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The Times. They Were Good.
The house has been a little extra full the past few days. Full of Keigleys – like usual. Full of Phelps – not like usual but like a special unusual holiday treat. Full of laughter. And screams. Full of staying up late. And getting up early. Full of old “back in the day” stories. And current “in the trenches” tales. A visit to a restaurant with nine children. (Where the kids behaved beautifully. Despite the sudden, surprise mid-meal exit of one tooth from Hezekiah’s mouth.) We visited our local children’s museum and I left my camera at home because Page had his. And he is a wonderful photographer. We even…
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Once Upon A Midnight Weary
Last night we went to bed a little late – visiting with some good friends. (More details on those guys tomorrow.) For now – let’s just focus on last night. Otto was sleeping in a pack and play in Kevin’s office and from our comfortable and warm bed I could hear him crying. The indiglo feature on my old school watch glowed 1:24. “If he is still crying at 1:40, I’ll go get him,” I told my sleepy self. It sounded logical then. I think I might have dozed off. 1:45. Oops. Still crying. Upon further investigation, Otto’s tears were justified. Somehow his sippee cup of water had been opened…
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Another Birthday Story. Different Birthday(s).
Remember how I said our stop in Atlanta was a soft landing place before making the haul to our next stop? That was true. (Because I don’t lie here – right? Well, at least not intentionally.) We drove nine hours to Florida two days before Christmas because we wanted to be a part of a fabulous birthday surprise for two marvelous people. Maybe you remember seeing their faces here before. Oma. Papa Dale. The matriarch and patriarch of our framily. They both turned sixty. And we made it (just barely in time) to see their surprised faces as they entered the room. And by “just barely in time” I mean…
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We’re Still Here. (Except When We Weren’t.)
If you follow our lives primarily through this blog, then it might appear as if Mosely turned seven last week and then life stood still at our house. No posts. No comments. Internet silence. Well. Life did probably stand basically still at our house. But we did not. Stand still, that is. In fact, we were on the move on Mo-Town’s birthday too. We were headed south. (For an event I will probably write about tomorrow. I say “probably” because I can’t ever really guarantee if my day will include writing or cleaning up vomit or playing board games or baking dozens of blueberry muffins.) We landed near the ole’…
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6 + 1 = 7
Yesterday Mosely was six years old. Today she is seven. (Blink. Blink.) How did this happen? Happy Birthday Mosely. I hope you enjoy your Barbie birthday cake and your pink and purple star pinata. Mosely Turns Seven from Lacey Keigley on Vimeo.
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at this house
At this house things like this happen . . . We bake gingerbread cookies with joy and enthusiasm. Eager to get to shaping and cutting out our gingerbread people. Only to realize a few minutes later that the recipe calls for the dough to sit in the freezer for over an hour. Once that hour passes, children step up to the butcher block, less eager and with no desire to plow through multiple cookie cutting sessions. Which means that we ended up with one dozen adorable gingerbread boys and Christmas trees and two dozen gingerbread blobs.
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Gingerbread Houses at Grove Park
The Christmas Chain has been ripped open every morning with eager anticipation. The words on the little paper strips have led us to watching a few more Christmas classics – like Pee Wee’s Christmas Special. (Yeah, I don’t believe that’s considered a classic at any home but ours. It’s an insane little piece of 80’s/90’s television. Please, please, confide to me that someone else has watched this show so I won’t feel as if our family is odd alone.) We’ve baked banana bread and drawn Christmas cards for our neighbors. We’ve visited our local children’s museum and created gingerbread houses. But there have also been some paper requests that have…
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the flip side.
When I have an afternoon (or a day or a week or a . . . you know) that I camp out in the Feeling Small Acres here at this home place I sometimes let my mind wander to all the jobs I could be doing instead. Teaching high school. Writing for a newspaper. Raising goats. And all the other places I could be instead. On a mountain in Colorado. At the beach. Canada. (Eh?) And, thankfully, it is usually at those very precise moments God gives me eyes to see exactly where I am sitting. Most recently, I was sitting at our kitchen table. With a kid eating a…
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small.
I don’t like deboning chicken. Who does? (I don’t even think “deboning” should be a word, let alone a verb.) But I like to ease the pain a little by telling myself, with every slippery touch of the gnarly chicken bones, this is love. This is love. This is what love looks like. (It’s a mantra. On rerun in my brain.) But there are days. Oh, there are days when although I still believe that this is what love looks like doing the small things with great love (thank you Mother Theresa) I still feel that maybe no one is listening. No one is watching. I feel small. Unimportant. Forgotten.…
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mmmmm . . . good
Raise your hand if you think a peanut butter and Nutella sandwich makes a delicious lunch.
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I’ll buy that.
There something else about that whole Webkinz debacle that I didn’t mention in my last post. (Because who would have kept reading as long as it was anyway?) Little does London know – and never needs to know I guess – that at that moment in that overly-lit store, I would have purchased that kid nearly anything she asked for. Seriously. And here’s why. London, my own ever-changing seven-year-old mini-me, held the orange and black stuffed alley cat of her choice up to me and said, “Look, I have to choose this one – her eyebrows look sad and I think if she comes home with me I can make…
Keep Reading . . .
Lists: The Only Way I Ever (Sometimes) Get Stuff Done
tick tock. a small choice.
hi.
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Is this funny yet?
This story I am about to share actually happened last week. I had to wait that long to tell this story so that I could find it funny. I don’t know if it’s been long enough yet for me to think this day was all that humorous – but I’ll give it a shot. The scene: Two or three days in to a week where Kev was at an out of state conference. The set up: 1. Two kids with a total combined savings of $11.00 and a burning desire to purchase a Webkinz. (Webkinz = Marketing scheme designed to rob parents of cash cleverly disguised as a cute stuffed…
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bitter vs. me.
It’s a battle. Maybe mine alone. (But I kind of doubt that.) It’s me in one corner and bitterness in the other. And sometimes I just want to lie down and hand my opponent the title. You win, I’d tell him. Just standing in my corner looking at you makes me weak. It’s a fight I’ve been in before. And one that I particularly am bent to repeat, it seems. I’m about as tired of bitter as I am of fear. Except I don’t seem to be fighting it nearly as well. I don’t think I know where to start.
