Keiglets
The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs.
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Are we predictable?
Unpredictable. That’s what it seems our life is. (Well. Everyone’s life is. Sort of.) But especially ours. Or at least it seems so lately. Like uber unpredictable. Wildly unpredictable. Over the top unpredictable. More unpredictable than anyone else’s. Do they give a prize for unpredictability? We win. Okay. It’s not really all that unpredictable. Maybe just average unpredictable. Maybe just your average, run-of-the-mill unpredictable. The kind of unpredictable ordinary lives are made of. That kind of unpredictable. Maybe that’s all I mean. I don’t know. That’s probably all I mean. My dad always told me that I tended to be a little too dramatic. Unpredictable. Predictable. Whichever. Like I said,…
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I’ll Pay Your First Therapy Session, Son
I might have witnessed Hawkeye’s first discussion in his future therapy session. I should have known. I was warned at the bedroom door by the first sentry. Mosely, with arms flailing the air. “You don’t want to go in there!” As I approached “there” (a.k.a. the closet) I heard scuffling and I felt a hand trying to keep the door closed. However, I am stronger, for the time being, than my five-year-old son. So I pushed through and opened the door. Perhaps I should have heeded all warnings. There was my boy, just minutes ago attired in orange shorts and a camo shirt like some sort of mixed signal for…
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30 seconds
Kevin just wanted thirty seconds. That’s not much. Seriously. It isn’t anything actually. 30 seconds. All this father of six asked for was thirty seconds of calm and relative quiet at our dinner table. (Is that what the soundtrack of your life sounds like too?) Anyway. 30 seconds. Kevin explains the rules in his official Dad Voice. No talking. (He allows Otto Fox an exemption based solely on his age. Solely on his age and his dashing good looks. Solely on his age, his dashing good looks and his irresistible charm.) No wiggling. No exploding. 30 seconds. That’s all. The kids blast him with a series of logical questions. “What…
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Hello Reality
5 days away from home. No meals to cook. No school to teach. I won’t lie – that was pretty great. But we knew it was a fairy tale. Not real. As we boarded our last flight to home, Kevin and I joked about crossing over from fantasy to reality. I knew it was coming. I just didn’t expect it to be such a crash landing. Approximately one hour (or the length of time it took to wash and dry one load of laundry) after arriving at our cozy home my husband and partner-in-parenting-this-mess-of-children-we-have-accumulated repacked his bag and headed north-ish with his co-workers for their annual staff retreat. That was okay.…
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the results are in
It’s official. Three out of four Keigley kids prefer Skippy brand peanut butter over Jif. Take that, choosy moms.
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Sometimes Being A Parent Makes You Say Bizarre Things
Kevin said the silliest thing the other day. He was sitting at his desk (read: an old kitchen table set up in our bedroom) and looking through the doorway at Piper Finn and London. He sighed. And that’s when Crazy exited his mouth. “Man, Lacey. We need to have some more kids.” I am sure I gasped. Dropped something. And suffered a neck injury as my head spun off my shoulders. “Whuh?” Yes. That is the sound most closely resembling the noise I made. “WHY?” I asked incredulously. (Obviously incredulously. I mean – come on. More kids? We have six of them already.) “Just look at them. They’re growing up…
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Truth Better Than Fiction: An Example
File this under Random Weird Absolutely Unsolicited Confessions. Bergen: “Mom. One day this summer when we were at the pool we all took turns eating London’s skin.” Me: “Which part of her skin?” Bergen: “Her toes.” Me: “Why?” Bergen: “Because London said it was like gum.” Me: “Did it taste like gum?” Bergen: “No. It didn’t taste like anything.”
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about fragility, bravery, a girl and a horse.
I want to tell you a story about perhaps the most frightening parenting moment of my life and the bravest kid I know. We went to a horse farm for a field trip last week. The farm was tidy and organized and smelled of hay and dirt and horse manure and sky and life and my childhood. The kids admired the miniature horses, the black ram and the albino horse that is not allowed to soak up the sunshine for fear of his skin burning. We had been at the farm for maybe fifteen minutes. The instructor asked us to stand in the breezeway while she prepared our handsome steed,…
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Yes, You May.
The other day Mosely said, “Hey Mommy, can I pick out my own clothes?” Pretty sure we had no plans of leaving the confines of our home, I took a gamble. “Sure,” I agreed. Mosely appeared in a too-big shirt and a slightly-too-corduroy-to-be-seasonally-appropriate skirt. (Actually, Mosely picks out her clothes pretty often and mostly does a great job.) It’s just that she has a certain pattern. A specific look to which she seems constantly drawn. And it looks a lot like this . . .
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you won’t find it here. (a point, that is.)
I guess this picture is just about perfect for this post. Piper Finn looks a little creepy. Otto Fox looks mostly miserable. (But they are both still sort of cute despite the weirdness and the displeasure.) I’d say that’s a good summation of my day. I should just stop right there and step away from the keyboard. But I can’t. Because that’s not how I roll. Today was a school day. But it was also a day that required a few quick morning errands. A few quick morning errands. Oh, how I laugh at the idea even now. Before the bulk of our real shopping was to begin, Bergen reminded…
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let the school year commence
Today. It’s the first day of the 2010-2011 school year here at our home. And this year the School of Keigley has a record number of students. Three. A second grader. A first grader. And a kindergarten student. (Not to mention that we also manage and maintain a very elite preschool and a rather crème de la crème nursery as well. So sorry – all vacancies are filled.) Ahh – the new school year. The books we cannot gather locally are ordered from our school’s personal suppliers- a.k.a. Barnes & Noble and Amazon. The classroom has been tidied. (Read: the kitchen counters are cleared and the sunroom table is free…
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Second Time ‘Round
Last year was our first ever Tybee visit. And we fell in love. So this summer we steered the Suburban (or “suh-burr-ven” as Piper calls it) southeast to see if, in fact, our family and Tybee were still a great fit. This year’s house was actually not that far from last year’s house. We stopped for ice cream at last summer’s favorite spot, Tradewinds, the first night – before our toes even touched the sea. Well. That was a little disappointing. Riley and Kevin’s favorite flavor – Savannah Mud – was sold out and the teenagers running the counter were bored, uninterested and seemed a bit burdened by our desire…
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And we have now returned . . .
Last week we were at Tybee Island. This week we are not. (Although the eight pounds of sand piled on the laundry room floor makes me think perhaps we are.) Please allow me to list a few things I learned while on vacation. Last week I learned that limited internet access can be a good thing. It can be a very good thing. I learned that you can eat too much divinity from the Savannah Candy Factory. I was reminded (for the second time) that a protective UV lens filter on your camera can literally save the life of your lens when said camera is accidentally dropped on a tile…
