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Blame Kevin
Need more proof that the Keigley children have been allowed to watch too much television? Then I submit this little number. Bergen watched London spread strawberry jam on her bagel. He said, “That looks like ballistics gel.”
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I’m Sorry
After a kid infraction of most any variety, we require an apology from the offender. (A real apology. Not a mumbled-under-your-breath-just-because-Mommy-made-me-do-this sort of apology.) Someone is always apologizing for something at our house. Recently, after one such incident, followed by a mostly sincerely apology, the offended party refused to be consoled. “‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t change anything!” the still wounded child shouted. But I think maybe she was wrong. I think it changes a lot. When one of my darling offspring spills a drink for the seventeenth time that morning and actually speaks the words, “I’m sorry Mommy for spilling that drink. May I help you clean it up?” something is…
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The Sniffing Habit
Bergen has a sniffing problem. Seriously. He sniffs you if he likes you. (I have no reason to make this up.) I get sniffed pretty often. Usually routine, run of the mill type sniffing. My hands. My arms. When we are cuddling – my neck. Sometimes my hair. Just sniffing of the normal variety. Kevin – now that guys gets sniffed. And how! Bergen just hovers around and over (maybe even under on occasion) and sniffs Kevin. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. For as long as Kevin will allow. (For which he has gained an amazingly high tolerance, as a matter of fact.) Lately he has been experimenting with a new sniffing…
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In the Heart of the Country
We may not live on a farm any longer, but we sure can play as if we do. Kevin recently crafted a clever and warm winter abode for our three dogs. He made it out of hay and it serves its purpose of dog shelter while being amazingly eco-friendly. (What a guy!) And the kids think it’s real cool too. The play of every day since the dog home’s construction has been hay-related. Stick hay in the empty trash can. Rain hay upon one another’s heads. Roll hay into eleventy billion piles. Load hay into the red wagon and pull it all over the yard. Fill the trash can with…
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How did you do?
If you guessed the kid with the least self-control was Piper Finnian ….. then you win! High fives all around.
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Lunch Lesson
This was yesterday’s lunch for my children. I like to call it . . . self-control on a plate. Sometimes I like to place the kids’ dessert on the same plate with their food, a la Look Up Lodge cafeteria dining style. The rule governing desserts in our house, and probably in every house with young children, is basic. Eat your dinner first. It hasn’t changed in a long time. Back in the day, John the Baptist was probably eating his honey after his locust. So I just placed the Oreo on the plate beside the other food options. Oreos are actually a pretty unusual treat at our house but…
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Super Walter
I live in a funny house. With funny people. Mostly under four feet tall, funny people. I put Piper Finn down for her nap today and noticed a sippee cup in her bed. Inquiring from whence said sippee cup appeared, Piper informed me, “Walter gave me sippee cup.” That was plausible, since Walter was one of the co-babysitters last night while Kevin and I attended our first Bee Keeper’s class. (Yes. Bee Keeping. That’ll keep for another post.) The cup’s lid was twisted and I couldn’t fix it, despite Piper’s obvious frustration with my lack of sippee cup skills. “I cannot fix this Finn,” I told her. My two year…
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So Every Day
Life is so . . . full. Full of the type of moments that make this blog. Full of the moments when I reach for the camera to capture that funny face. Full of the times when I say to one of my children, “Say that again for Daddy” and record their quirky words on my fun phone and send it right over to Kevin. Full of the moments when I text my friends about something hilarious the kids have done or some criminal act the dog has committed. And life is also so full of the stinky moments. And the even worse than stinky times. The moments that sometimes…
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They’re Here
Oh hooray! Check us out! Many, many thanks Page.
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A Letter
Dear Lady in the Red Sweater, I like you. I noticed you at church tonight. You lifted your arms high into the air while we sang. You stood up and praised God publicly in the way I only do in my mind. And when we were all sitting down for one song, you couldn’t help yourself. You stood back up. You lifted your arms back in the air. You closed your eyes. And you just praised God. Because you wanted to. Because you could. And I like you for it.
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O Boy!
And he’s up . . . belly off the ground legs pumping into a genuine crawl. Plus . . . Wilder has discovered how to stand up in his crib but he doesn’t know how to get back down. O boy!
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Thanks, Piper
Not too many days ago I was instructing my determined (read: stubborn) youngest daughter. She did not care for my instructions. I don’t actually remember what I was asking the spirited (read: strong willed) two year old to do or to stop doing, but I do distinctly remember her response. Piper Finnian said, “I don’t like you.” And she spoke clearly. Very clearly. (She’s a pretty good communicator. Maybe a little too good.) I was really embarrassed. Really embarrassed. Because I wasn’t at my own house. The words were not spoken where only I had the displeasure of hearing. Nope. It never works that way – does it? At that…
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If
Sometimes I wish I was crazy rich. I mean crazy rich. As in, way too much money to know what to do with. As in, yes, I gave loads of money to orphanages, fed the inhabitants of a third world country for the remainder of all time, tithed more than ten percent, wiped out every living relative’s debt loads, prepaid my six children’s college tuitions and gave so much money to my Alma mater that they named the new theatre complex after me. That’s the kind of rich I’m talking about. And if I was that rich, here are just a few things I would purchase with my wads of…
