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reading. aloud. together. all the time. every day.
I have heard mounds of advice about homeschool over the years. Piles and gobs. Good advice about managing your time wisely, about organizing your day, about unschooling and school on line and classical vs. Charlotte Mason, about textbook choices and co-ops and at what age your child should be able to read, speak, think, tie shoes, make a pie, write an essay, climb a ladder. And it varies greatly. All that advice – it points you in a thousand directions frequently opposed to one another. It’s tricky to navigate and it’s personal and it’s big and intimidating and it’s overwhelming. But I don’t think I’ve ever met a homeschool parent…
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mantra.
It’s because the days move so quickly that I cling to them so tightly. Having a senior in our home constantly reminds me – nine doesn’t last. But goodness – how sweet it is. Sweet, I tell you, to watch the kids craft magic out of yarn and sticks – a horse, a unicorn, a tiny doll. Pretend play in the woods. Bow and arrows from sticks and string. Forts built. Towers created. Conversations pure and innocent about trees and deer and songbirds. And I don’t always photograph this kind of magic Because I’m afraid that if I do they’ll recognize it as unusual and stop themselves. I want them…
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yes. we are.
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This post doesn’t feature any photos. I expect you’ll be grateful.
I was so prepared for back to school last Sunday night. Before 8 p.m. I entered the living room all aglow with giddiness. I floated across the old scuffed wooden floors and sat beside Kevin. “I feel really good,” I told him. He tilted his head toward my direction with a quizzical look on his face. “About what?” “About everything. My entire week’s lessons are planned. I have printed out a few different schedules for our new school term. I think the kids are all on track. The house is tidy. I feel organized and prepared. And it’s early evening.” I sighed the sigh of contentment. And the sigh of…
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38 years.
Happy Birthday Buddy. Happy Birthday!
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Retrospective.
I’m home now. (I have been for several days.) The Asheville Girls Party has ceased. There are dirty dishes in our sink (but not because Kevin and Riley didn’t take care of all that. They were amazing- but that’s a post for another day.) Laundry needs to be shifted from washer to dryer. I need to unpack my suitcase and put away the excessive number of clothes I brought with me (just because I could). But it is good to be home actually. I always sleep better in my own crumpled dilapidated bed beside my husband. But it was good to be gone too. Good good good to relax with…
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Asheville. 40. All good.
I’m celebrating and chatting more than typing and writing today. But here’s a few snapshots of the adventures thus far. We’re enjoying the cabin. And one another. Eating. So many choices. Shopping. Walking downtown streets. Paying a skinny man in a puffy jacket on a street corner to write a birthday poem. Which turned out to be a remarkably beautiful piece of written word. Thinking about trying to convince Kevin to stand on a street corner while I write poems about people and the kids draw pictures for them. Would you pay for that? Sharing old stories about the Beth Babes. Crashing a closed party in a downtown restaurant just…
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where this day finds me
I don’t know where you are. (Because that would be super creepy.) But I’m cozied up in a cabin in the North Carolina mountains with a hot tub, a box of Crunkles, fluffy white robes, a semi-roaring fire, a newspaper on our porch and four incredibly funny and entertaining friends. It’s New Years. And we are celebrating my long time friend Beth’s birthday – she’s forty! So far we’ve eaten fried green tomatoes and grits. Chatted into the wee hours. Laughed. A lot. Maybe even cried a little. And we’re only just beginning.
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Nine. Mosely’s turn.
It always happens to Mosely. It’s because her birthday is only a few days before Christmas. I never forget this cute girl’s birthday. Not ever. But I always underestimate the amount of effort and/or time it will take to pull a birthday event together. Wait – who am I kidding? I do this for every birthday in our house. I have it all planned in my mind. Gift ideas. Theme. Location. Guests. Odds and ends. But then – oh – then. The time always evaporates. Always. And then suddenly it’s two days before the birthday and the one gift I want to find is sold out and the place is booked…
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The Day After Christmas, A Catch Up Post
It was good to stay mostly far away from the computer screen for the past several days. This long long weekend has been restful and sweet and full of blog-worthy moments. (Of which perhaps I’ll eventually catch up. Perhaps. Perhaps yes. Perhaps no.) The annual Christmas Eve pajamas were a hit. Bergen has declared that he will no longer refer to pajamas as pjs. Henceforth, he says, he will call sleepwear jjs. He offers no explanation for this name shift. In other news, we Keigleys consumed our annual Christmas traditional dinner of Stone Soup. (Based completely on the book – we make the recipe up as we listen to…
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the simple beautiful. some more. and again.
These are the moments that I already know that I will miss. The moments that I wish I had stored up and stacked up higher and better with my first five children. (Five children – has it taken me this many to begin to understand?) The tiny and the tender helpful ways that a three-year-old tries to serve his momma. Otto Helps Oat. It’s beautiful. And I’m grateful that I have eyes to see.
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here’s to ordinary.
“Quality time” can never substitute for ordinary days spent doing ordinary things together. – Elisabeth Elliot
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good morning.
One by one, they arrive. Kid after kid. In random order. Sleep in their eyes and warmth clinging to their pajamas. The smell of night still tangled in their tousled hair. They crawl into our giant bed and wedge themselves between mommy and daddy and they feel safe. And loved. Eyes close again and sleep becomes the victor. I can’t turn over and a seven-year-old leg is trapping my thirty-nine year-old leg. But I lie still and let the leg remain. I turn off my alarms before they begin and I make a choice. A choice to sleep in. To cuddle. To accept an early morning kiss from a three-year-old…
