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hodge podge
I can already hear them. My children. In the far future. Discussing me. Dissecting the way I do things. Analyzing why I wrote our meals on chalkboard cabinets and what my obsession with this blog was all about. And calling me a cheapskate. I know they will. I used to look at my mother as she gathered the remaining zip-loc baggies from our lunch leftovers each afternoon. How she dumped the crumbly contents in the trash and then rinsed each and every baggie for a future lunch. Yes. Rinsed her baggies. To me, then, that was right next to wearing black lipstick and piercing your nipples. It was crazy. And…
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he answered. with a full sentence.
He’s still just such a little man. And maybe it’s because he is Number Six and has no real need to speak at length, but our little Otto Fox Wilder has yet to really begin full-on conversations. Oh – he communicates. And he babbles and has standard inflections and a rhythm to his conversations. But you can’t usually understand very many specific words and he has never yet formed an entire make-sense sentence. Until dinner time last night. There was spaghetti on his plate. A fork in his hand. A cup of chocolate milk by his napkin. Otto began to make bird noises. Like a little cuckoo bird. (From a…
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a good deal.
The other night Mosely and I were reading a magazine on the bed together. Which slowly turned into a pseudo-wrestling match on the bed together. Because, for some reason, I think that kid’s love language is wrestling or rough-housing. Was that one of the options? It was – right? Whatever. Somewhere along in the wrestling game I decided I was tired so I closed my eyes and laid my head across Mosely’s legs so she couldn’t move. She thought it was part of the game, I thought it was basically restful. Then the game changed to wake-up-Mommy-any-way-I-can. To which I responded with the game don’t-let-Mosely-wake-me-up-no-matter-what-she-does-or-says. She tried tickling me. No…
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one rainy night
Last night was amusing. And low cost. Incredibly low cost. Riley had to work. Kevin had to work. I was basically just looking for something to do with the five remaining children and their one mother. My first thought was to drive down the road a little bit and picnic and play by this cool stream/waterfall area near us. But the skies looked grey. And I didn’t feel like eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. So I loaded up my rag tag team and headed into town. (They really were ragtag. Mosely’s green skirt did not match her blue shirt – neither in style nor in color. Although London’s attire…
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8.
Is a birthday all about the presents? Is it all about the family meal? The one where you get to choose any of your favorites, regardless of the combination, and have them served to you on the special birthday plate? Of course not! A birthday is about celebrating the life of someone you love, someone you know, someone you are so glad was born on this earth and you get to go about your days hanging out. Even better – you get to be family. Forever. A birthday is entirely about celebrating that person. And this weekend we celebrated our brand-new-eight-year-old . . . London Eli Scout. There are not…
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a little late night change
Sometimes it is only in retrospect that you recognize a moment that signifies a shift in your story. But sometimes, when you are right smack dab in the middle of the moment, you know something noteworthy is happening. It’s not necessarily a life changing moment, so much as it is a moment that will define a time period. You know, like the summer my family moved to the dairy farm when I turned 11 or the time I wore hot pink glasses for an entire year. That kind of moment. Last night, Kevin and I stayed up veryveryvery late helping London create just such a moment. We took our little…
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saying yes. something I perhaps should do more often.
A few mornings ago our family awoke to a rainy downpour. The children were at the side of the bed earlier than usual. “Can we put on all of our rain clothes and go outside?” The request seemed somehow less ludicrous if it meant I could sleep a little longer. But when I thought of saying yes, I thought of all that would mean for me after the rainy fun. Wet clothes. Soaked kids. Water dripped across every square inch of our home. Extra laundry. I looked at their eager little heads. I paused. “Yes,” I told them. “Yes.” “Go play!”
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A pastime. To pass the time.
“Can we watch a show?” I think I hear that question about every twenty minutes during the summer. Sometimes the answer is “yes”. But usually – the answer is a resounding “no!” And if it really is the twentieth time that morning then the answer might be, “If you ask me again I will happily give you a chore to occupy your time.” (Isn’t that a standard mom reply?) The kids have found a lot of interests to fill their time this summer but one go-to activity for the past year or more has been the same. I’m not even entirely sure what they’re called but at our house we…
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weekend farmers.
We had a barn full of them in Virginia. We’ve been thinking about having them here ever since we moved in. And then Hannah finished their beautifully-crafted home. But trips to Virginia and North Carolina took priority. This weekend changed all of that, however. And our family spent Saturday acquiring six new creatures/pets/providers. Chickens. We’ve got ’em. We drove waaaay out in the country to this adorable farm. What I really intended to purchase was four hens. Four grown hens that could immediately begin providing sustenance in the form of oval deliciousness for our family members. I didn’t really care what they looked like, so long as they dropped edible…
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five minutes. first complaining. then not.
One of my friends has this system about complaining. (I think it’s Emma. But I could be wrong.) She looks at her watch and says, “Okay. You have five minutes. Complain about whatever you want. Say every bad thing you want to say. Get it all out of your system. But you have to stop at five minutes.” (Or maybe she says thirty seconds. Who can remember the details?) What I’m really trying to say is – I have a bad attitude. I want to complain and I want to wallow in it. (Which is pretty much how I’ve spent my entire wasted day, if you want to know the…
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I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends
How long have they been friends? Probably since Cole could walk. (And he’s five now. So you can do the math.) The boys had so much fun at our Camp Fourth this summer. Bergen helps encourage Cole to do brave things – like holding a chicken in his own actual arms! And Colton makes it possible for Bergen to play boy games and spend extra hours outside. The fellas were mostly inseparable. Throughout the week, always unannounced, Colton would walk up to Bergen, hold his shoulders, look him in the eyes and announce, “Bergen. I love you.” To this sweet sentiment, Bergen would gently respond, “You already told me that.”
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always more fun to share with everyone.
I have always thought it would be entertaining to get together with a cluster of friends and herd our many, many small children together and sit back and watch the mayhem ensue. And now I know, not only is it possible – it’s downright refreshing as well. We already have another joint outing planned for next week. I can’t wait.
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dear humility: enough already.
Sometimes being a mother is a gig that is just so . . . . humbling. I mean, how many lessons in humility does one person need anyway? And can I tell you what? I think I’ve had enough already. Yeah. Enough already. Yesterday I stood in a waiting area with other moms and other kids to wait to register for that co-op I was worrying about the other day. (And guess what? We’re in! Three years on a waiting list! Hazah!) There were other children besides mine waiting as well. They were waiting patiently, with happy hearts shining through their sweet cherubic faces. And I promise, that has been…
