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wednesday.
Today I am sleepy. Walking about two steps behind myself. A bit buried under the demands of homeschooling four children, maintaining clean laundry for eight people, preparing meals for those same eight people. I like my job/life. In fact, I love it. I just wish I slept more last night. (And the many nights preceding last night.) Which means today, I have no real inspiration for writing. Nothing to share, really, except I wish someone would come to my house and clean the kitchen counters for me. But my sweet husband did take over the breakfast and math routine this morning so I could lounge in bed for a bit…
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My Life Is A Cartoon
A lot of my days feel so Family Circus. Yesterday was the first day of our homeschool co-op for London, Mosely, Bergen and Piper. You remember when the Family Circus cartoon would show Billy’s day with little foot steps representing his travels throughout the day, with loads of back tracking and detours? That’s what Monday felt like. We all arose early, dressed, breakfasted on peanut butter toast laid out across the counter, no time for plates. Checked backpacks, lunch boxes, water bottles. Times Five. (Otto Fox wanted his own tiny version too.) Dropped Riley off for her dual-enrollment classes at a nearby college. Parked the car at the co-op building,…
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matters of the heart
Well. We are in a new phase of parenting. Smack in the middle. Our oldest daughter is – gasp – dating a boy. Now, aside from the feeling of impossibility of that much time being allowed to pass, there’s some other issues this rite of passage is stirring up in Kevin and I. And I can just go ahead and give this disclaimer in writing right now, although I’d assume that every one of you already knows this. We’re pretty much not perfect parents. We are probably making parenting mistakes even as I type this post. And we will make more. Loads more, I imagine, if the Lord is gracious…
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is it the thought that counts?
I think it was last week. Or maybe it was two weeks ago. But when is not the point. We were hanging out in our kitchen, some friends and I. And I admitted to not following through on some act of kindness I had meant to do. Ryan consoled me with the cliche, “It’s the thought that counts though – right?” And we both sort of laughed. But then our conversation shifted into a more serious gear. And we realized, you know, it’s not the thought that counts. In fact, the thought doesn’t count at all, actually, if that’s all you ever do. Who cares what you think? What does…
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Piper Speak.
I love when my life just writes blog posts for me. It’s so easy. Piper Finn came wandering into the kitchen – apparently the room of our home where I spend the majority of my days. She had discovered a piece of ripped paper and a tiny notebook. Treasures to her four-year-old self. “May I have these?” she requested. The paper was a map of a hiking trail in Georgia from our end-of-summer adventure. “Sure.” I told her. (Pleased to have an easy yes for once.) She was thrilled and began right away sharing her good news with her unimpressed siblings. “Here’s my special map. Mom says I can keep…
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Dear 18 me.
My husband is a genius. He just invented a time machine. It has its faults, of course. It can only go backward, not forward. And there’s only one age where this machine stops. 18. Oh, and it isn’t actually a time machine. It’s just a website. But on this website you can write a letter to yourself at the ripe old age of eighteen. I’m writing a letter to funky-headed, self-absorbed, weird-outfit-wearing eighteen-year-old Lacey over there today. Which, I think, implies two things. One. You should click here and read my letter. And. Two. You should join the fun and write a letter to eighteen-year-old you. (And please, for the…
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bad word
The kids have recently been introduced to Kevin’s old collection of Garfield comic books. They love them. Odie has become a common name in our house and we often hear tales of what Garfield thinks about lasagna, Pooky and Jon. Last night, sitting at the kitchen counter, Bergen made a mysterious request. “Mommy, can I say a bad word just for fun?” I looked up from the stack of dirty dishes I was conquering. Hesitatingly, I answered, “Sure, son.” He grinned. “I hate Mondays!”
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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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the cute face.
Believe it or not, this is the face he makes when he says, “Awwww. So cute.”
