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o.t.t.o.
Four. Four is good. At four you sleep nearly twelve hours every night. You don’t poop in your pants and you can last an entire day with no nap and remain basically happy. At four you’re affectionate and you’re smart and you think Mommy is really funny. You can eat meals without assistance and you save your funniest grins for my eyes only. When you’re four you still ask me to sing you lullabies at bedtime and you think my voice sounds pretty. When you’re four you find comfort in my arms and you think a matchbox car is a treasure. And when you’re four and you take a very…
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a poem inspired by a poet.
Our last official school field trip was to Carl Sandburg’s house. If you perchance recall, I didn’t write the post I intended because I was overcome with distraction from the bittersweet surprise of my youngest son’s seemingly overnight growing up. The post I intended to write was more like this: First we toured the house. (I want to own his farm, Connemara. I want to save up/steal/inherit/find in a brown paper bag on the side of the highway an absolutely ludicrous amount of money. Then I want to use all of that money to purchase the land from the current owners – the National Park System. Then I plan to kick…
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today. three years ago.
Today we went on a field trip to Connemara, home of our poet friend Carl Sandburg. (Sherry – can you please tell me again about how I am sort of related to him?) And then we had Book Club this evening. It was an unusually full day of activity. I was pretty prepared for the day, surprising myself with my efficiency. Lunches packed the night before, mainly by London Eli. Quinoa Chicken Taco Soup prepped and slow cooking in the crock pot. (It’s a good recipe – check the Pinterest board. Maybe I’ll write about it one day soon.) Book Club book finished by all three of us. Tonight after…
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it’s dangerous to think after midnight
Some days I’m convinced that I’m crazy. It’s my own particular brand. I’m hoping we’ve all got our own signature varieties of crazy. At least that’s what I tell myself. To make me feel less crazy. Last night after bedtime I heard Otto calling my name. “Momma!” He was standing by our bedroom door. “I just want to sleep in anyone else’s bed,” he whispered in his raspy nighttime voice, his fingers clutching his dirty blanket. “How about Momma and Daddy’s bed?” I asked. He grinned, surprised at the unusual ease of that exchange, and scooted right up into the center of our giant sagging bed, closed his eyes and…
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the simple beautiful. some more. and again.
These are the moments that I already know that I will miss. The moments that I wish I had stored up and stacked up higher and better with my first five children. (Five children – has it taken me this many to begin to understand?) The tiny and the tender helpful ways that a three-year-old tries to serve his momma. Otto Helps Oat. It’s beautiful. And I’m grateful that I have eyes to see.
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O.T.T.O.
I love how he runs. On the beach. Shirtless. Belly first. Fingers spread wide apart. Hair so blonde it seems colorless. Shiny. Reflective. Full of big boy ideas. And shouts. And clever plans. I could count his ribs but he’s too feisty to catch. His mood changes as rapidly as his feet shuffle across the sand. And I guess it’s because I know he’s my last that I wish he would just slow down.
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my son will not appreciate this one day.
For a while Otto has been able to write his own name. It’s a pretty simple one – what with all those circles and sticks. It’s always been pretty adorable to me to see him concentrate so seriously and push his pencil forcefully across the paper. (Or the wall. Goodness. Six children. First one to ever put pen to wall is the last one.) And he can also spell it out loud for you. But he’s been slipping a little lately when he signs his name on the page. And – I’ll tell you what – he does not care for being corrected or for being informed of the word…
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A Day in the Life: Part One
The forecast for the entire week was glorious. Warm afternoons. Cool mornings. The type of day designed by the creator of days to be spent out of doors. No climate controlled, temperature regulated kind of day. (Not that those days even exist when you live in a one hundred and eleven year old farm house.) I looked at the week’s forecast and I knew three things. 1. These days are an unadulterated gift. Cold weather is coming. 2. Cold weather is particularly disheartening at our home where last winter we could see our breath in our kitchen on a regular basis. 3. I need to stockpile good days of warmth…
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three is a funny number. and age. more a funny age than number really. three is funny.
You might remember that I think my little Willow is a funny little person. She still is. But lately my boy Otto Fox is giving her a run for her money. (Which leads me to think, maybe it’s not so much the kid as the age. Three is just plain old amusing.) As I tuck Otto into bed most nights I still sing to him his song – “Forever Young”. And he usually requests that I instead sing him the song that apparently he wishes was his song – “Beautiful Boy”. Like I said, he’s three now, and for as long as he has been communicating he asks for the…
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The Interview Hath Returneth
It has been too long. And I’m not certain if I’ve ever even really tried this stunt with my Wilde Fox of a son. But I used to do a handful of these simple little interviews with my kids. Mainly because it cracked me up so. And since it’s been so long – tonight I’m interviewing my last little man who is quickly morphing into a big boy. Here we go ……. What’s your name? Otto. [He’s sitting in a chair beside me, blanket draped across and over his shoulder – comfort/cape style.] How do you spell that? O-T-T-O. Who do you live with, son? With you guys! [My subject…
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just so I know
Walking back from the beach one evening, completely unprovoked, and with sincerity, my three year old son says, “When I turn four I am going to turn into a tree frog.” Alright son. Thanks for the heads up.
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Diaper Free Days Are Ours!
Guess what we no item we no longer purchase and stick in our grocery cart? Diapers! Guess what daily routine is no longer mine? Changing diapers! Yes. The last little Keigley baby man is completely potty trained! We’re talking no diapers. No night time pull ups. No anything except the cutest little boxer briefs covering the cutest little boy bum. It’s amazing, really. This change in our lives. This transition. This spending no budget money on catching and containing kids’ excrement. It’s glorious. And that’s true for every family that moves right from daily diaper changes to bathroom freedom. And for us, for this family, it’s been a daily habit…
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in the gallery
On her own, all the time, London draws. She holds her pencil contrary to the way in which I showed her in kindergarten. But like so often in her eight years, she has discovered her own way to approach a task and she has mastered it in that unique manner. This time, her pencil captured Otto Fox Wilder and all the treasures that matter to him. And I could not have done better. This I know.
