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A New Answer to an Old Question
Sometimes a schedule lets you down. Especially, in my opinion, a meal schedule. Actually, I guess the schedule has not really let me down. But an empty pantry often has. Our breakfast schedule is really not the problem. But dinner? That guy’s a real pain in the rear sometimes. And it is that pain-in-the-rear-daily-question of “what’s for dinner?” that brings me to my point. Ever so slowly. I read a post by my friend where she discussed feeding her children cereal for dinner. We do that sometimes. Eat cereal for dinner. As long as the milk is cold, you know. And I remember the Wickstrum family would have nights where…
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and now a word from this kid . . . .
Because it has simply been too long. Because my posts have not been all that funny for a few days. Because she is standing near me and asking me what she can do. Because I can. Today, I give you, an exclusive look into the mind of Piper Finnian Willow Lacey, age 3. Me: What should I ask you today? Piper: Ummm. (Thumb lodged in mouth.) I like birds. I want to talk about birds. Me: Perfect. What about birds? Piper: I like birds. Me: Right. What do you like about them? Piper: I like seeing their wings. Me: Where do you normally see birds? Piper: At our house. Me:…
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always something.
It’s always something. Isn’t it? At least, it seems that way around here. There is always something that keeps my day from running as intended. That stops me from checking off every little line on my to-do list. That makes our homeschool day run less structured than I dreamed while lying in bed the night before. Today it was a trip to the doctor for me and a diagnosis of bronchitis. Yesterday it was four little sick kids. Tomorrow it will be Otto’s doctor’s appointment. And the next day – well, I can only imagine. It really is – always something. But I am slowly trying to embrace the truth…
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distraction #42
I am too sick and too tired to be clever. Our home looks a bit like a war zone and we are its casualties. I am grateful to a couple of good friends who stopped by the house with beverages and soups and so many others who have made kind offers. While we rest and get better, just take a look at these shots of our little Wilde Fox of an Otto. Marvel with me at how handsome he is. Admire what a fantastic photographer Emma is and how she captures his quirky little looks. And notice how much Otto adores his hat made by Aunt Sarah. Seriously. He has…
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off the grid
It seems that for the past four days or so I have been unofficially “off the grid”. Mostly unintentionally. I think I first jumped off the internet waves Thursday morning because I was just plain old too busy to get online. I was too busy . . . sweeping the filthy crumb-encrusted floors of our house, running to the grocery store to be sure we had adequate supplies of milk, cereal and ice cream, piling laundry in and out of the washing machine in hopes that our children looked slightly less like ragamuffins than usual, and making lists of what I needed to get accomplished before 3 p.m. (I never…
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London said . . .
I really loved reading what you guys had to say after yesterday’s post about my flaws and the fears of transparency and how we all are tempted to reveal one face, but live another face. And I won’t deny that I am sitting in a bit of a funk right now. And that always spills out into my writing. (Actually – it more than spills out – this writing is often my exact method of coping, understanding and wading through the highs and lows of what I call living.) I don’t know if I can blame it on my age, my exhaustion, my current season of life or the too…
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I’ll go first . . .
There’s another way I’d like to be free. Free from fear of others’ opinions. Free from the temptation of trying to appear to be something I am not. I think we blog and facebook and tweet in a world that is far too easy to be fake. To be pretend. We write about the funniest moments. Or the sweetest moments. Our facebook albums are filled with the birthdays and the celebrations and the good times. We can morph ourselves into whatever shape we want in this digital pseudo-reality. And while it’s true that sometimes we are those people in the happy photographs, it seems to me that most often we…
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Letter Number Five (5)
Dear Library, I am afraid it has come to this. We’re over. It’s through. Your fines are extreme and reveal to me clearly my problems with schedule, routine and consistency. I don’t appreciate the way you continually remind me of my flaws. And charge me for them, as well. We can still be friends. I’ll stop by every now and then for a free program. Trust me, it’s not you. It’s me. But I can no longer check out your books. I cannot commit to visiting you every week. We just cannot see one another like we used to. Sincerely, Me
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weekend switch.
A family mish-mash. A switch. This weekend kids were all over, in other states and in other homes. Riley had a splendid experience hanging out with Emma and Jon. They shopped, cleaned and organized Emma’s house, watched movies and apparently ate large quantities of Italian cuisine. With a bit of a spur of the moment idea, Mosely was willingly whisked away to have her own adventure with this sweet family. She returned home with cupcakes, a huge smile and a bazillion stories she has not stopped sharing. (But sadly, no photo to insert here.) Our family did not just disperse children, however. We gained one new guy for the weekend…
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the last one.
I do not want another baby in our house. Trust me when I say, the Keigleys are done giving birth to babies. I’m not even the type of woman who gets all googly-baby-eyes when she holds someone else’s newborn baby. I mean, I like holding your newborn baby. I like caressing their bitty baby cheeks and admiring their new baby ears. But holding your baby in no way makes me hanker to hold one of my own. I’m done with babies. We’ve had our years (and they have been sweet) but they are over. Nonetheless, something strikes me when I watch the babyness grow right out of my last little…
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another still, small voice.
Does anyone else ever do this? Does anyone else ever battle that still, small voice? No, I don’t mean the still small voice of God. Not that one. (That voice is for embracing, not for battling.) I mean the other voice. The exact opposite, actually. That one that sounds more like, I don’t know, more like myself I guess. Just a really rotten myself. It’s the voice that speaks to you at all the worst moments. At the last minute a friend changes plans the two of you had made. Her reason is completely logical. Her kids are sick or her car is making a weird noise or an unexpected…
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the little details
When the name “Mommy” is called in this house, the voice often originates from the bathroom. So it was yesterday. So it was. And the voice calmly calling for assistance was five-year-old Bergen. “Yes, son?” I entered the bathroom. “You politely requested my attention to your utmost needs, dear boy?” (I think that’s what I said.) He was standing in front of the toilet. Pants appropriately around his boy ankles. All appeared normal from this angle. Oh. But not entirely normal. His boxer shorts were not lowered. They were, in fact, still neatly at his waist. “Mom,” Bergen looked at me seriously. This was obviously not amusing to him. “I…
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forget. remember. after. more words.
I have a friend who told me that the one word that has spoken to her for a long time now has been remember. And I love that choice. It seems as if I can never be reminded enough. I’ll memorize a certain portion of Scripture. Claim it. Call it to mind for weeks (and longer) over a particular situation. Then I might receive peace or calm. And then forget I ever walked that path. Forget I ever memorized that truth. Forget that God spoke to me and healed me. And I’ll wind up in my own pit with a giant running leap. Again. That’s what I seem to do.…
