

Are you hiding something?

No.  [Looking around and trying to see if she is, in fact, hiding something.]

Are you telling the truth?

Uh.  Sometimes.  [Loads of laughs.  And crazy expressions.]

So – seriously, Mosely – are you from planet earth?

Uh.  Yes.

What about your confession one day to Nate that you are actually from Planet Narwab?

No.

Hmm.  Then why did you tell Nate that?

I did not.  [So many giggles.]

Actually, I heard you.  You did.  So what gives, Mosely?

[Laughs.  Snickers.]   What?

I mean – what is the truth?  Are you an alien?   Do you have alien friends?   What’s the real deal here kid?

No.  [More loads of laughter.]  I do not have alien friends.  Piper definitely has alien friends.

Hmm.  So your sister is the alien but not you, eh?

No.

Get your story straight girl.  What’s the truth anyway?

When you obey God –  and your mom and dad.

Uh.  I think we’re heading in another direction now Mosely, so let’s just wrap this up here tonight before you hit the sheets.  So, Mosely – what do you plan to dream about tonight?

Pegasus.

Pegasus?

They’re cool.

On your planet?

I do not have a planet.  [Spoken in a robot voice.  No, seriously.]  What does “wrap it up” mean?

It means that this interview is complete and you need to go to sleep now – okay?

Okay.

Hey – Dad, can you come cuddle with me?

London Eli Scout 5 comments

Seven is Sweet

By laceykeigley on July 24th, 2010

Oh Seven.

You are fun.

When you turn 7 here

we set out the treasured Special Special Day Plate.

And you get to eat your meal upon that plate.

And you get to choose the meal.

No matter what you want.

We will all eat it.

Even if you pick macaroni & meat with a side of mashed potatoes and an additional side of peas.

You also get to watch Dad decorate your cake.

And you get away with being a bit rowdy and having icing squirted inside your mouth.

And maybe you even get a little help cleaning that icing from your face.

You also get to decide what your cake will look like.

(Which seemed to be a difficult decision this year for our little Seven.)

So sometimes we let you break the rule and pick two cakes.

It figures that you would choose cakes that are already food, but look like other food items.

Say . . . a taco and mashed potatoes.

We let you invite some friends over to share the cake.

And we let you also choose what type of dinner you would like to serve to your friends.

Oh – Choices!  The power and the burden.

You pick what you like best (after macaroni and meat and mashed potatoes and peas, of course).

And you picked

cereal!

Loads of cereal.

(We just walked down that crazy cereal aisle and you asked “Can we have this?” and you heard me answer what you rarely hear in that aisle – “Yes!”)

We also fulfilled another birthday request.  The only gift you actually requested.

Something that years of watching America’s Funniest Home Videos should have made us avoid altogether.

A pinata!

You loved your party.

Cereal.  Cake shaped like a taco.  Cake that looked like a bowl of mashed potatoes.  Many, many friends.  Beautiful, thoughtful gifts – art supplies, chapter books, stuffed animals, a red dress, trickster Simon, mobiles that you crafted and decorated your bedroom’s ceiling with almost immediately, pencils and more.   You couldn’t believe it!

In the middle of the chaos and the good times we watched you grab your ginormous dog from Lanier and your new chapter book from Laura and make a spot for yourself on the sofa amidst the walking/talking/laughing/eating/drinking and snuggle down with Rufus to read Alice in Wonderland.

Happy Birthday London Elizabeth Scout.

You are beautiful.

You are happy.

You are wise.

May it always be so.

God's Pursuit of Me, HomeLife 6 comments

Hey Jordin – I Can Tell You Why

By laceykeigley on July 22nd, 2010

There’s this song that always seems to be playing – in the car, from Riley’s bedroom, at our computer, from the kitchen iDock.  Always on.

Why does love always feel like a battlefield?

Oh, Jordin Sparks.

Why does it?

I’ll tell you why.

I will tell you why love always feel likes a battlefield.

(Actually, for the record – whatever that means – I don’t really like the song at all.  At all. I don’t even know why.  Maybe overexposure or something.  I’m not sure.  Probably overexposure.  But I feel as if I need to clarify that.  But really, why do I think I need to clarify my personal taste in music?  What do any of you care anyway?  I think it’s because I want you to know I’m cooler than liking a Jordin Sparks song.  Whatever that means.  Like I want to spout off my favorites so you’ll know what I am really like – to judge me by musical preferences.  Because that’s a good way to judge people – right?  Maybe that’s a blog post for another day – my vast and numerous insecurities.)

Good grief.

Anyway.

Why does love always feel like a battlefield?

Here’s the reason.

Here’s the reason love always feels like a battlefield.

Because it is.

It is.

It is a battlefield.

It’s a war.

And you get smacked around an awful lot.

Because to love anything you have to take a gigantic risk.

A leap of faith.

You know you might get burned but you throw yourself out there anyway.

In The Four Loves, C.S. Lewis said, “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

I wish I had said that.

“To love is to be vulnerable.”

It could not be more clearly stated.

That’s why love always feels like a battlefield.

It’s win or lose.  Life or death.  Victory or defeat.

It hurts.

When love is bad – it hurts.

To love someone and not be loved in return stinks.

Remember high school?

Remember every break-up in college?

Remember when the honeymoon of your marriage faded and your feelings were hurt and your expectations were unmet?

Remember when your best friend said that one thing/ did that one thing/ broke that one promise?

That hurts.

It’s a battlefield.

Even when love is good – it hurts.

Remember leaving home for the final time?  (College, marriage, new apartment, whatever.  You wanted that freedom from mom and dad but it hurt a little to be set free too.)

Remember saying goodbye to a grandparent for the last time?

Remember moving away from family or friends to a new job, a new state, a new something?

Remember the first time your own baby walks away from you, waves goodbye at the school bus, spends the night at a friend’s house?

It’s love.

Your heart is crazy-overflowing-full of it.

But it hurts.

It’s a battlefield.

And if you decide to play,

if you decide to risk,

if you decide

to love

you have

just decided

to be hurt.

You cannot escape the fate of that choice.

You cannot

choose love

and

be safe.

Keiglets 6 comments

what do you think?

By laceykeigley on July 21st, 2010

Do you think when e.e. cummings penned the word

mudluscious

he was thinking about

something

a little like this?

Could there be a day more puddle-wonderful Mr. Cummings?

Bergen Hawkeye, HomeLife 2 comments

in the name of love

By laceykeigley on July 20th, 2010

Things I Have Done In The Name Of Love . . .

Walked through Goodwill as it was closing (and the employees were announcing approaching closing time over and over) while searching for the new orca whale owned and then lost by one young Bergen Hawkeye Norton.  (Yes, that orca whale.  He’s had a hard life.  And – I looked up the  phrase “orca whale”.  Saying both is pretty superfluous.  They both mean the same thing.  Orca means whale.  But Berg calls it his orca whale.  And I like Berg.  So I just plan to call it what he calls it.  Because I can.)

Searched the kid’s clothing aisle  where we had stood for a long while.

No orca whale.

Traveled over to the dress section where I had forced the kids to hover near the cart for a few minutes while I found a few cute deals.

No orca whale sighting.

Sighed heavily.

Avoided making eye contact with every Goodwill employee as I knew I looked as if I was trying to steal something.

Forced myself to check the dressing room area despite the fact that the loudspeaker had just informed everyone within hearing distance that the dressing rooms were no longer open.

No orca whale.

Prepared myself to tell Bergen that his orca whale is no longer his orca whale.  Instead, it will shortly belong to whatever little boy discovers it at the Goodwill.

Stepped back once to check a video rack I saw Bergen prancing near as I checked out a few minutes ago.

No orca whale.

Or – wait.

Something was lying just under the edge of that shelf.

Something small.

Something black and white and orca whale shaped.

Ah, yes.

The orca whale.

I grabbed my prize.

Exited the store

and earned my evening’s title

of

Hero.

Orca whale saver.

All for the love of a five year old.

HomeLife, Piper Finn Willow No comments yet

I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends

By laceykeigley on July 19th, 2010

I have long chronicled this relationship.

Emma and I joke that we want these kids to get married (in the far far far far far distant future) just so we can have the world’s best photo montage/slide show/blue-ray extravaganza at their wedding.  It could be like a feature length film.

They’ve been friends.

They’ve been enemies.

They’ve been in between.

Shoot, they have even shared underwear!

So it was with bated breath (Not really –  I don’t even know what that phrase actually means.  Someone else care to look that up for me?  Thanks.)  that we met together this July Fourth to see how the two two-year-olds would manage a whole week in one another’s company.

Maybe it was their increased maturity with their advanced age, but this year I think they hit their stride.

It was really all ups, no downs.

They shared a picnic blanket to watch the bigger kids do the slip and slide when they both thought that the slip and slide action was a little too intense for their tastes right now.

I already told you about the good natured ice cream cone eating contest – the two participants hardly knew they were competing I think.  As soon as Beckett won, Piper laid down her cone and quit altogether.

Beckett and Piper shared food at the table and sat together whenever they could.  In fact – it was hysterical to observe.  Like a needy, little, mostly incapable, struggling married couple. Piper offered to cut Beck’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a plastic knife, which really means to mangle it to death, forcing Beckett to eat peanut butter sandwich mush.   And while she was taking care of that, Beck was there to meet her needs as well.  He hand-fed Piper bites of string cheese while she cut/mangled his bread.  It was hilarious.

Then there was the team play – or team ganging up.  They discovered the mischevious powers of two preschoolers versus one Oma.  I watched them  (and didn’t stop them, I must confess) as they plunked their two cute heads together and one whispered covertly, “Want to pour water on Oma?”  And the other responded, “Yeah – let’s do it.”  And then they did.  They chased poor, innocent, kind Oma and poured water on her toes.  And then they laughed uproariously as if they had never been witness to a funnier event.  Because they derived such immense pleasure from this occupation they gathered forces together again, took turns pouring water back and forth in one another’s water bottles to get even amounts and then went in for round two.  They still laughed as if there was nothing funnier that ever existed.  (And maybe there hasn’t been for them.  You know – they are too young to watch Modern Family yet.)  They probably would have kept up this game all night but eventually Oma stopped giggling and they lost interest.

But then they resumed another favorite game.  An old classic brought out again from their earlier years  - growling.  Just growling at one another.  While running in circles and chasing one another and giggling between fits of growling.  And growling between fits of giggling.

Pure joy.

Really.  We don’t care if these two get married or not.  (Anyway, Jon says he’s not sure about his son marrying a Keigley girl, but I think we should be more concerned perhaps about our daughter marrying a Joersz boy.)

Besides, it won’t require a marriage for us to break out a slide show – or a blue ray extravaganza or whatever piece of technology is the coolest for viewing our bazillion digital shots of these two cuties.

They can’t escape being friends – so we’ve got that covered at least.

Joint graduation parties maybe?

HomeLife, Piper Finn Willow 9 comments

The Best

By laceykeigley on July 16th, 2010

Piper likes to say, “You’re the best, Mom.”

And then she adds, “You’re the best mom in the whole world!”

Then I say, “No”

and she says,

“Yes, you are!”

It’s an adorable game.

Except

she’s wrong,

of course.

I am not the best mom.

Not in the whole world.

Not in the United Sates.

Not in South Carolina.

Not in my neighborhood.   (I don’t exactly live in a neighborhood.)

Not

even

the best mom

in my own house some days.

I am not.

In truth,

I am only

the best

mom in my little Willow’s eyes

because

I am the

only

mom

she has ever known.

That’s it.

Not the best,

just the only.

(Which is as good as the same to her two-year-old perspective.)

I’m her reference.

For better or for worse.

Like some sort of marriage contract.

(Only more permanent.)

Piper is only two.

She doesn’t have enough knowledge of moms in general to compare me with other moms.

She isn’t sixteen, like some kids at our house, who look at the mothers of their friends and think (and say), “His mother doesn’t care if he listens to the radio while driving” or “Her mother always lets her wear whatever she wants” and “Her mom just bought her a new car”.

She isn’t even sixalmostseven yet and making bold declarations like someone I know.  ”When I have kids, I am going to let them eat donuts for breakfast every day” or “When I am a mom, my children will be allowed to sleep with me every night”.

As far as moms go, Piper is only an expert on Me.

All too soon her horizons will broaden.  Her view will be less restricted.

I will be exposed.

The gig will be up.

My status as “Best Mom in the World” may be lost – or tarnished at best.

For now,

I like the game.

I like the false sense of self it allows me to feel.

In a world where praise is too often closely guarded,

I’ll take my accolades where I can find them.

Even my fleetings ones.

The naive proclamations from a little girl who just hasn’t seen enough to know yet.

Thanks, Piper.

“You’re the best too.”

God's Pursuit of Me, HomeLife 15 comments

good day. bad day. control. letting go.

By laceykeigley on July 14th, 2010

Today was a good day.

But it was lining up to have every reason to not be.

Fox has been fighting some kind of sickness for the past several days but his little conditions worsened by this morning.  Crusty, weepy eyes.  Runny, red nose.  Add in a cough and eye rubbing and general discomfort and I knew we should probably make the journey in to see a doctor.

We had a Pisgah Forest trip planned but we ditched that and I called the doctor.

“Can you be here in half an hour?” the nurse asked.

I looked around my kitchen.  Four mostly disappointed kids (they love Pisgah – and today was all about turtles) dressed in pajamas eating donut holes sitting on our counter.  Fox scarfing down Cheerios and toast at his chair at the table.  Doctor’s office at least a 30 minute drive.

“No.”

She added fifteen more minutes to the offer and I was forced to accept the challenge.

This little Band of Keigley can hustle when the need demands it and their love for baby Otto motivated them to quickly find (matching!) outfits, shoes and hats.  (Hats because who had time to comb hair?  Not us, my friends.  Not us.)

Five children in a doctor’s small exam room.  Two available chairs.  (Four kids who wanted those two chairs.)  A squirming toddler who wanted to walk.  To run.  To break free from the arms entangling him.

But London and Mosely politely and kindly corralled their younger siblings and engaged them in quiet, appropriate play.  The wait was short.  The doctor friendly.  The ordeal pretty much painless.  (Well, Fox might not agree.  He was the one with a thermometer shoved up his bum.)

Prescription needed to be filled.  Long wait at Target for said prescription.

No worries, however.  The bikes were fun to look at.  School supplies were on sale – my favorite notebooks for only a quarter.  (Yeah –  I bought 16.  Or more.)

Otto was content to sit in the big boy seat of Target’s cart and hold his blanket.  (A miracle, actually.  That child is never content in a cart.  He yearns for freedom always.)

Lunch time looming near and still quite far from home.  (Those donuts were about as long lasting as they were nutritious.)

Discovered coupons for free Chick-fil-A ice cream cones and a free spicy chicken sandwich.  Double score!

The kids rejoice at the rare opportunity to eat dessert before dinner.

Our four ice cream cone order appears as three ice cream cones and one ice cream cup.  Uh-oh.  (If you’ve ever had multiple children at a drive through you know how that small mistake can set your passengers into a tail spin.)

But nope – not today.  London happily grabbed a spoon and said she was glad to have a cup because then she could share with Otto.

The chicken sandwich was spicy.  Really spicy.

So spicy that after one bite I refused to take a second.  And I was really hungry.  (There were no donut holes left by the time the box reached me this morning.)

That turned out to be okay.

Kevin was home when we returned.  And also hungry.  And completely satisfied to eat a spicy chicken sandwich missing one small edge.

Afternoon creeps up and I remember my plan to try chicken tacos for dinner.  (Up until this evening we have been a strictly beef taco kind of family.)

Oh no – all the chicken is still in the freezer.  Frozen.  As chicken in the freezer is apt to be.

Upon further investigation it is discovered that the available chicken is not only frozen but still attached to bones.

How I loathe de-boning chicken.

Otto and Piper head for a nap and Kevin invites the three big kids (Riley is at camp this week) to go on an adventure with him to a nearby state park for a hike to deposit some of their energy into the nature from whence it came.

The two little ones sleep long and hard.

I attend to the unpleasant task of de-boning the chicken while listening to my iPod.  All alone.  I sing.  I dance a little.  I am alone (basically).

The tacos turn out great.

I experimented with guacamole for the first time after a quick text to Sally for an ingredient check.  (It didn’t taste like Sally’s exactly, but for my first time I think it was pretty darn fantastic.)

We spontaneously invited this funny guy over to join us for chicken tacos and guacamole.

This was just a day.

Nothing really spectacular.

But a day I figured from the get-go was going to be disappointing, long and burdensome.

And it really wasn’t.

I took control of what I could

and although I didn’t exactly close my eyes to what I couldn’t control

I did let it wash over me mostly.

I didn’t let it weigh me down

drag me low

keep me stuck.

(Even when it tried.)

I wore one of my favorite outfits and

my cool shoes found on sale at Mast.

I smiled and I laughed when I felt like doing the opposite.

I sort of crushed my natural emotions

(and I mean that in a good way)

because they cannot always be trusted.

They will lie to me.

And I will believe them

because that is what I do.

(I have been their victim before.)

And then I always reap the painful consequences.

So I controlled other things

(mainly my attitude)

and chose hope

because

I am trying to make those muscles stronger.

I responded as I knew I should respond -

not as my weary heart wanted.

(You know what I mean?)

And, yes,

that made a could-have-been-basically-rotten kind of day

into a mostly-better-than-average type of day instead.

(Maybe that magnet London was reading yesterday about happiness equalling wisdom has some real merit – eh?)

HomeLife, HomeSchooling, London Eli Scout, Piper Finn Willow 10 comments

happiness. wisdom.

By laceykeigley on July 13th, 2010

At the end of this school year it seems that London’s reading skills have finally taken off.

She reads everything.

All the time.

Beckett wore a shirt that had an arrow and said “He did it”.  London cracked up and whispered to me, “Mom, I think Beck’s shirt is perfect because it says he did it.  And he probably did.”

There was a sign hanging in Sally’s laundry nook.  ”Hey Mommy,” London announced.  ”I think this sign might be wrong.  It says ‘farm’ then ‘dairy’ but it probably should read ‘dairy farm’.”

And forget spelling any secrets out loud any longer.

“What?  It’s bed time?”  Or “Hey everybody – Mommy and Daddy say we might be able to get ice cream later.”

Really, though, I just adore a new reader.

It is simply such an unexplainable gift to know that she is reading thoughts and ideas because I showed her words and sounds.

And what’s more -

you cannot stop them from learning.

(Not that I would want to – but now she’s on this track and there’s no getting her off of that thing.)

If you’ve ever stopped by (or closely studied the backgrounds of my photos) you would quickly see that our house is a mecca of words.

A shrine to them, perhaps.

A friend’s younger brother once called it The House of Words.

I liked that.

(Even if he didn’t mean it as a compliment.)

Whenever Riley sees me with a paintbrush in my hands, she sighs and asks in mock disdain (at least, I pretend it’s mock), “What are you about to write now?”

I like words.

That figures.

So I stick them in a lot of places.

On chalkboard cabinet doors.

In the kitchen.  On the walls of every room.  On the door jams. In the bathroom.  By the sink.  Beside the closet.  Above the windows.

London came in from outside recently and said, “I read that one magnet Mom. The one on the door.  It said being happy is one way of being wise.”

“Cool.” I told my I-can’t-believe-she’s-almost-seven-years-old daughter.  ”What do you think that means?”

She gave me a classic London stare with a head tilt slightly to the right.   “Uh – it means that being happy is wise, Mom.”

Yeah – you’re right.

And happy.

And wise.

London skipped away.

The day progressed as it does.  (Which means we played, we cried, we ate, we ran, we rested.)

Eventually it was bedtime.

I asked London to help her little sister find her pajamas.

London agreed.

Piper protested.   (Because that’s what Piper does.)

She’s two.

I get it.

I don’t intervene at first.

And then I observe this . . .

London squatted to her level and

whispered in Willow’s face,

“But Piper,

don’t you know

that

being happy

is one way

of being wise?”