Pondering Parenting

It's So Hard To Say Goodbye

2010-02-06T00:11:00.000-08:00

How do I break the news?

I guess I'll just say it.

I'm moving.

Nah.

I'm not leaving South Carolina. (Notwithstanding the town of Walterboro, it's a pretty great place to reside.)

I am just relocating this blog.

Re-everythinging this blog, actually.

And I am pretty excited about it.

I can't wait to hear what you think.

Here's a hint . . . remember how I once wrote that I wish I had named this blog "So Every Day"?

Well - now I have!

Please follow me on over - http://www.soeveryday.com/.

Letter Three (3)

2010-02-05T09:52:00.000-08:00

Dearest Sir Will,

You are indeed Good, my friend.

Today my son is dressed in a dashing ensemble, constructed entirely by items purchased at your low cost store.

Yes. I always launder my purchases before allowing them to adorn my precious offspring's bodies. But I am okay with that.

Why would I pay $42 for a pair of size 6 Gap Chinos at the mall when I can acquire the exact same pair for a mere pittance of $3.00 at your casual storefront?

I do wish your clothing was sorted more effectively but if it takes me thirty minutes to unearth five pairs of size 5 pants, I'll spend that thirty minutes. I will. Because in the end those five pairs of pants will cost me less than one pair of pants at fill-in-the-blank-fancy-pants-store.

Many thanks Good Will, for your same-quality, much lower-cost apparel. My family thanks you as well.

Yours truly,

Lacey

Piper Finnian Willow Lacey Keigley: The Interview

2010-02-04T14:47:00.000-08:00

Why do you think Mommy and Daddy chose your name?: Because you like nice babies.

What do you dream about at night?: I dream lions and elephants and monkeys and they carry me away. I was floating away and they say, "Hello Baby."

Tell me about your brothers and sisters: I hit my brothers and sisters. Hitting is a different word.

Oh. That's not kind. What should you do instead?: Say sorry to them. Be kind to them.

What do you like to eat?: Bubblegum. Uh ... food. Food is different word.

How can we fix the current economic crisis?: Uh. My marbles. With marbles.

What is your favorite toy?: Uh. This guy. (Holding a donkey-shaped Pez dispenser.) No. A baby. See. (Grabbing a baby doll from the floor.)

What do you like to play?: Uhhh. Weebles. Uhhh. Those. (Pointing to Sequence game spread out on living room floor.)

Why do you love Daddy?: Because he is strong.

What makes a rainbow?: A rainbow is at our house. Um. The sun. And the rain.

Who is your favorite friend?: Barack Obama is. Uhh. Nate.

Anyone else?: One, two, three, four five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

Are you for real?: No. I'm not for real. (Breaks out singing) For real, for real. I not for real.

How does your new underwear feel?: Good. My underwear has flowers on them. (Looking) No, they are snowflakes.

What job would you like to do as a grown up?: Grown up is a different girl. Give a grown up girl a treat.

Did you love Disney?: Disneyworld. Uh-huh. It has Mickey Mouse in it. And it has Donald in it. And surprises. (Singing again) Surprise, surprise, surprise!

What do you love about Magnus?: Getting him out.

How do you do that?: First he does roll on me. And then get him outside. I open the door.

How old are you?: One. Two actually.

What is your favorite name? Piper.

What does Daddy call you?: Piper? Lacey Keigley? He calls me (begins singing) Little Munch, you're the cutest Little Munch.

Tell me about Eagle: He get messy in Grandpa's potty. He fell.

Anything else you would like to say?: Uh. Happy birthday.

Next Up

2010-02-04T06:17:00.000-08:00

And then it was my turn.

To be sick, that is.

I will spare you the gory details. But let me just throw a few adjectives your way.

Early. Violent. Aggressive. Wretched. Debilitating.

Rainy Day, Inside and Out

2010-02-02T17:11:00.000-08:00

What a gray day.

Sleep-deprived from the instant I heard the alarm. (Derek Webb's "Mockingbird" is a lot less lovely at 6:30 a.m.)

Kevin wasn't feeling well. The rain was steady and the clouds blocked the sun from showing even a hint of itself.

I should have stayed in bed.

Or at least stayed home.

But the fridge was empty. And had been for two days. No, I don't just mean that we were out of milk - which we were. I mean - we needed groceries. As in, I saw Riley packing her lunch last night and she was cutting open some old MREs from my brother the Marine and she was stashing odd combinations into her lunch bag. (I fear for her health.) I think for breakfast she ate her own fingertips, but I'm not sure about that.

I fed Wilder and put him back down for his morning nap (all the while being uncontrollably jealous of the life of an eight month old). He and Kevin could stay home together. And then I gathered the other four and added shoes or hats or jackets where they were lacking. We sloshed through the wet, slushy snow remains through the pelting rain. I strongly dislike (hate is such a heavy word) loading kids into the Suburban when it's raining. They have to climb over one another and multiple car seats to reach the back row, which means that several kids end up with wet and/or muddy bums from their siblings' feet.

The Suburban was making most concerning sounds and as I sloshed out of the driveway I was pretty sure that it was not shifting properly. I called Kevin, you know - like two minutes after I had just left him.

"Uh. The Suburban isn't shifting properly," I said. (That was my professional opinion.)

"Is it still in four wheel drive?" he calmly inquired.

I looked down. Yes. "Yes, it is."

I had to make a stop at our bank so I decided to include Whole Foods in my plans, if I was already driving that far.

At the bank I waited for the check to be deposited and the cashier asked me for my debit card. And as I reached for my red bag, my stomach sank a bit. Suddenly I was pretty positive that my wallet was in my green bag. Oh Stink.

No debit card. No ID.

I quickly asked for cash so I could still redeem this trip and go to the grocery store anyway.

The cashier politely refused to give me any cash without my ID.

Plan B, I figure. I'll just write a check at the store. But wait - who will accept a check without an ID? Oh yeah - no one.

Okay. Okay. I'll just run by the ATM and get cash to buy the groceries. Guess what you need to get your cash? A debit card. Of course. What in the world was I thinking?

And so I did what I do sometimes.

I cried.

Sitting in the suburban. In the rain. In the bank parking lot. I cried.

Because sometimes I cry over seemingly unimportant things. Like spilled milk. And Magnus eating my pizza dough. And forgotten wallets.

And then I turned around and drove all the way back home. Through the rain. Windshield wipers flip flapping.

I unpacked the kids. Sloshed back into the house. Told Kevin my sad story. Received sympathy. We fed kids some half peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the heels. (If you turn the heel inside, the kids never know it's the end. Shhh. That's just between us, okay?)

After lunch I put Piper and Fox down for naps and London and Mosely stayed home for their math tutoring with Laura (a bright spot in their day twice a week) and Bergen and I headed back to the wet Suburban - wallet in hand.

By the time we finally arrived back home it was past time to eat and Kevin was heading out the door to his art class (like two ships passing in the night). I strongly dislike (hate is such a heavy word) that moment when you arrive home from a store, crushed under the weight of your plastic bags (or reusable ones, that's what I meant), to realize that you have nothing in mind for dinner.

Really. This day seems mostly a drag. (In fact, I apologize to you for recording it all. What was I thinking?)

Maybe TV can redeem it. I have high hopes for you Lost, high hopes.

Last Night

2010-02-01T11:10:00.000-08:00

It was late.

As in, kids all tucked in, kitchen cleared, computers powered down, sitting on the sofa kind of late.

I was writing a letter to my friend (sorry Sara - I may never get to finish that epistle at this rate) and Kevin was watching (with his eyes closed) some M. Night ShimmyWhoWho movie on television.

And that's when we heard the cry.

"Mommyyyyyyyyyyy." (Hmmm. Now they call my name. Interesting.)

We discovered Mosely in the bathroom, over the toilet, taking care of her little sick self.

We wondered if Mosely had managed to make it to the bathroom before the sickness began. But evidence to the contrary was all over her face. And arms. And shirt. And hair. And, upon further investigation . . . the blankets, the wall, the floor. Oh and yes, the bed she was sharing with Bergen and London.

And so our night began in earnest. At about 1 a.m.

We shifted sleeping, non-sick children to alternate locations. We divided and conquered. Kevin cleaned up the bedroom, I cleaned up the six year old. And mid-process we heard a familiar sound. Behind the closed door of one little Willow.

Sure enough. Sick kid number two. And there was no time for a trip to the bathroom. It was already too late before we even opened the door.

And so we started the process over again. Stripped sheets. Piled up pillows, eagle and anything else unfortunate enough to happen to be in Piper's path.

The night was long. Two baths after 1 a.m. Two beds stripped of sheets. Two beds remade. Two buckets located for any more incidents. Two girls outfitted in new cozy pajamas.

Somewhere along the way, Piper sat up and said, "I am having fun with Mosely in my bedroom." Some fun, Sweet Little Munch. But I like that attitude.

We had at least three more incidents throughout the late evening - maybe more. I might have lost count.

But the day did dawn brighter, no one has been ill all day.

And on the positive side, for the first time in maybe a year or more - every Keigley kid took a nap this afternoon - even London Eli.

So there's your silver lining, I guess.

Saints and Sinners

2010-01-31T18:34:00.000-08:00

On a ride in the Suburban recently, the kids and I had a pretty heavy theological discussion.

"How do we know who goes to heaven and who goes to hell?" one of my deep thinkers asked.

"Well," I started. Like I usually do. A stalling method I think I have perfected but which I know will have a short shelf life.

And Bergen jumps in - "I know that. Good people go to heaven and bad people go to hell."

"Well," I paused again. "That is not exactly true son. Are you a good person?"

He nodded his head yes.

"Do you ever do bad things?" I probed.

Bergen said, "Sometimes."

And we all started a conversation about how good people do bad things. And how bad people do good things.

We talked about how everyone has the capacity to be both bad and good, mean and kind - saint and sinner. Each one of us. Sometimes on the same day, even within the same minute. I have seen it with my own two eyes in a toddler and I have witnessed it in my very own actions.

Saints and sinners.

"So people who will go to heaven just believe that Jesus died for them - right Mommy?" Mosely asked.

"Yes. I believe so."

"I love God," Bergen said softly from his booster seat.

I smiled in the rear view mirror at my boy.

But he had one more question.

"Did God just hear that?"

"Yes, buddy. He did."

One Snowy Day

2010-01-30T20:05:00.000-08:00

A snow day in South Carolina.

From my experience thus far, that's a pretty rare treat.

And something worth celebrating.

It started as a small group - our family and Chris.

A little rolling in the snow. A little throwing of balls crafted from snow. A little sad snowman building. A little trekking through the snowy woods. A little grilled cheese and soup eating.

And then Walter sent a text warning us that a group of adventurers would be arriving shortly. And nearly immediately we looked out the window and saw a gang of pals approaching via foot on the driveway.

Our small group quickly leaped into a gathering.

A little game playing. A little caramel popcorn baking. A little hot cocoa drinking. A little snow sledding.

And then along the snowy driveway appeared a mini camp vehicle with good neighbors and friends.

Our gathering instantly morphed into a happening.

A little more game playing. A little pipe smoking. A lot more caramel popcorn eating. A little more sledding.

And finally the Demings showed up.

Our happening turned into a full-fledged shindig.

A lot more loud game playing. (Pit is an unreasonably loud game.) A lot of pizza eating. A little basketball watching.

You could call it Community.

And that would be true.

Or you could call it Life.

And that would be even better.

Big Week

2010-01-28T05:58:00.000-08:00

This might just be London's week.

Chocked full of Big Deal Moments.

This week London discovered that she has another loose tooth. (She has plans for how to extract this one - use that special numbing creme Daddy found. And she has plans for how to spend that tooth fairy fortune - buy Mosely an American Girl doll. How do I break it to her that one of those two things is an absolute impossibility?)

London also gained a new Big Deal Skill. It was time to leave the house and she could not find her favorite slip-on shoes. Slouching and making a most unpleasant face she trudged off to obey my directive to put on her Chuck Taylors. She avoids these shoes because of two long, skinny points of frustration - shoelaces. But in just a matter of minutes a defeated little girl transformed into a proud big kid. She marched into the room where I was and pointed at her feet. And I saw the little miracle. Two shoes. Tied.

But wait, there's more.

This kid regularly challenges herself to try to climb up the door jam. Her goal since we have moved to this house has been to climb up the door frame without any assistance and bump her head on the ceiling. She practices every day. Really. And this week was her week. Because, there she was, with us as her audience, climbing and climbing when suddenly . . . bump . . . her head reached the ceiling. And she did this not once, but three times!

Ahh London. I guess it really is the little things.

The Next Thing

2010-01-28T05:08:00.000-08:00

Today I woke up feeling . . . defeated.

Like the battle was over and I had already lost.

I read this quote once that Elisabeth Elliot (our Mosely Elliot's namesake) had once said to her daughter. I read it probably ten years ago. Maybe more.

But I still think about it nearly every day of my life.

Especially on days when I just need to manage. To make it to the next day. Or the next afternoon. Or the next hour. Or whenever.

She said, "Don't think about everything you need to do. Just do the next thing."

Misheard

2010-01-27T08:24:00.001-08:00

After reading a story in the Bible about Lot and his infamous salty spouse, London tried to retell Piper the story.

"And Lot's wife turned into a pile of salt!" London informed her younger sister.

But Piper misunderstood.

"Oh," she replied. "Lot's wife turned into Bible sauce?"

Sounds Logical

2010-01-26T15:35:00.000-08:00

I am simply going to record a real conversation that took place earlier today in the confines of our Suburban.

London: Who will I marry, Mommy?

Me: Oh. I don't know. I guess you will have to wait and see who God has planned for you.

L-: How will I know who that is?

Me: Well. In a lot of ways I guess. The young man will be pursuing God. Your daddy and I will like him. Uh . . .

L-: So why can't I just marry Bergen? We're all Christians.

Me: Brothers and sisters just do not get married to one another.

Mosely: I plan to marry Otto.

L-: I think I'll still just marry Bergen.

Bergen (with a shrug of his shoulders and a resigned voice): Ohhh-kayyy.

L-: I guess I could be kind and marry a poor man. Then I could help him.

Me: Yeah, you could. Or you could marry a rich man and he could help you.

L- (weighing the pros and cons and displaying her classic London smirk): Yeah. If I marry a rich man I will just say right away, "Let's get some mac & cheese".

Piper: I am marry Mose-weee.

B-: Girls don't marry girls. And I am marrying London.

L-: Wait. Can I marry Colton?

Me: Um. Maybe.

L-: Listen Bergen. Just marry Raven. She's fun and then we can all be friends and the girls can hang out and the boys can hang out - okay?

B- (with another shrug of his shoulders and another resigned sigh): Ohhhh-kayyyyyy.

Good.

I guess that's all in order then.

Some Days

2010-01-25T20:50:00.000-08:00

I was thinking about not writing today.

Because some days are simply a lot less fun to write about than others.

And today wasn't all that fun, really.

Our littlest dog, Kipling Sunshine, passed away today.

She was eleven years old and was nearly blind and losing her hearing too.

But even events that are expected can still be sad.

We had Kip, along with her dog co-conspirators Sadie and Bosco, before we had children. And so we did what lots of children-less adults do . . . we treated our dogs as four-legged people. (Can you believe that?) But it's true. (Today we even discovered the photos that proved it.) We bought her Christmas presents. (It is possible that we even went so far as to wrap those presents.) I am ashamed to admit that we even bought the tiny little dog a ski suit for the Virginia winters. (Yes. Yes. There is photographic evidence of that as well.)

Just this morning Piper hugged Kip and held her too tightly, as is her tradition. She calls her "Kip-ah-ling".

And this afternoon, as we gathered around the little grave site near the woods, surrounded by spreading ivy, I was proud of my husband. (Dads get a lot of the tough tasks, don't they?) Kevin didn't talk down to the little people tossing their drawings of Kipling into her grave. He didn't tell them that we would see Kip in heaven. But he talked about death. And sin. And how one came about because of the other.

Then we went inside and looked at all of those incriminating photographs. And we remembered the little dog who was once small enough to sit in the palm of Kevin's hand. Who was always so hesitant that she approached you while at the same time tried to walk away from you, thus creating a "U" shape with her body.

Little Kipling Sunshine.

We are glad you were a Keigley pet for so many good years.

Now, THAT Was A Good Time

2010-01-24T18:20:00.000-08:00

Friendship is a sheltering tree.

-Samuel Coleridge

There are just some people that you love to be around - aren't there?

People who make you laugh. Who make you feel good about being exactly who you are. Encouragers. People who are not naively optimistic but yet exude warmth and cheerfulness and hopefulness.

I have a friend like that. And this past week she and her two adorable boys came to our house to hang out for a few days.

We did a lot of silly little things (pretended our kitchen was an internet cafe and played on our laptops simultaneously).

We seemed to eat a lot of food (like creating hilarious squids for the kids' lunches which consisted of hotdog chunks with spaghetti noodle tentacles, crafting the absolute best caramel popcorn which we very tempted not to share and making homemade pizzas where Emma threw the crusts in the air which will make my children even less impressed with me the next time we make pizzas and I cannot perform on demand).

We accomplished a thing or two (organizing the bundles of baby boy clothes from our many sons to pass on to the newest-not-yet-born Wickstrum boy and helping design and write some ideas for each of our websites - yet to be revealed).

And we even did some wild and crazy activities (like Emma rode the Look Up swing for the first time and only screamed a little and we both joined a silly group of others to become the first members of the Look Up Lodge Polar Bear Club by jumping into the lake on 1.23 at 4:56 p.m.).

The kids had some big experiences as well. Bergen and Cole enjoyed an all-boys sleepover. Beckett and Piper tried their first sleepover, but it ended badly. Piper and Beckett also discovered that they can each hold their own against one another. Uh-oh.

Really, it was just a super swell visit.

Emma may have been tired when she left, but I sure hope she thinks it was worth it too!

It Has To Be Said

2010-01-23T21:08:00.000-08:00

So.

Here's Wilder.

He's really devouring the Word.

The Drive Home

2010-01-22T21:56:00.000-08:00

Do you know what is the best sound to hear as you drive through a torrential downpour?

Mosely, singing "somewhere out there".

No.

Not a song.

Just those words.

"Somewhere out there."

Because She Can Read

2010-01-20T18:52:00.000-08:00

If you have read this blog for very long you may have noticed a few things.

I think our kids are funny.

I like to take pictures of them and to tell stories about them.

There are six of them.

But one does not appear here nearly as frequently as the others.

Yes. I know.

But it has nothing to do with my love for Riley, our beautiful teenaged daughter. (Or maybe it has everything to do with my love for her.)

The primary reason I do not write often about Riley is simple.

She knows how to read.

I love Riley. Of course I do. I think she's funny. And beautiful. Kind. Flexible. Easy going. Friendly. And loaded with potential. I loved her twangy little accent and her unruly, choppy hair the day I met her six year old self. And I was thrilled the day her adoption became final when she was nine.

But this blog is actually not a place where I lie.

Soooo . . . .

The truth for me is . . . parenting Riley can be hard.

Maybe parenting any teenager can be challenging. So I've heard.

And losing both my mother and Kevin's mother in such a short span has altered a bit of our perspectives on ourselves as teenagers. (There are just some memories only a mother holds.) Sometimes I forget that I was ever like Riley. Fifteen. Absorbed in me.

Because most days I feel as if Riley is just so . . . . not like me.

And I never really know how to handle that.

If I am honest, and I did just proclaim that I am, I would have to admit that most days I am pretty confident of only one truth regarding my parenting of Riley. I'm not doing so well.

My tendency is to correct, reason, monologue . . . because I desperately want to see this fifteen year old live up to that untapped potential. I want to see wise decisions. A pure heart. A life that doesn't look like every Disney teen bouncing across our screen or clogging the radio waves.

Yes. I'm pretty sure I just discovered the heart of the issue.

I want what cannot be had just yet. I want the end without the means. I want the prize without the race. I want her to have the knowledge that only comes from experience because I want to spare her the heartache that so often accompanies that experience.

Ah. Fifteen.

Even revisiting it vicariously is difficult.

A New Standard

2010-01-20T16:36:00.000-08:00

Growing up, my family lived down a mile long dirt driveway. We had a horde of dogs. (One with only three legs. Oh - but that's another story.) The dogs let us know, loudly and with gusto, when a car was approaching the olde homestead. When we saw the vehicle pull in by the mailbox we had at least five minutes, maybe ten if it was Fred Iraggi driving his shiny red sports car. In those fleeting moments, a lot of action occurred behind closed doors. Mom ran around and scooped up mostly invisible dirt, we kids shut doors and followed commands and my dad made sure he was wearing pants. (That sounds far worse than it actually was.)

My mom's house was always clean. As in, spotless. And that was quite the miracle given the situation: one irresponsible daughter, three sons who believed cleaning was a woman's job, a husband who maybe just believed the same thing and a stinking dairy farm full of cows and their waste products outside her kitchen door. Sadly, I was not very impressed with her mad housekeeping skills back then. But only because I had no clue. Absolutely. No. Clue.

So when I acquired a husband, a house and a load of dirty little children myself, I assumed my mom's way was the only way.

And it did not take very long for me to realize something. I could never measure up. My home would never be as shiny. The toys would never all find their correct bins. I could never keep the dustballs from forming colonies and reproducing en mass. I would not achieve perfection in the domestic department.

And it took a long time (I mean, an exceptionally long time) before I finally (at long last) came to another realization.

It's okay.

It's really okay.

Our home is not as clean as I would like it to be. I sometimes let Magnus in on purpose to serve as a moving brown broom. Dishes do not always get washed before I go to bed. Beds are not always made and I don't keep a record of how frequently I sweep the living room floor.

And I am so glad.

Because now when people drop in for unexpected visits (and they do here since we no longer live in rural rural Virginia), I can welcome them with open arms. As we are. Without a stressful two minute clean up. Without explaining that our house is perhaps a bit untidy. Instead of worrying about the pressure to live up to an impossible standard, I have decided to focus on those lives walking into our two-toned, half-painted house.

And I find that I love our visitors.

I love our always evolving array of friends and family and framily that enter and exit through our bright sunroom that is continually littered with Kid Art. I love that our home always has space, albeit messy space, for a pal to make her first from-scratch chocolate chip cookies. (And they were delicious Rachael. Delicious. I know - because I ate way too many after you left. And if you can make edible anything with the busiest, rowdiest helpers on the planet, then you should be well on your way to the next Top Chef.)

And I trust that all those drop-in, wonderful surprise and old faithful visitors will embrace us in return - our family - and excuse the mess that surrounds us.

Letter Two

2010-01-19T17:29:00.000-08:00

Dear Craig,

Your list is cooler than any I have ever made.

I love our new sofa.

Thanks for your help.

Sincerely,

Lacey

Blame Kevin

2010-01-18T20:05:00.000-08:00

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."

I'm Sorry

2010-01-17T20:54:00.000-08:00

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 changed.

My attitude.

My heart is softened.

Your "I'm sorry" changes me.

Because, at first, although my brain tells me the spill was just an accident, I just want to let my anger win. I am tired of cleaning up messes.

But the spoken apology pulls me back to see the bigger picture. The example I would like to be. Your "I'm sorry" reminds me that I want you to learn how to be forgiving and gentle in spirit so I had better figure how to model that behavior myself. Your "I'm sorry" reminds me that you are four (or six or two or thirty-five) and you deserve the same grace I want you to show me the next time I have to say "I'm sorry". (Which will probably be soon.)

So, sweet child o' mine. I'm sorry, but I think you are wrong.

"I'm sorry" changes everything.

The Sniffing Habit

2010-01-15T19:50:00.001-08:00

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 location - under Kevin's armpit. And when he emerges from the pit, he generally comments, "You smell good." So that's a plus.

And there's another little guy that Bergen has a fondness for smelling as well. Yeah, you guessed it. Wilder. Bergen sniffs his little brother so much that we always say he is trying to absorb him. As in, "Bergen Hawkeye. Stop absorbing your little brother."

So I guess if you want to know if this four year old likes you - hang out with him for a while. If he sniffs you, you're in!

In the Heart of the Country

2010-01-14T18:03:00.000-08:00

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 both hay and a person and then roll that person around until they almost cry.

And that's what I call - Farm Fun. (Even if three dogs and tens of thousands of potential bees does not a farm make.)

How did you do?

2010-01-14T14:04:00.001-08:00

If you guessed the kid with the least self-control was Piper Finnian ..... then you win!

High fives all around.

Lunch Lesson

2010-01-13T20:21:00.000-08:00

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 they were purchased to fulfill their destiny as truffles but the package was opened early and the word quickly spread.

Self-control is hard. And it takes practice. Years of it. And we still frequently lack it.

But yesterday the Keiglets managed nicely.

Three out of four children waded through every required eating before they munched on their Oreo, earning them an additional Oreo to dunk in milk, TV-commercial-style.

Can you guess who caved into the temptation before dinner?

Super Walter

2010-01-12T20:08:00.000-08:00

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 old sighed. "Walter can."

And then, a mere few minutes later in Real Time but who knows how much later in Piper Time, she proclaimed loudly, "I love Barack Obama and Walter."

Okay.

So Every Day

2010-01-11T13:30:00.000-08:00

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 fill this blog as well. The sorrow over loss. The pain over disappointment. The bitterness over unmet expectations.

But I think maybe life is the most full of . . . the ordinary. The average. The Every Day. Because

life is

Every

Day.

(In fact, I wish I had named this blog just that. SoEveryDay.)

I adore the highs of life.

Am not so fond of the lows.

But I guess I pretty much make my residence in the flat lands.

At least physically.

And I think maybe that is why I work so hard (on my good days) to find the beauty in the Every Day. To make the choice to make function pretty. It's why I love Sally's amber colored-bubbly drinking glasses. And why my favorite plates are hand-painted pottery pieces. It's the reason I get dressed in a cute skirt on a morning when my only plans are to teach my children how to read, write, add and be kind. It's why I make homemade cards and cherish handcrafted gifts. It's why my favorite dishcloth is the green knitted one. And why I paint on the walls and sing songs with my kids. It's why I stand too long in the peanut butter and jam aisle at the grocery store, laughing with my husband about the absurdity of lime curd jam.

Because we do live in the Every Day.

And I'd like that ordinary to be a little more . . . extraordinary.

To praise the simple for its beauty.

And to embrace the sunshine, the warm cookies, the well-shaped, from-scratch biscuit made by my daughter's capable hands.

To cherish the Every Day.

Every day.

They're Here

2010-01-10T19:12:00.001-08:00

Oh hooray!

Check us out!

Many, many thanks Page.

A Letter

2010-01-10T19:04:00.001-08:00

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.

O Boy!

2010-01-09T10:41:00.000-08:00

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

get

back

down.

O boy!

Thanks, Piper

2010-01-07T17:10:00.000-08:00

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 moment, I desperately wanted to parent based out of my embarrassment.

I wanted my parenting to show everyone watching me what type of mother I am.

That's a recurring theme to me, it seems.

I foolishly want my children's behavior to reveal something about me as their mother.

Right then, I wanted Piper's behavior to reveal that I am a good mom. A put-together mom. A mom in control. A mirage.

Ouch.

My Pride. Revealed. Again.

And actually, the truth is . . . Willow's behavior was reflecting my parenting. And reflecting me. Parenting in an imperfect world. By an imperfect parent.

It was exactly right. Piper's little attitude was reflecting truth.

What I wanted was misleading. A lie. A false representation.

And what I got, from the mouth of my persistent (read: obstinate) little girl, was a reminder that I need much too often.

I have to parent from something far more solid than my feelings. Something far more stable than my emotions.

I need to parent from what is true and right and pure. From what is reliable and secure.

And that isn't me.

If

2010-01-06T17:15:00.000-08:00

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 cash. (After all of my good, kind, endlessly charitable deeds. Of course.)

A new razor every time I shower. Every. Time. Even if I take up showering three times a day. New razor. No questions asked.

Someone to purchase my razors for me. So I would never have to wait in line at the special aisle in Wal-Mart for a cashier to impatiently wait while I try to remember if my favorite razors are green or pink and have three blades or five and if I want the four pack or the six pack or the eight pack. All the way taking her word for it because I am not allowed to actually see the items of which she is speaking.

Freshly laundered sheets placed on my bed, by someone else, every night of my life. Every. Night.

A person carrying ambient lighting around me everywhere I go. All the time. Because with really good lighting, my skin looks fresher and I look - well, just better.

And . . . reliable internet service.

This is not an exhaustive list.

And I recognize that it is a vain list.

Judge me if you want to.

But if you do, when I am really, really ridiculously wealthy, I might not let you sit under my ambient lighting.

Little Boy

2010-01-03T18:53:00.000-08:00

It wasn't just the first Christmas we ever went to Disney. Nor was it just the first time we visited my Dad & Jenny at their new place in Florida. Or even just the first time we stayed at the Phelps' house.

There was another first this year.

For a little boy.

Named Otto Fox Wilder.

It was his first Christmas. Ever.

He won't ever have another first Christmas. And even though I know he won't have any recollection of this first Christmas, it was still pretty special to celebrate with him this year.

I think I can say confidently that this little boy was the absolute best thing to come out of 2009 for me.

And when I think back to this little boy pre-birth, I cringe at my own thoughts and I am ashamed of my own hesitations. I cannot believe the doubts I carried and the paths I allowed my mind to wander down. I am sorry. So sorry. (Oh, for a magic wand of Erasing The Past.)

We always purchase the kids one book for Christmas and the tradition has always been to place that wrapped book at the foot of the bed while you slept on Christmas Eve.

The book we bought for Fox's first Christmas is called Little Boy.

It is such a sweet book. (In fact, if you have a son - go order that book today. No. I am not getting commission. Although that would be cool.)

I am grateful (beyond my poor ability to express) to God for His scandalous mercy in allowing us the opportunity to know this last little Keigley. Our last little boy. My little boy. My Wilde Fox.

This is what I wrote in the cover of Otto's first Christmas book . . .

Little Boy.

It's your first Christmas.

And so much of us depends on you.

On your beautiful grin - toothless and wide.

On your giggles. On your warmth as we cuddle.

What a blessing you are.

One we are so grateful to enjoy.

O Little Boy.

Let us live in the now.

With you.

Slowly.

Classic

2010-01-03T14:39:00.000-08:00

And it just would not be a trip to Disney without meeting these guys.

Do you notice one Keiglet missing?

Yes.

Bergen waited in line for over forty minutes to meet Mickey and Minnie. At the very last minute, however, he bailed. After forty minutes waiting in line - it was not worth a battle.

Mosely is Six

2010-01-02T18:40:00.000-08:00

Birthdays.

I love them.

Mosely celebrated Six while we were on our vacation.

In honor of that number and that stinkin' adorable little girl - here are Six things I love about Mosely.

One. She loves her little sister. When Mosely wakes up in the mornings she eases up to my side of the bed and asks quietly, "May I wake up little Pipes?" And once I agree Mosely makes every effort to take care of her little sister. She tries to change her diaper and dress her in clothes that are Mosely-approved. (Which usually means a dress, of course.) She even gets her a cup of water and entertains her before breakfast.

Two. Her sporadic, but precious, bouts of physical affection. With the Mo-Town, you cannot force affection. The harder you push, the more she resists. (But Daddy keeps trying anyway.) So when Mosely deems it Cuddle Time, you drop everything and hold that kid tight. When she's ready for hugs, they are powerfully good ones.

Three. Those big, brown eyes.

Four. Her love of all things pink and pretty. It is so fun to buy Mosely trinkets and hair bands and bows and little pretty things. She adores them. The shinier the better. Her sparkly pink Chuck Taylors just define her sweet style.

Five. Mosely's laugh. I mean, have you heard this child laugh? It is fantastic. And contagious. And unstoppable. I love it.

Six. Her curiosity. She asks fun questions. She likes to know why. And I like to tell her.

Happy Birthday Little Six Year Old. Happy Birthday.

Legos

2010-01-02T14:47:00.000-08:00

It was like Lego heaven.

I don't know how your theology rolls, but I am pretty sure that if toys make the cut, then Legos will be in the after life.

Just sayin'.

Bergen's Choice

2010-01-02T11:35:00.000-08:00

We stopped at candy stores.

More than once.

Each Keigley was allowed to choose one treat.

Whatever they wanted.

Mosely and London chose cotton candy. (I think they were influenced by the sheer size of the bag. They're into quantity right now.)

I chose a chocolate covered strawberry that was practically the size of my hand. (Maybe I am into quantity too.)

Kevin and Riley chose some overwhelming chocolate/ ice cream/ waffle cone concoctions at Ghiradelli's.

And Bergen chose this.

Three marshmallows dipped in chocolate then rolled in sprinkles and crushed peppermints and speared on a Mickey Mouse straw.

He loved it. Savored it.

Slowly eating this masterpiece of tooth decay for more than thirty minutes.

buddies

2010-01-01T20:30:00.000-08:00

At some point during our Florida Adventure we made our way to San Antonio.

Florida, of course.

We were finally able to visit my dad and Jenny at their new home. We were greeted at the door by Darryl - a super handsome greyhound who used to be quite the competitor. Piper was his biggest fan. She tried to sleep beside him in his dog bed with her own little pillow.

Actually, the pillow she was lying on is part of this story.

Jenny bought the smaller kids the most adorable pillows, called Owl Buddies. The kids loved them - and they made the perfect sleeping companions for the rest of our car journey. The pillows are actually sold on an etsy site - and are hand crafted by Jenny's daughter-in-law's sister. Really, they must be a pretty talented family because her daughter-in-law makes fantastic pendants and Riley and I each received one of those. (We don't look as cuddly with them as the kids do with their pillows - that's why our photos didn't make the cut.)

We had a lot of fun meeting Jenny's sons and their lovely families. The house was loaded with kids, but everyone played together swimmingly. Bergen seemed pretty excited to have a small fellow his own age to push tractors around with.

Another fun part of visiting family was being able to attend church together. I like seeing how other churches organize and meet and worship. GrowLife Church was led by a dynamic and interesting pastor and it was a rare treat to be able to sit in a service with Dad and Jenny.

I must admit, it was a shift to see my dad in warm, sunny Florida as opposed to cold, snowy Wyoming.

But be it the south or the west, it is always good to hug my father's neck.

The Waiting Is the Hardest Part

2010-01-01T11:02:00.000-08:00

At Disney's Kingdom of Good Times, we spent a fair amount of our day waiting in lines.

While in line, we chatted. We told stories. We made funny faces. We yawned. Otto Fox slept.

And Piper played her own special Waiting in Line game - she pretended to pull off tiny parts of Daddy's face and then proceeded to pretend to feed his own face to him.

We all laughed a lot at that.

I don't know if it was really funny or if we were really tired of waiting in lines.

What Seems So Fun . . .

2009-12-31T18:30:00.000-08:00

Our kids love PBS. Mosely even watches a little too much - remember?

A lot of PBS shows are sponsored by Rainforest Cafe. So our kids naturally ask, "When can we go to Rainforest Cafe?"

Guess what restaurant is located at Downtown Disney?

Yep.

So we've been talking this place up for months. The kids are all so excited. They think of it as a highlight on our Florida journey. They cannot wait.

And then we visit.

It looks like, well, a rain forest. On acid.

At first the kids are amused. Entertained. The rain falling all around us is cool. The leaves of the trees hanging around the walls are pretty interesting. The elephant beside our table actually moves. We hear jungle noises. Fish are swimming in aquariums all over the restaurant.

And then we sit down at our table.

The kids check out the crayons - just like at every other restaurant. They forget about the sounds of the rain forest surrounding them and color monkeys and trees in the four primary colors they are given.

Kevin and I look at the prices. Hmm. Is this place donating a percentage of their profits to the actual rain forest? They should be. Because they would no longer be endangered if they were. Uh - a kid's meal of mac & cheese was $7.99. And no drink included!

Piper begins to cry as the thunderstorm rocks our table and temporarily deafens us all.

Our waiter gently informs us that the thunderstorm will only happen once every thirty minutes!

I cannot even hear Kevin talk to me across the table because of the "gentle" waterfall sounds all around us. (That and Piper's cries - which only happened every thirty minutes.)

Suddenly, what seemed quirky and fun just seems loud and overpriced. (Really loud. And really overpriced.)

You can apply a moral message there if you want. There almost always is one if you look hard enough.

But what the Keigleys learned this time is pretty basic - no more themed restaurants for us. We are our own circus, our own novelty show, our own jungle. We don't need to pay anyone else for that kind of entertainment.

sweet

2009-12-31T12:06:00.000-08:00

Oh my goodness.

We have been out of town for a while, it seems. A little out of touch. And our internet at home is down.

And although perhaps I should be ashamed to admit this - I have really missed writing this blog.

But I am back now.

And you may just be sorry that I am. Because I hope to update with a flurry of posts. Yes. A flurry. Like snow. (Which I wish we would see a bit of.)

Because here I am.

At Panera Bread.

Free wifi.

A cinnamon scone to my right.

A loaf of french bread leaning against the wall waiting to be served with our spaghetti dinner tonight.

A bear claw in a bag to go for my sweet husband who is at home with our children.

And a laptop in front of me.

A sweet laptop!

And it belongs to me!

It may not be a Mac, but it's mine!

(thank you Dad)

I am far more excited than a person should be.

(I think people might be staring at me. When is the last time you saw someone at Panera giddy with joy to simply be typing at a table alone?)

Hold on.

Here we go!

Disney

2009-12-26T20:20:00.000-08:00

(I promise to add photos when I return home. I promise. Bear with me, Leanne. Bear with me.)

I don't know where to start.

Really.

And I almost don't even want to.

Because I am sure I will forget something.

There is just so much. So much.

We are actually still on the road. (Not literally, mind you.)

So maybe I will just work backwards.

Or whatever.

I'm pretty sure the only person who will be even slightly concerned with the correct order of events or the skipping of any memorable moments will be me anyway.

Disney sounds like a good place to begin.

After waiting in line for about an hour with six children at varying degrees of impatience we reached the front of the line. We laid down (ahem) $400 and received our change - exactly one dollar. Thanks Disney. Thanks.

We waded through crowds of strangers . . . some friendly, some not so much . . . to ride the ferry into the Magic Kingdom.

Now. I don't like long lines. Or crowds of people. Or spending that much money on something on which I can neither drive nor type.

But pretty much from the moment we stepped into the park and saw that iconic castle to the hours and hours we spent exploring this kingdom called Magic, I knew our money had been well spent. Indeed.

I cannot even say which moment was my favorite yet.

But here's a few that I liked . . .

Tinkerbell in lights riding a zipline from the castle to begin the fireworks show.

Piper riding her first roller coaster, liking it better than her wildly brave brother Bergen and asking "again?" as soon as the ride stopped.

Mosely walking around all day in her princess dress, feeling important and beautiful, and being greeted as a birthday princess by every Disney cast member we encountered.

The snow. In Florida. (Disney can do anything.) And London asking, "Hey, why does this snow taste like soap?"

Berg and London and Riley laughing and screaming together on Splash Mountain.

The looks on our kids' faces. Awe. Excitement. Amazement. Joy. Laughter. Shared experience.

The warm, gooey caramel cinnamon roll from the bakery on Main Street at 11 p.m., fake snow falling all around us.

And that's just a sampling.

It was fun - almost, dare I say it? - yes, magical.

Here We Go

2009-12-21T19:47:00.000-08:00

Alert: This post is being typed from a computer with a dying battery. In a hotel room with no access to photographs.

The Band of Keigley are on the road. (And you would know all the minutia of our family's Christmas journey south if you followed Riley's Facebook updates. But please do not. We do not wish to support her addiction. I'm actually not joking.)

The start was a bit shaky . . . an hour and a half later than intended, snow and ice the first forty-five minutes, an accidental opening of the completely, tightly packed Suburban's back door two minutes before the official Buckling In Of Passengers was scheduled to begin, half of the loaf of bread originally intended to be our lunch eaten by Super Nutso But Lovable Terror Magnus, and a near breakdown only narrowly averted by a kind husband's quick and gentle words.

But we made it all in one piece through our first two stops of our adventure and are currently resting at Stop Number Three.

In Jacksonville we hung out with Sarah and Erik and Austin. We were treated like royalty. Fresh, delicious Snickerdoodles were sitting on the counter when we arrived. Sweet hand decorated Christmas tins filled with treats sat underneath the tree for Keiglets. Scrumptious from scratch pancakes, thick cut bacon and some kind of tasty sausage were served up for dinner. And Luna was all quiet and sedate. We really felt loved and welcomed. What a sweet start to our trip. Thank you Sarah and Erik - thank you! You will become a regular stop on our southern route, should we be wild enough to undertake said journey in the future! (And if you'll have us of course!)

Reluctantly the kids buckled up again - it was as if Otto Fox's muscle memories kicked in with the clicking of his carseat buckle. The cries of frustration began. Really, he was such a trooper. Who wants to be strapped into the same place for hours on end, with little to no wiggle room?

The Suburban headed itself straight to Melbourne - the GPS leading the way. (On a side note, apparently Piper Finn is now afraid of the GPS. For hours (yes, hours) she spoke these words, "I scared. GPS." It cannot be explained. I will not try.)

In Melbourne there resides a family. A beautiful family. Three great kids. Two amazing parents. We love them. (I could go on. I could gush. And it would all be deserved.) We had so much fun that this really needs to be several posts - but there's that dying battery issue, you know?

We attended church with them. Enjoyed seeing Page play guitar on stage. Then we celebrated two SIX birthdays - Mosely and Hezekiah. You actually can see adorable photos of this at Gretchen's blog. Cute. Cute. Cute. Gretchen made incredible matching Mickey and Minnie Mouse cakes. Two cakes. They looked so cool. I think it was the first birthday party Mosely has had with friends her own age! And then we went to the beach, because they pretty much live in a vacation spot. And Page took photographs that might actually be so good that they might sustain the mirage - because the setting, the lighting, the background - all just worked in perfect union for a few fleeting moments. The results are fantastic! I can't believe ambient lighting can make such a difference! I hope soon you can check them out here or at Page's site. The kids played so well together. We had great conversations, delicious meals and a fab evening of screaming at the television set when Russell was completely robbed of his hard-earned Sole Survivor title. (Yeah, I said "robbed". And I will loudly and passionately defend my stance. Loudly. And passionately. Even if it is a trivial TV show. Just watch me.)

And now we are one mile outside of the entrance to the Happiest Place on Earth. (We'll just see about that Disney.) And apparently the most dangerous as well. I have never seen so many signs reminding me to lock my doors, hide my valuables and put my keys in my pocket. Makes me more than a little cautious. There was even a government-issued, flashing orange road-sign-type sign blinking and proclaiming these warnings. Yikes!

Tomorrow is Mosely's big day. A day of seeing Peter Pan. And pushing that hefty new double stroller. And riding those infamous teacups. Walking miles with six mostly small children. Watching Bergen see a giant Buzz Lightyear. Spending Riley's college tuition on a hot dog and a pretzel. Letting Mosely wear her beautiful, re-created just for her from my old flower girl days, pink fancy dress on her birthday.

It's a special day. And I know it will be perfect. And messy. And funny. And exhausting. And silly. And filled with loads of laughter and plenty of tears. And that's all okay with us!

(Blessing on you, little battery. You did real good.)

A Story of Hope

2009-12-17T13:30:00.000-08:00

At lunch yesterday Mosely made a very unusual comment that seemed to be right out of left field.

"I wish I could meet my first parents one day," she said.

My head actually whipped toward her - it was such an unexpected comment.

We have made the choice to speak normally and often about Mosely's adoption and her introduction to our family when she was but a wee little three-month-old sausage baby. (Hey - "sausage baby" is the term Mosely uses. And listen, if you had the privilege of meeting her at that age, you would agree. Her appendages closely resembled sausage links. It's just true.) So it was no surprise to hear her speak about being adopted. We all talk about it as a matter of course here.

But it was the first time I had ever heard her express any sort of desire or longing or interest in her birth parents.

And I was genuinely surprised at my internal reaction.

Sure, I kept my external reaction appropriate and moderate. (I hope.) We talked about her birth parents and then we let the comment stay as it really was - just a part of the lifelong conversation we will have with our third daughter, whose story happens to be of a different variety than say, our fourth daughter.

Inside, however, I was actually kind of hurt. And even as I felt that, I knew it was probably irrational. Mosely is five (almost six!) and wondering things out loud is perfectly normal. Talking about your past is part of figuring out your future and your place in the present. I know. But I still sort of felt sad. And somehow less important. Like my role or my ability as Current Mom was being called into question.

And I admit I was a little surprised at Mosely's developed thought process along those lines. I honestly (perhaps foolishly) assumed I had a good five or ten or more years before this type of conversation would even start rolling.

Adoption presents its own set of unique issues. And they are really no more or no less daunting than the set of concerns with birth children. But I think it's misleading to pretend that the issues are the exact same. They just aren't. Sometimes they converge, cross over, merge, and so and so forth. But they are still not the exact same.

I think one part of that difference might just be because with adoption, you can always legitimately ask "what if?" What if genetics play a larger role than I thought? What if we are not the best choice? What if the nature vs. nurture debate really does have a clear victor? And dozens of more questions, deeper and scarier than we would like to see in print.

Adoption is such an incredible journey. One in which I am truly grateful to participate. But like all grand undertakings, like all uncharted territory, like all acts of love - there is such a risk as well. Such a frightening forced opportunity for vulnerability. And therefore, a much greater danger of pain. And suffering. And of having to stumble your way through the dark sometimes.

But I think at its heart, Mosely's story - and every story of adoption at any level - is a story of redemption. A story of hope.

And I don't want her to miss that.

I don't want to miss that.

I Don't Want One

2009-12-16T18:02:00.000-08:00

I saw a crazy device recently in Best Buy.

I think it was called Kindle, but I didn't linger long enough to be certain.

I guess everyone has heard of this already before me. Or owns one.

It's this little device that you hold in your hand and it contains the printed words of any large number of your favorite real books.

It is not a book.

It's a little screen (uh - like a computer) that shows you the pages of the books you want to read.

But I can tell you this, you will not be seeing this girl purchase a Kindle. Ever.

One of its selling points is that it has a paper-like display. A paper-like display? What in the world? How about my book over here? Guess what? It has a paper display. For real.

The ad also states that the Kindle reads like real paper without glare, even in bright sunlight.

Is that such a problem? Is the glare in real sunlight what has kept people from picking up books all this time? Oh. Okay.

It can even "carry your library: holds up to 1,500 books". I guess that is impressive. But, you know what I'm thinking. Who needs 1,500 books at any one time when you are out and about?

Actually, the Kindle makes me really sad.

When you want a real reading experience - such as a novel or a biography or an inspirational tome - you want the real deal. Or at least I do. Holding that book in your hands is all part of the process. It's a sensory feeling. And it matters.

What sense of accomplishment can you get from clicking through your Kindle virtual pages? How do you feel when you set your lightweight device down? I want the weight and heft of a book in my hands.

Kevin is reading a 900-page or more book right now called The Source. When he sets that sucker down, he knows he's reading someone's life work. It feels heavy. It feels as if it has merit. And when he finishes those bazillion pages, he is going to know that he accomplished something.

When Riley finished reading the many volumes of Carl Sandburg's Pulitzer Prize winning work on Abraham Lincoln, she could toss that book around with pride. With only a glance, you knew that reading that work of art was a challenge that she had risen to and had conquered. Just by looking.

You can't feel that when you set down a computer device. (And don't tell me that you can. I will not believe you.)

A computer has its place. I know. And I am glad for it.

And a book has its place. I know. And I am even more glad for that.

If it came down to it, which I hope it does not, I know which one I would pick. Every time.

I don't like seeing those two worlds collide.

And I believe that if our culture sacrifices real, in-your-hand books for computer devices, we will regret it. We will lose the appeal of the written word. The words themselves will lose some of their potency, I am afraid. We need the tangible feel, the page turning, the smell, the turned down corners, underlined phrases, borrowed, saved, passed around, treasured sense of vitality that only a real book can provide.

The Mirage

2009-12-15T19:41:00.000-08:00

I had to laugh a little when a friend of mine recently told me that she thought I was so organized and that I looked as if I had it all together.

Maybe it looks that way from a distance. (A very far distance.)

But if it ever does look like that, it would only be a mirage.

Let me share an example. (And there are so many from which to choose.)

Today.

We have been saving our change and stray dollars for our Disney World Christmas adventure. And it only seemed appropriate to stash said spare change in a plastic bank that is a giant Mickey Mouse head saved from Kevin's youth.

I decided today would be a good day to toss those coins into one of the handy coin counters at our local Publix.

I only had three children with me so I should have really been on top of my game.

But I wasn't.

Berg lugged the heavy Mickey head into the store.

Instead of sticking her cute self in a cart, I allowed Piper the freedom of walking. (Mistake Number One.) Apparently, she got a little giddy with that freedom. Let's just say that throughout the majority of the scene I am about to relay, she acted like a child caught in the classic throes of being Two. (It was not pretty. Nor inspiring.)

Already inside the store, I discovered that the Mickey head required a screwdriver to open. I did not have a screwdriver in my pocket at that moment. (Mistake Number Two.) I managed to wrangle the white plastic lid off with the edge of my key while Mosely observed directly at my elbow, calmly saying repetitively, "Don't break Mickey, Mommy. Don't break Mickey, Mommy."

I began dumping coins. I pushed the start button on the machine, after agreeing to give eight percent of my coin total to the machine. (Greedy little thing.)

The coins spewed out half-heartedly. I dug the dollar bills crammed in the Mickey head out with my fingers. "Uh, guys? Why is this money all wet?" Because it was. All wet.

"Uh-oh," Mosely said. "Um. I might have washed Mickey one time. With water."

Gross soggy money is still money I suppose, so back to the task at hand. I assigned Mosely the job of carefully smoothing the damp bills.

Not only is Piper still being Two, but Bergen has decided that this is the exact right time and place to have an emotional breakdown because he cannot see the coins dropping into the machine as clearly as he would like.

And then the machine stops. A bright red light at the top of the machine starts flashing and the computer reads, "See attendant."

Nice.

I bet I look real put together about right now.

Sylvia comes over to assist. Everything about her, from her countenance to her body language to her audible sighs, lets me know that she does not share my enthusiasm for saving spare change and turning it into dollar bills. Sylvia pushes buttons with force, sighs, puts her hand up at Bergen, pushes the machine away from the wall, sighs, calls Bergen "honey" through her gritted teeth, sighs, grabs a pair of scissors and pokes the coins, sighs and calls for back up from Andrew. Before Andrew arrives she shoves a wooden chip from I Have No Idea Where Or What towards me. I take it. Apparently this wooden chip could be part of our problem. Or not. She never says.

Andrew is, in fact, the superhero of the coin counting machine. Which I try to tell him. No one laughs. Except me. Nervously.

At long last our ordeal is over - more than twenty minutes in.

I gather our dollar bills, the empty Mickey head and three children and leave - more tired than I should be from the simple act of allowing a machine to count coins for me.

So, my sweet friend, if this is what "having it all together" looks like, you may just want to run in the opposite direction.

Yeah. Just Like That.

2009-12-14T17:06:00.000-08:00

Guess what family is unanimous in their recent discovery of their intense dislike for goat cheese?

This family!

(Was that really a hard guess for anyone?)

Yes. It's true. Our apologies to all goat-cheese-lovers reading right now.

We discovered this over a recent dinner.

I made a beautiful salad. And yes, I can describe this salad as beautiful. Because it was. A beautiful serving dish. Crisp, bright green spinach leaves piled high. Creamy white feta cheese sprinkled across the bed of green. Goat cheese layered across and mixed with the feta. Perfectly grilled chicken placed carefully across the salad layers. And exquisite, colorful ruby pomegranate seeds shimmering across the landscape of green and white. It was a cheery, holiday-looking platter.

If a mere salad could look like Christmas, this one did.

But it sure didn't taste like Christmas.

Unless Christmas tastes like old man's socks and smells like . . . well, like wet goat.

No one mentioned the smell as the plates were being served. Kevin happened to be the first to place a forkful in his mouth. Nary a comment did he make. London's face turned a bit south as she tasted her first bite and she said, "Hmm, maybe this cheese is a little strong Mommy. In the future, could you maybe put the cheese in a bowl near the salad so we can choose if we want it or not?"

I applied my dressing of choice and took a large forkful of the still beautiful creation set before me.

Oh. My. Goodness.

The smell was overbearing. But the taste?

Forget about it!

My long-standing rule of No Negative Comments About A New Dish The Night It Is Served took an evening's hiatus in lieu of the dire circumstances.

This stuff was terrible.

Once the No Negative Comments ban was lifted, the table was crowded with conversation.

"It just tastes like goat. Really, just exactly like a wet goat smells- do you know what I mean?" Kevin kept asking.

Yeah. I knew what he meant.

"Raise your hand if you would like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich," I offered. A multitude of tiny and big hands shot up around the table.

It was London who asked the obvious question, "How can something so pretty taste so ugly?"

"You know," I said, "Sometimes things can look great but be bad."

And Riley, who was clearing the refuse of our wasted meal, piped in. "Yeah. That's pretty much exactly like sin."

Yeah. Riley was right. It's pretty much exactly like that.

Now What?

2009-12-13T19:13:00.001-08:00

So, if love is a verb, how do you wrap that and stick it in your stocking?

As the majority of our children are just beginning to enter the age of desiring to give Christmas gifts as well as get, we have been presented with a new dilemma.

Last year we took all of the younger set to the infamous Dollar Tree and let each one pick out gifts for their siblings. It was fun. The kids loved picking out toys that each one would enjoy.

But we ended up with 16 toys that were probably broken and disposed of before the new year, if not that very Christmas afternoon.

This year we are looking to try a new plan.

Another experiment.

(Which I am beginning to believe is all parenting really is - a really expensive, really frightening, really powerful experiment.)

Anyway.

This year we are encouraging the kids to give one another gifts that have no dollar sign attached to them. Gifts that you cannot pick up at your local Wal-Mart.

We are working on gifts of Action. Of Love. Of Experiences.

When I told the kids our plan, I cited Kevin's active love when I was sick. I asked them, "If dad had given me a really cool toy - like a Transformer - would Mommy have gotten better?"

All heads shook no.

"Right," I said. "But what did Daddy give me instead?"

They answered, "Rest." "Sleep." "Help." "Lunch."

"Can you buy those things at a store?" I asked them.

All heads shook no.

After a bit more nudging, we got out crayons and paper and began the process of card making and gift giving. And they started to get excited.

We haven't finished everyone's gifts yet, of course. But so far Bergen has designed his card for Daddy with his act of service written down - which I cannot reveal here since the secret would then be out.

Mosely made a card for Piper promising to play with her and Eagle one afternoon. She has also pledged to play cars with Bergen on two different days. (Which is a bigger sacrifice than you might think - Mosely is no fan of car playing and Berg's daily request is for someone ANYONE to play cars with him.)

London knows Mosely has been asking for an American Girl doll. But we are not buying presents this year at our house. Instead we are going on a road trip to Florida to spend time with family, framily, friends, plus one big overpriced Mouse. So both girls know that an American Girl doll is not in Mosely's future.

After designing her card for Mosely, London began tapping her pencil to her head as she pondered what she could do for her sister. Her eyes lit up as she caught the spirit of our endeavor. "I know! I can let Mosely play with my doll for six, no seven, no eight, no TEN whole days!"

We still have a handful of cards to design and action gifts to determine, but I hope this will be an idea that can catch on at our house.

If not, I guess next year we'll head back to the drawing board for our next experiment.

Love Is A Verb

2009-12-12T17:20:00.000-08:00

I heard it first said at Look Up Lodge actually. (Maybe twelve years ago.)

Love is an action.

Love is a verb.

There is always a lot of talk about love. And how we humans can best express it, one to another. Particularly at this time of year.

But even the coolest, most amazing gift, (even a Mac) cannot express our love as beautifully and as profoundly as our actions can.

Even our most simple actions.

Yesterday I was suddenly and inexplicably very sick. Really sick. Chills, aches. Miserable. Even my eyes hurt. It was lousy.

But despite the fact that I have six children, five of whom do not leave the premises in a daily trek to traditional school, I was able to stay in bed. Sleeping. Resting. Until after four p.m.

I'm not kidding.

And all because my husband loves me.

After I nursed Otto first thing in the morning, Kevin did the one action in our house that equals ultimate rest. He removed the pull up bar from our bedroom door so that the door could be shut completely and entirely. That has become like a sign between us. Normally, we just leave the door slightly cracked and the bar in position. But when you need real privacy (for sleeping only of course) then the bar comes down. (Now, if the bar is down and the door is locked, that's another story entirely.)

I was able to spend the day recovering and resting because Kevin showed how much he loved me through his actions. He took care of things. (And at this house, an awful lot falls under the category of things.)

He tended to our children's needs all day. He cleaned the kitchen from our wild Thursday Night parties. He made breakfast. And lunch. (I was even served my lunch on a tray. My grilled cheese sandwich was cut in half and my plate featured a tiny heart-shaped sugar cookie as well.)

Kevin's actions did not cost a dime. But they revealed more love than him purchasing dozens of items for me from our local Mast General Store.

His actions said everything.

Because
love is a verb.

The ordinary arts we practice every day at home are of more importance to the soul than their simplicity might suggest. -Thomas Moore

London's First Lost Tooth

2009-12-11T16:37:00.000-08:00

Milestones.

One after the other.

I guess that's to be expected in a house with eight people.

Living lives that never stay still.

Our most recent milestone --- a loose tooth.

London's.

It's been wiggling down there at the bottom of her mouth for days. Maybe even weeks. (Just another way she is my daughter, a little me. I would let my loose teeth literally dangle by whatever thin thread of tooth stuff was left. I never pulled them. And I never told my mother when they were loose, in case she wanted to pull them. I hated pain. I still do.)

At London's suggestion (and under the probable influence of a television story or a book) Kevin actually tied fishing line to both her tooth and to the handle of a door. Not my idea, I tell you.

The fishing line was attached. The door was shut. London screamed and clasped her hand over her mouth. But all in vain. The fishing line had slipped off and the tooth was still intact. The scream was superfluous.

London began crying. But she wasn't in pain. Kevin told her that we didn't have to pull the tooth right then. We could wait. But apparently that was why she was crying. Through her tears, she said, "But I want to lose my tooth right now. I want it out so I can get money. I just don't know what it will feel like. I don't know if it will hurt."

SuperDad to the rescue. That guy is so clever. I would have said, "Yes, it will hurt a little. Let's do it now or just go to bed. Come on!"

But not Kevin. He whispered something in her ear. Her countenance changed and she scooted off to find her shoes.

After a short absence the little duo reappeared, ready for action. Orajel on the gum. Some kind of pliers from Papaw's fishing supplies in hand. A quick yank! And the tooth was out. Grins all around and a little spit drooling down a proud six year old's numb chin.

Pray Like Piper

2009-12-10T21:08:00.000-08:00

I pray.

Really. I do.

I mean, you already know that I pray at least once a day - right?

But recently I realized that my two year old daughter had something new to teach me about prayer.

How do I approach prayer?

With joy? With enthusiasm? As if it is, in fact, a privilege or the exact highlight of my day?

In a group setting, when someone offers a blanket opportunity for prayer, do I get excited?

Or do I avert my eyes a bit?

Are my prayers mostly pretty rhetoric? Or only pleas for some quick relief?

Because that's not how Piper Finnian prays.

No ma'am.

Every night at dinner we ask one child to pray before we eat. And every night at dinner, after that one child has prayed for every family member, every food item and every stranger we passed on the sidewalk that day, we're all ready to dig in.

But Piper isn't.

Her busy little hands are clasped and momentarily still and as soon as the "amen" is uttered by her sibling, she shouts, "May I pray?"

Who would say no?

And every night when we say, "Yes, Piper. You may.", she squeals with delight "Hooray!"

That's how I want to feel about prayer.

First Annual

2009-12-09T11:28:00.000-08:00

It finally happened.

The much-anticipated First Annual Pickle Juice Drinking Event.

Yes. Pickle juice drinking.

For some crazy reason the Keigley children discovered that they enjoy the taste of consuming copious amounts of pickle brine.

Apparently, it's genetic.

Because so does their Aunt Betty Ann.

Once this information was leaked to our children the idea began forming immediately.

Drink pickle juice. With other people who like to drink pickle juice. Profound.

London even wrote a letter to her aunt, requesting that one day they could share some memories over a glass or two of the almost neon-colored stuff.

The stars aligned.

Suddenly, there we were in London, Ohio. Hometown of pickle juice drinking pal Aunt BA.

And she comes over, carrying with her an enormous jar of pickles. Enormous, I tell you.

The Keigley kids take their seats at the table. Glasses in hand. Cousins stop wrestling in the living room to join the pickle drinkers. Strangers enter from the streets. A reporter drags in his camera crew to film for the evening news.

Pickle juice is poured. Glasses are lifted. Toasts are made. "To pickles!"

And the drinking begins.

At the end of the consuming, it is possible that London downed five glasses. I don't know. I didn't count. I didn't really want to be responsible for that knowledge.

I'm afraid a disturbing new tradition has been created.

To pickles!

Long, Strange Trip

2009-12-08T19:32:00.000-08:00

Destination: London, Ohio. The birthplace of one Kevin J. Keigley

Detours: Three. One - To wrap up former business details. Two - To surprise a wonderful friend. Three - To avoid a rock slide on the interstate.

Number of Donatos Pizzas Ordered During Our Three Days in Ohio: 4

Hours Spent in a Packed Suburban With Six Children: About 30

Number of Times Mosely shouted "My bum itches": Approximately 42

Favorite New Menu Item at a Restaurant: Panera Bread's Macaroni & Cheese

New Skill Acquired by Bergen, Taught to Him by His Older Cousins: An intense football tackle

Number of Rented Books on Tape: 2

Number of Books on Tape That Failed to Operate Correctly: 2

Best Wake Up Call: A lovely dusting of snow the morning we departed

Number of Cars on the Interstate Engulfed in Flames: 1

A Dog's Life

2009-12-07T18:17:00.000-08:00

We think we have it bad with Magnus.

I imagine Kipling thinks she has it bad with us!

Wilde Fox

2009-12-02T19:37:00.000-08:00

This little guy spits up . . . . a lot!

(His laundry pile is higher than all other young Keigleys combined.)

But, Kevinit - he's cute!

The Annual Tossing of the Bear

2009-12-02T18:07:00.000-08:00

It might be fake - but it's our Christmas tree this year.

I really prefer a real tree. The process of choosing one, chopping it down (that's how we rolled, back on the farm), dragging it across the field, discovering it was too tall for the house, cramming it into the never-quite-the-right-size base, receiving enough scratches while decorating to require first aid, cleaning up needles on the floor for a month and dripping water all over the presents in a daily attempt to water the thirsty dying tree.

But this year, we went with the fake guy. Mainly because we have travel plans for this December and a real tree seemed superfluous.

And this year our pal Lanier was on hand to help with the decorating process. I was pretty glad to have new ears to listen to me rattle on about every ornament's history (and they all have one).

Our family's favorite silly Christmas tree tradition involves a sad looking little white bear that has been resurfacing annually since mine and Kevin's first Christmas together. After the tree has been decorated, one of the Keigley members is chosen to toss (hurl, sling) the bear onto the branches.

And wherever the bear lands, the bear stays.

Thanks Piper, for making this year's toss.

What Do We Do?

2009-12-02T17:44:00.000-08:00

(It's another one of those this-picture-has-nothing-to-do-with-this-post-other-than-the-fact-that-this-is-my-blog-and-this-is-my-cute-kid. Apologies to all.)

I just heard this line in a song . . .

"If you feel it, it must be real."

That turns my stomach.

This idea is absolutely pervasive. It has invaded everything. Our music. Our movies. Our commercials. Our attitudes. Our expectations. Our brains. Our hearts. Our actions.

And I hate it.

Because it is a lie.

I'm not saying feelings always lie. I'm not saying feelings are wrong. Or sinful. Necessarily.

I am saying - you cannot trust only your feelings. You cannot live from your feelings alone. You cannot base your actions on your feelings.

It is a dangerous way to live.

But we hardly know what else to do. We hardly know how else to play this game.

Because it seems everyone else is doing life by their feelings.

And I just wonder . . .

How can I rescue my kids from this disastrous pursuit of what feels right, of what feels good - of feelings forcing behavior?

(Is there any defense? Because some days it seems as if the battle has already been won.)

I don't think seclusion is the right answer. Avoiding the world hasn't proven to be an effective tool in my experience thus far. (Just look at how many kids graduate from private schools and home schools and instantly embrace everything they felt they were denied.)

I believe that you learn truth by studying truth. You don't learn what is true by studying what is false. You memorize what is real so you can recognize the fake. If I am intimately familiar with a made-from-scratch chocolate chip cookie, it won't be hard to taste the difference in a processed Chips Ahoy. I don't have to study every brand of chocolate chip cookie, from Great Value to Soft Batch, to know when I am being offered something less than homemade.

But even though I know that in theory, I'm not sure I know how to teach that to our children.

Particularly our teenage child.

The one who needs the balance, the steadiness of truth most at her vulnerable age where everything Mom and Dad says sounds silly and everything popular culture says sounds cool.

So what do we do?

(This isn't really one of those hypothetical questions. Go ahead and answer.)

It's Time

2009-12-02T17:43:00.001-08:00

And the stockings have been hung by the chimney with some degree of care.

All eight of them.

Let the season begin!

today

2009-12-01T21:35:00.000-08:00

This had been a busy little day.

For a random Tuesday. (Actually, I believe it is officially Wednesday morning when I am writing this - but what difference does that make?)

I took the chaps to a local library to watch a Christmas "play" about Holly and Bah Hum Bug. By Porkchop Productions.

I've probably said enough already.

Actually, it was all good. The trip to the library enabled me to pick out a few new books on CD (The Kite Rider (not to be confused with The Kite Runner) and Little Men) for car listening on the many December road trips (Ohio, Florida and all the states between here and there) we have ahead of us.

Back to the library's presentation.

One of the actors in the show used a rather scary Halloween-ish mask for the Bah Hum Bug character. London, Sworn Protector of Younger Siblings, decided that the mask would be too frightening for Piper. London informed Piper that she would be placing her hand over Piper's eyes and would leave them there until Bah Hum Bug left the stage.

Piper agreed to this with an "uh-huh". She grabbed Eagle, tucked her thumb into her mouth and politely sat still for the next twelve minutes, content to merely listen to the action and trust her Protector's decision.

I laughed. (Internally only, of course.)

And I tried to take a picture. With my too-cool-for-school-new-free-from-Verizon cell phone that arrived just yesterday.

After the library I gave the kids a car picnic lunch while I drove to the bank and headed across town for more errands. The car picnic lunch was a great idea from Gretchen and was a way better success than the last at-home-in-a-hurry lunch experience.

And then I took five young children into the pits of Hell known as Toys-R-Us. Unbuckle everyone. Enter store. Corral all children in the direction I need to go. Buy a birthday present for a friend. Check out the double stroller. Feel disappointed that it is not the one I want. Give Fox his bottle while allowing the kids to push the buttons on every talking Dora doll in aisle six. All thirty of them. Corral all children out the door, past the gumball machines and the Tigger ride. Buckle everyone up again.

And then I took five young children into Target. Unbuckle everyone. Enter store from parking at the farthest possible location. No carts nearby. Carry car seat, hold Piper's hand, threaten other children so they will stay close as we walk three quarters of a mile. Watch Bergen nearly implode attempting to control his own overpowering urges to run every two steps. Enter store. Get sucked in to the $1 section by the door. Forget why I entered store. (Oh, yes - double stroller, trash bags, baby wipes.) Find the trash bags. Realize that this Target does not have the double stroller I want. (I just want five point harnesses - is that so difficult?) Find $3 jackets for the girls. Buy two. Find $3 shirts for Bergen. Buy two. Leave store without a double stroller or baby wipes.

And then I took five young children into Babies-R-Us. Unbuckle everyone. Promise ice cream cones at the nearby Chick-Fil-A to all obedient, angelic children. Hooray - a sale on baby wipes. And look - the stroller I want. But too expensive. Agonize over decision. Piper poops and announces it loudly. Finally, and sadly, choose the stroller I can afford. Salesman asks if I have found everything. Laugh and say, "Well, I want that stroller, but I want it for a price lower than the one I am buying." He responds, "Wait, that's a discontinued model. You can buy the floor sample for ten dollars less than the one you have chosen." Push him over in joy. (Okay, that's a lie.) Rejoice as I leave the store.

Of course we all have some ice cream in celebration.

Arrive at home. Remember that I forgot to clean the kitchen. Notice the trash that we forgot to take out. Begin to think our home resembles that new "Hoarders" show on A&E. Realize that Fox needs to eat but he has pooped and spit up all over his car seat. And Piper needs another diaper change. And Riley wants to go sleep over at a friend's house. And Magnus wants to eat all of the dog food in the closet. And Bergen wants his shoes tied in a double knot. And London wants to know if she can watch the Beatles Yellow Submarine movie. And Mosely cannot work the zipper on her new jacket.

In the middle of all of this my new phone beeps, although I barely recognize it because it's a new sound.

And it's my husband.

And he says we have a date tonight.

And it's not to see a play at the library. Or a trip to a store to shop for strollers. And no one should spit up. And there should be no pooping involved.

So I am really glad to go anywhere with him - particularly to see The Fantastic Mr. Fox.

And that is why I am writing this post at 1 o'clock in the morning.

Little Me

2009-11-29T18:50:00.000-08:00

I recently unearthed a leatherish looking white box from under the recesses of our bed.

I recognized it immediately.

It was my mom's jewelry box. A coffee ring staining the lid. Soft red lining inside.

And I could tell from my kids' reactions that they were eyeing that treasure chest the exact same way I always eyed it as a kid - like some sort of miracle box o' wonders.

So we spent a morning going through its contents. The golden crab pendant from Mom's high school - Hampton Crabs. (Yeah, crabs.) The long strings of pearls. The gaudy brooches that must have belonged to another era - I think I remember photos of people wearing those things, but thankfully I have no recollection of my mother sporting them.

It was fun to see Mosely and London's eyes shining as they gently touched each item and ohhed and ahhed to their heart's content.

I let the girls play dress up for a little while before we carefully stowed the jewelry back in its box.

"Mommy, will you take my picture? I think I look just like a little you," London commented, coming out of the bathroom all ready for a photo shoot.

And if you had the distinct pleasure of knowing Little Lacey, you would probably agree - the kid looks an awfully lot like I did at her age.

A little spooky, actually, such a carbon copy image.

Now I cannot help whether my offspring look physically like me or not. That's really out of my control.

But, for good and for bad, I do know that they often act like me.

And that is just plain overwhelming.

Because my actions are not always worth imitating.

But I guess that's really our calling, isn't it? Our mission. Our purpose.

No, not to create little copycats of us, exactly. But to be the type of people we would want our children to be. To pursue the things we would want our children to pursue.

To be worthy of imitation.

Really, this isn't just true for our kids only, is it?

Maybe it's true for anyone who watches us.

To be worthy of imitation.

Not that anyone has to imitate us.

But that if they did, it would be okay. It would be good, in fact.

Because we are all imitating someone. Reflecting someone.

And at this house, I know my children are watching.

They are studying me.

And it's humbling and terrifying and difficult and incredible to live under such close scrutiny at all times.

So I know this.

I had better be imitating someone. Someone better than myself.

Because while my actions are not usually worth imitating, His always are.

Home

2009-11-26T11:28:00.000-08:00

There are just so many little things that make home home.

You know?

And those things are probably a little different in each house.

You know when you have been away from home for a while - for a business trip or a vacation or a holiday or even just a long weekend?

And then you come home and you take a shower in your own bathroom with your own normal-sized shampoo and soap?

That's the feeling I'm talking about.

I love that feeling.

I love that part of home.

The comfortable, familiar aspects of our literal house. The parts of our house that make this place a home . . . to us.

Like the favorite glass always on the ready inside the ice cube drawer.

And that hidden stash of m&m's for Mommy. (Oh, man - that makes me just like my mom. I remember discovering her stash one day - it was inside the brown crock pot on the bottom shelf of the cabinet directly below the microwave. No. I never took any of her m&m's. That is the truth.)

Knowing exactly how to shape the giant red slacker sack so that it forms both a pillow and a foot rest exactly suited to my body.

The scent of my current favorite shower gel- Burt's Bee's Fabulously Fresh. It smells like rosemary and peppermint. And it makes me want to take thirty minute showers. (That and the fact that the shower is the only place in the house the kids don't really want to join me.)

The color scheme that just makes me feel . . . relaxed, comforted, ensconced. (I'm not attributing too much power to colors either. They matter. They really do.)

The fact that our kitchen almost always has all of the necessary ingredients at any given moment to make NeedleTips - should the occasion demand it.

Like the ability to write with chalk on all of our kitchen cabinets and half of our doors.

Enjoying the prism of colors when the light pours through the stained glass window Sally lovingly crafted just for our living room.

And the sound of the rain on the skylights, even if it completely overpowers any other sound during a rainstorm.

Oh and our sweet, bright school room of a sun room.

This Thanksgiving, we did not leave our house. We didn't travel far.

We just stayed.

And enjoyed all these things.

We enjoyed home.

And it was good.

Ah! There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. - Jane Austen

Never Heard That One

2009-11-24T14:27:00.000-08:00

London was asking to play games today.

I told her she should play some group games with her siblings - like Ring Around the Rosy or Duck Duck Goose.

And she said, "We can't play Duck Duck Goose. There aren't enough of us."
Not enough Keigley kids?

Now, that's one I've never heard before!

Forgotten

2009-11-23T16:35:00.000-08:00

I watched a couple of old videos I found on our computer recently.

In one of them, Bergen was talking and he was stuttering. Badly.

"Do you remember Bergen stuttering a lot?" I asked my husband.

Kevin looked surprised at my memory loss and as we talked I suddenly remembered more clearly.

Yes, Bergen did have a serious stuttering problem when he was smaller. As in, relatives could not understand what he was saying. We often struggled to understand what he was saying.

We tried to encourage him to slow down in his speech, to breathe before speaking, to pause and gather his thoughts.

And then I remembered how I worried.

I jumped to a hundred different conclusions, all of them terrible. I imagined my poor son struggling to speak his whole life. I imagined his friends in junior high mocking him. I imagined limited job options. Every bad thing that could potentially happen in his life I imagined and contributed it all to the stuttering problems of his three year old brain.

Yeah. I know. That's ridiculous.

But my ridiculousness is not the point. Not really. (Or maybe it always is.)

I think the point is - something that I worried about, feared, watched over and dissected to the extreme, took care of itself. It disappeared on its own. It went away.

And I don't remember how. I don't remember when. Shoot, until my memory was jarred with video proof, I had forgotten that entire season of my son's young life.

If you had asked me last week if any of my children had ever stuttered, I think I might have said no.

Not because I am liar.

But because I forgot all about it.

And that made me think. (Of course it did.)

Of all of the things I have worried about. Stressed about. Cried over. Lost slept because of.

Of all the things that I have let consume my mind, conquer my heart, break my spirit and keep me pushed down.

Of all the wasted energy. The sleepless nights. The lonely feelings.

Of all the things that took care of themselves.

Without any effort on my part.

I am not so naive as to believe that everything I worry about will vanish on its own like Bergen's stuttering has.

But I imagine that a great deal more of my concerns will than won't.

I listen to Bergen talk every day. (Boy, do I!) There is not even a touch of a speech problem. Not a trace of a communication issue with that young lad. Not a hint. Not a sign. Not any way to know that he once struggled to complete nearly every sentence he made.

I just wonder, in two days or two months or two years from right now, what will I have forgotten? Of what pain or struggle will there be absolutely no sign?

What am I wasting my heart and my energy and my late nights worrying about right now?

okay

2009-11-22T16:32:00.000-08:00

I was nursing Wilder.

Bergen was hovering around.

So far, perfectly normal.

"Man," Bergen says, "I sure wish I could try some of that milk."

You already did, son. You already did.

Goodnight Little Willow

2009-11-21T16:38:00.000-08:00

After tucking Piper Finn in tonight and watching her nightly rituals for about the 400th time (a pretty close estimate I think) I began to wonder if obsessive compulsive behavior was normal in two year olds.

I feel confident that it is.

The evening line up seldom varies.

I spread the blanket over her (the same soft, sweater-like, pale green blanket Uncle Luke and Aunt Jessica bought for her as an infant) and she tucks it just so - never allowing even a slight edge to hang over the bed rail. Eagle (her constant companion since Aunt Beckey picked it up for her at the Marine Corp. Museum when Finn was only six months old) is flipped right side up under her right arm with Eagle's head near Piper's face and her small hand grasping and caressing Eagle's tattered tail feathers. Finally, her left hand gives the thumbs up sign as she plops that little inch of thumb into her mouth.

After witnessing this routine tonight I posed a serious question to the little Willow.

"Are you OCD Piper?"

She replied, "Uh-huh. I buy it with a circle."

Is This A Test?

2009-11-19T19:27:00.000-08:00

We try to learn a few verses together as a family.

I write them on the chalkboard wall near the dinner table and we read them out loud together before each meal.

This week I wrote out James 1:19-20 - "Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry for man's anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires."

And let's just be honest.

When I picked this little nugget of a verse I was targeting a handful of sometimes short tempered, angry-word-shouting siblings.

I was trying to preach when I should have been quiet.

And so maybe this day just serves me right.

Because I have wanted to be angry today. A lot.

At little things. At big things. At every thing.

Because this day seems to have been full of problems, mistakes and inconveniences.

Like Magnus putting his two gigantic paws on the counter and knocking down a wooden bowl that I really loved that was a gift from Kevin's mom. It broke into four pieces.

Like Mosely complaining that "all we ever do in school is read! I wish we never had school."

And like my ridiculously weak eye flaring up again, causing me pain, forcing me to wear my glasses and making me ultra self-conscious about my appearance.

Like the computer making a rather loud and annoying humming sound all morning while not allowing me to access my photos.

And like my poor Wilder sporting a fever tonight.

Like one particular small boy I know choosing to lie despite my provision of ample opportunity for truth-telling.

And like one toddler I know exercising her vocal chords loudly and boldly during any sibling conflict, of which there were a-plenty.

Like misplacing the all-important notebook of school schedules.

And all of this occurring the first day of my husband's business trip.

When I introduced the verse to the kids on the first day, I told them that it was a message for all of us, not just them. And I told them that this was something we could gently remind one another of any time we saw one of us struggling with anger. "You can even correct Mommy about her anger, as long as you do it kindly and respectfully," I said to them. (What was I thinking?)

And how many times I have heard a little sweet voice beside me today, patting my shoulder or touching my hand, "Mommy. Slow to anger. Remember? Slow to anger."

Yes. I remember.

I remember.

What?

Is this a test or something?

No, not exactly.

And yes.

This Is Not Good

2009-11-19T07:26:00.000-08:00

Look what happens
when I answer the phone
and have the audacity
to walk into another room
to finish my conversation.

Close Enough

2009-11-18T11:14:00.000-08:00

Last week we visited our new favorite field trip place again - Pisgah National Forest and the Pisgah Wildlife Center.

The kids attended a class about opossums.

Apparently, Bergen was paying attention.

Today I asked him to return some math toys to their proper basket.

After he had completed his chore, he said, "Okay Mom - I have returned them to their native habitat."

She Will Surprise You

2009-11-16T17:28:00.000-08:00

Oh.

This One.

Sometimes she is such a mystery.

Last week at the entrance to my least favorite store a lady representing the Salvation Army was ringing her little holiday bell.

I gave all of the kids whatever change I had and they all trotted off to dump their coins in the red kettle.

Much later, inside the store, I heard loose change hit the floor near my feet.

And there was Mosely, scrambling after it. I knew right away where that little kid had gotten her quarter.

Instead of dropping her money into the kettle, Mosely had dropped her quarter into her pocket.

(Yes, I made her go back outside and give the volunteer the quarter.)

After several conversations over the next few days, Mosely and I came to some sort of terms.

She felt as if she never had the opportunity to earn money to purchase things that she would want.

"Like what?" I queried.

"A piggy bank," was the quick response.

Okay.

Mosely volunteered to do extra chores and asked to be paid for them. I agreed to her entrepreneurial schemes.

One afternoon, she cleaned the sun room above and beyond the normal methods. (She did a remarkably good job too. Hmmm. Now I have a new standard for five-year-old labor. That one might just back-fire on her.) One quarter earned.

The next day she accomplished another task. Another quarter dropped into her makeshift piggy bank - the classic plastic container with a thin slice cut out of the lid.

More chores done. At this point, Mosely has earned three shiny quarters.

She continually opens her container and looks adoringly at her coins. She shakes them in her tiny hands. She stores the container on a high shelf, just in case Piper tries to take it, she tells me.

Mosely is making plans for tomorrow - what she can do to earn more money, to collect more coins, to see her empire stretch even farther.

Fast forward to right now . . .

Bergen and Kevin are about to embark on a little father-son jaunt to the store for some necessary items - such as milk and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.

London complains that she is not able to attend this exciting adventure.

Mosely, however, does not speak a word of complaint.

She jumps up and races into her bedroom.

Her fist is tightly clenched as she returns to the living room.

Still without a word, she approaches her younger brother. She stretches out her closed fist to Bergen.

Wordlessly, he opens his hand, palm up.

And into that palm, Mosely places the entire contents of her piggy bank fund into Berg's sweaty little hand.

All three coins.

Nothing held back.

Oh.

This one.

Sometimes she will just surprise you.

11:00 a.m.

2009-11-16T10:50:00.000-08:00

The alarm on my watch beeps every day at 11:00 a.m.

When Kevin was in Israel we both sat our alarms to the same hour so we could remember to pray for one another and our family at the same exact time, despite the physical distance between us.

Once Kevin returned, I just left the alarm setting as it was. (Not just because I don't know how to change it either.) It has been a good daily reminder to pray for my husband.

In the past when I have prayed for my husband, or any loved one in my life really, my prayers were pretty selfish.

Yes, I would pray for his physical health, his safety or specific situational problems.

But the reason I was praying those words was the selfish part.

I wanted those things to be protected, those requests to be granted, because his physical health, safety and everything else directly affected me and our children.

It's pretty hard (maybe impossible) to separate our prayers, even in our most sincere moments, from our selfish desires.

But my prayers for Kevin while he was in Israel became so much larger than just prayers for his physical safety.

I started to pray something else for my husband, the tall, handsome, bearded man I committed to stay married to for the remainder of my life.

I didn't ask God so much for stuff for Kevin any longer. (Or anyone I pray for really.)

I didn't ask for a cancer-free life. Or happiness. Or financial security.

I asked God for this . . .

Let my husband love you God. Make him chase hard after you. Chase hard. God, keep him pursuing you, pursuing you, pursuing you.

And that's all.

It's really my prayer for me too.

Maybe it's still selfish.

Because I know (and am learning) that when Kevin chases hard after God, my life is better too.

Of course it flows in both directions. When I chase hard after God, Kevin's life is better as well.

And who doesn't like better?

Back in the day (as in high school) I distinctly remember hearing youth leaders in my life, like Mark Griffith and Sonja Richards, say what I thought to be the most absurd things about marriage. Stuff like, "Fall in love with a person who loves God more than he loves you." And "the most attractive thing about your future spouse should be his love of God".

Yeah.

At sixteen I thought the most attractive thing about my future husband would be how attractive he actually was.

And I was hardly convinced that I wanted my spouse to love God more than he loved me. I think I was pretty anxious to edge God out of that first place position.

Now, and only after fourteen years of marriage, I think I may just be starting to understand the concept. A little. (Ask me why I make things harder than they need to be. And I answer - I don't know.)

It's so simple.

And so complicated.

When I love God (When I love Him well. When I love Him right.) everything in my life can find its proper place. Peace. Shalom.

When I love God better, I love Kevin better. I love my children better. I love people better. I just love better.

So if I really love my husband, why would I ask God for anything else?

My Blue Eyed Boy

2009-11-14T10:45:00.000-08:00

Do you know what song I have been in love with lately?

"Hard Rain's Gonna Fall". By Bob Dylan. Performed by Jason Mraz.

And I listened to it this morning as I took my bi-monthly run. (Or maybe I should call it my bi-monthly shuffle-my-feet-only-slightly-speedier-than-I-walk.)

I like the line about my blue-eyed son and my darling young one.

Which made me think about my little Wilde Fox of a son, conquering milestones left and right.

Eating too many new foods to count - like peas and sweet potatoes and pears. And not turning up his tiny pert nose at any of them.

Responding to our voices and our expressions and freely offering his face-altering, flat-lined grin at almost anything we say.

And now his latest feat.

Lifting that wee belly right off of the crib and pushing up securely on all fours.
Downright adorable. The very definition of it.

He may be Number Six Keigley Kid, which may imply busier parents, hand-me-down toys and already-been-worn clothes. But that Six ranking also most certainly means more love from so many more faces, hands and arms.

This kid is loved. Very well.

And there is simply no way he will not know that fact.

I hope he rests in it. I hope he rejoices in it. Finds comfort in it.

I hope this love, this abundant overflow of love that drips on his sweet life will point him to the love, the greatest love, of a God who decisively placed this minuscule man in our home.

My blue-eyed boy. My darling young one.

The Greatest Obstacle

2009-11-12T12:21:00.000-08:00

Do you want to know what my biggest parenting challenge is?

Let me start but telling you what it is not.

It is not

determining which homeschool curriculum to use

or even the decision whether or not to actually homeschool these children at all.

It is not preparing daily breakfasts, lunches and dinners with variety and healthy eating habits in mind.

It is not

balancing the demands of six children, a messy house, overflowing laundry, marriage and friendships.

It is not

determining the best course of discipline appropriate for six different humans.

No.

It isn't any of those things.

My biggest parenting challenge is this . . .

With five children under the age of six all together on every day outings to the grocery store, museums, farms, nature hikes and more -

How am I supposed to use a public restroom?

Afternoon

2009-11-11T10:45:00.000-08:00

This past weekend Riley volunteered to help at a local Farm Day with her classmates.

The farm was beautiful. The barns and the mountain views made me miss sweet Virginia.

The smell of the hay barn even made me miss the dairy farm on which I grew up.

London, Mosely and Bergen passed around bunnies that were so cute I almost wanted one.

Almost.

Because I had bunnies when I was a kid.

My little brother and I had matching white fluffy ones. Trapper and Whatever-Douglas-Named-His. My cousin Mark jumped into their pen once when he was visiting. He landed on Trapper, my bunny. Hard. It died. Since the bunnies were difficult to tell apart, I told Douglas that his rabbit was dead. He believed me.

I didn't confess my ten-year-old sin until we were both well into our twenties.

Sorry Douglas.

We were escorted from the parking lot to the farm site on an extended golf cart that the kids thought was just part of the fun. Mosely and London enjoyed face painting from Kendall. They all rode a horse around a small circle. (And imagine themselves cowboys now I think.) There was a rope swing with a feed bag attached to the bottom and boys assigned to push the kids on it. That was a big hit. Bergen was most excited about using an old-fashioned washing tub and wringer. He cranked that little thing with such intensity. And (Girl Staff) Riley carried Curious George around for Bergen all afternoon.

It was supposed to be a quick trip to pick up Riley from a volunteer day, but it turned into such a nice surprise.

I like when that happens.

seriously.

2009-11-10T13:42:00.000-08:00

Oh Man.

After this morning's Bible study, I had a small window of time to get back to our house, grab a quick lunch for everyone (and by "grab" I mean "Mommy has to assemble") and get everyone back in the car and headed in the opposite direction to the afternoon's art lessons.

It was raining. Time was limited. I had five children with me.

I knew it was a recipe for disaster.

But I had no idea how violently it would all break down.

The kids got corralled in, stepping in each puddle and muddy inch in the yard and splash their wet selves across the sun room floor.

Thankfully the kind ladies at the nursery had given Wilder a bottle, which bought me a few minutes to slice an apple and set out some pickles per London's lunch request.

Nursed Wilder. Then fed him his mushy bananas. (I am always glad when my babies begin solid food, but sad too because the meal process becomes so much more involved.)

Changed Piper Finn's diaper and then began slapping peanut butter on sandwiches that kids could eat in the car.

London announced that Magnus was in the car. (Didn't bother to ask how this happened, just passed her a dog biscuit to lure him out.)

Heard Piper screaming. Magnus had stolen her sandwich. "Mommy, please make me another one?" she asked.

I did.

Grabbed my bag and began putting poor Wilder back in his car seat.

Screams.

Magnus ate Piper's second sandwich.

Seriously?

"Mommy, can you please make me another san'wich?"

I did.

Attempted to get five set of small feet out of the door.

Watched Magnus barrel back into the house, knock Bergen over and attempt to grab Bergen's sandwich from the poor boy's very lips.

Forced Magnus out of the house in a less than godly manner using less than godly words that were less than quiet and less than appropriate.

Reached for my own sandwich and watched mustard fall onto my skirt.

Trudged through the rain carrying Wilder and my bag.

Wrestled Piper's eagle and Mosley's blanket away from Magnus at least three separate times.

Grew impatient watching two little girls struggle to enter the Suburban while holding umbrellas.

At long last, started the vehicle and hit the road.

From the backseat, I see Piper's peanut buttery hand reach toward me holding her crumpled sandwich and hear her say,

"I don't care for this anymore Mommy."

One Thing Leads To Another

2009-11-08T19:31:00.000-08:00

Ups and downs.

Highs and lows.

This and that.

A chain of events that

connects

one thing

to

another.

We were in the car on the way to the bank.

Piper threw up in the car again. (Is this a pattern?)

I turned the car around, errands never completed. I unbuckled the entire car seat, with the sticky, smelly two-year-old still buckled in, and set it all on the driveway. I left the car seat outside and carried the little Finnian directly in to the bathtub.

I forgot about the car seat.

Magnus did not.

Riley (or as our kids call her - Girl Staff Riley, not to be confused with Riley Our Sister) and Caitlyn came for a weekend visit.

We laughed. They burned cookies. We watched silly shows. They stayed with the wee ones while Kevin and I drove to pick up the finally repaired Tahoe. We caught up on the details of our lives. They helped entertain the young crowd of kids at our house. We moved furniture. (Yes, I disobeyed London's No Moving Furniture rule. Hey, I'm in charge here - right?)

In other words, I was rather distracted.

Which gave Magnus ample opportunity to eat Piper's car seat.

Well, not eat exactly. But solidly destroy, mangle or otherwise make said car seat unsafe for toddler transportation.

And the girls happily and kindly offered to stay at the house while I bought a new car seat.

Apparently I stayed distracted at the store as well.

Perhaps I was confused by the unusual calm surrounding me as I paid for my groceries and car seat. But I walked away from the cash register only to hear feet running behind me. It was my cashier. His name was Josh. He was carrying the milk I had forgotten to put in the grocery cart. I thanked him and headed to the car. I was out in the parking lot, approaching my car at the very end where I had parked. I heard feet running behind me. It was my cashier. Josh. Carrying the bananas I had left behind at the check out line.

Good grief.

But, on the bright side, I now appreciate Josh. I have a newly arranged living room. I listened to a really great CD loaned to me by Riley and discovered a fantastic little pair of musicians named Jenny & Tyler. And I basked in the kindness of two summer staffers who showed us love in action.

All because Piper threw up.

London Elizabeth Scout Keigley: The Interview

2009-11-05T10:15:00.000-08:00

Based on the popularity of my last interview with a young man about town named Bergen Hawkeye, I thought I might ride the coattails of that success and present another interview.

This interview was a bit easier to attain, as this child is less inclined to bolt midway through a sentence.

This small one is a thinker, a philosopher, a leader of her many young siblings and just a darn cute little gal.

She is prone to unusual proclamations such as the one that was pronounced during last evening's bath time.

She had a rather large scab on her ankle from a fall across asphalt. As she was bathing and soaking in large amounts of water, the scab began to do what scabs do when exposed to excess water. It swelled a little and changed colors a bit. And it looked weird. But more than just weird - to London, it looked like food. (Something that is always on that child's brain.)

So she yelled, "I don't like this chicken nugget on my foot!!"

Now, with that shared,

let the interview begin.

Of your many names, which is your favorite?

Scout.

Do you have any nicknames?

Wentzil.

Explain that please.

Because Daddy calls me that and it's not in my real name.

If you could eat anything you wanted for breakfast every day, what would you eat?

Mac and cheese. And cookies.

What do you think about Magnus?

I think he's fun. Daddy loves him. He steals Piper's eagle.

Why do you love Piper Finn so much?

Because she's cute and she's my little sister.

Tell me what you can do in a kitchen.

I can make cake. I can cut the tomatoes. I can make sandwiches, bagels and crackers.

What is your favorite book?
Peter Pan.

Favorite TV show and why?

The Moving Castle even though it's scary. Because I like Howl. That's why I like to watch it. My next favorite show is Spy Kids.
If you could go anywhere for Christmas, where would you go and why?

Disney. Because it's fun! Because they have Mickey Mouse and all the characters!

What makes you happy?

Ummmm. Coloring with Daddy. Drawing, sometimes. That's a funny question.

What makes you sad?

Daddy leaving for a lot of days. Hmmmm. When people die.

Why do you like to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed so much?

Because I can cuddle with Daddy. I wish I could go in there every night. I don't even know why you won't let me go in there every night. Why only on special nights can I go in there?
Why are you so hungry all the time?

Because it's fun to eat. And I like to eat.

How high can you count?

To 100.

What's your favorite color and why?

Green. It's in a lot of stuff - it's in turtles and on the ground and on shirts and on crayons and paper and scissors and pencils and pants.

Favorite song?

"Bend Little Willow". The Michael Jackson one where he cries at the end - "Will You Be There?" I like "Bad". Michael Jackson's my favorite guy so far.

What do you think about Look Up Lodge?

I like their food, their cheese and I like Noah and Gloria. I like hikes. Can you ask me who my favorite friends are?

Who are your favorite friends?

Gloria and Raven.

What was your favorite vacation?

To the beach. Because it's so much fun and there's so much water and the beach is just so fun. I want to go again.
Can you drive a car?

NO! 'Cause I'm just six.

Anything else you want to add?

I like coloring pages. I want to do one.

(At the close of this interview session, I am trying to maintain my sense of emotional well-being after my daughter exposed the fact that she clearly has a favorite parent. And. I. Am. Not. It.)

Speaks For Itself

2009-11-04T10:33:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure I run a great homeschool.

Although I don't think I run a bad one.

There are a lot of things I do poorly. (It would be too detrimental to my psyche to list them.)

But I think I do one or two things pretty well.

(Probably because they are my favorite so they're easy for me.)

This is what we do well.

We read.

A lot.

And a vast variety considering my homeschool's median age is probably four. (Math is not something I do well.)

I love Charlotte Mason, a British educator whose philosophy I have snagged as my own.

A major part of her educational foundation, and therefore The School of Keigley's educational foundation, is living books.

True works of art on paper. Classics. Books written by one person who loves the topic about which he writes. (Read - no textbooks!)

Along with that, Mason advocates letting the original author do the bulk of the talking. Not me. (Which suits me fine in theory. A bit harder to self-enforce in reality.)

So much of what is good about a book and an author's original ideas, we muddle up with our own perspectives and prejudices. We ruin a lot when we open our mouths. (Or, more accurately, I ruin a lot when I open my mouth.)

Example.

Recently, I heard a scurry of business being conducted in the only room of our house where little feet seldom traverse - Riley's bedroom. Alarmed and ready to gently remind the rebels of the rules (or prepared to blast some truant children) I opened Riley's closed bedroom door.

Instead of seeing the dishevelment I expected, I saw order. No clothes on the floor. Books stacked neatly on the desk. Stuffed animals and pillows placed appealingly near Riley's black lounger.

Suspicious, I asked for an explanation.

"We want to be elves," Mosely said. "Just like the elves in the fairy tale about the shoemaker!"

Oh, the fairy tale from Andrew Lang's fun collection - The Blue Fairy Book.

I remember that one.

And I remember not saying anything after reading the story together. Refraining from offering my adult/mommyized Cliff's Notes on the story. Letting each child take what they would from the words crafted so concisely and precisely.

Because,
you know . . .

great literature always speaks for itself.

I Knew Her When

2009-11-03T14:07:00.000-08:00

A gifted student. A kind junior high girl (more a rarity than it should be). A godly young lady. Our favorite Virginia babysitter. A great soccer player. A dedicated worker. A faithful finisher of assignments. A considerate friend. A joyful spirit. A reliable actress on the high school stage.

Jamie Newton.

What a good kid.

That's what we used to think.

And now we can say . . .

What a great grown-up.

It was so much fun for our family to load up the Suburban this weekend and drive a little bit into the North Carolina hills to meet Jamie and her equally cool husband of four months, Cole, for a little fall-weather-enjoying, catch-up-on-your-life-chatting, tour-Gardner-Webb-University-walking kind of day.

I met Jamie when she was in seventh grade in my English class. And Bible class. And theatre program. (It was a small school, demanding multi-tasking at its finest. Or worst.)

(I know - it makes me old!)

And our family fell in love with her family.

What a pleasure - really, a pleasure - to watch Jamie grow up, mature, have roots and make a difference.

To even have a role in her journey, however small it may have been, is an incredible blessing.

And it made me proud just to hear about her job and her experiences and her outlook and her heart for serving others and her love of Christ.

I thought about all the things her mom and dad did well.

And the high school that Jamie attended.

And how all of our lives ebb and flow into and out of one another's lives all the time.

Ebb. And. Flow.

And we seldom know what the end will look like.

Or the roles we will play.

But what a spectacular moment just to see a life headed in the right direction. A series of choices made that honor God and the reward of those choices plain on her sweet and pure face.

Yeah, the Keigleys love Jamie Newton. And Cole Harden.

So - Newton parents . . . guess who we will be turning to for that parenting advice now.

Constant

2009-11-02T10:35:00.000-08:00

Really, this post is about chaos.

And I think the photo demonstrates that fairly well.

And it's funny.

And Leanne said she will only read my posts if they are accompanied by a photo.

Our house is lived in.

It's comfortable.

And we like that.

But comfortable can ooze into cluttered faster than Bergen can ride a bike down a hill. And cluttered can morph into chaos with a speed faster than Riley's fingers can text.

Last weekend Kevin and I looked around our home.

And it looked like chaos had settled in.

I was tired of messy children's rooms where a child could not play with any particular item if they desired because there were simply too many toys strewn across the floor. Clean laundry was flowing out of the basket and beginning to be contaminated by dirty laundry piled near it.

I wanted a change.

So did Kevin.

And we had a yard sale quickly approaching.

It was the Perfect Storm.

So we organized. Cleaned every nook and cranny. Bagged up all but four stuffed animals per kid. (Veggie Tales, Curious George and Eagle are the only ones who have made the current cut.) We swept. Sorted clothing. Stashed the doll house in the closet for a rainy day. Sold the train table on craigslist. Threw away only what even GoodWill would refuse.

It was hard work.

But rewarding.

And the house looked good. Shiny. Clean. Simplified. Clutter-free. You could walk. You could run. Your socks didn't get dirty just walking around the kitchen. Your clothing choices were infinite because every article of clothing was cleaned and neatly folded or hung in the closet.

It was beautiful.

And heartbreakingly short-lived.

It still looks pretty good. It does.

But not pristine.

We had to eat. We had to get dressed. We had to play. We had to live.

One busy weekend later and things are a little misplaced again.

Laundry is dirty. (Why did man ever have to sin in the garden? Nakedness is so much easier to maintain.)

Dishes are in the sink.

Larry and Junior and George are flopped on the floor.

Disorder is always waiting around the corner.

It is always waiting.

And it takes steady, concentrated effort to maintain order.

To push back chaos.

This is true at our house.

And in our relationships.

With our friends. Our spouse. Our children. God.

Steady, concentrated effort to maintain order.

To maintain relationship.

Harmony.

Peace.

And how quickly it falls apart if we stop.

Even for a weekend.

Remember When?

2009-11-01T04:06:00.000-08:00

This is a recent photo of the Little Willow.

The "bigger" kids dressed her up one day.

For no reason.

And yesterday was Halloween.

Which, at the Keigley house, did not imply anything out of the ordinary this year.

Kevin and Riley ran a race. The rest of the kids and I had a less-than-financially successful yard sale. We relaxed in the afternoon, went to the store, had tacos for dinner and watched a movie with friends. You know - the regular.

But this Halloween made me think of last Halloween.

And that made me laugh.

And since yesterday was so . . . . normal, I thought I might choose to entertain today with last year's Halloween.

And maybe you will laugh too.
(Cue the soft lights, appropriate music and squiggly dream sequence waves across the screen.)

Disclaimer: This story may make the Keigleys sound as if they deprive their children of holiday joy. In fact, we do not. (Or maybe we do - it depends on your perspective.)

It was Halloween day.

In our house, that doesn't mean an awful lot. Or, well, anything really. For the whole of our children's lives we lived on the farm in Virginia where no honest soul dared traverse the long dark drive through the woods to get a measly candy bar from a stranger.

Hence, no Halloween for Keigley kids.

I bought Riley a bag of her candy of choice. The other kids were very young. They didn't know. They didn't care. It seemed to work out just fine.

So along comes our friend Jane on Halloween afternoon. She asks if the kids are dressed up.

Well, they aren't currently naked - so....yes.

She asks if we are going anywhere. We aren't. And then she tells us of a nearby college that decorates their dorms and passes out candy.

Our Friday night held no plans. At all. And I like candy too. Especially bite sized amounts of candy.

"Hey kids, you should go find some fun costumes and wear them," I told them.

They didn't even question me. They just ran to the dress up trunk and found some dandies.

They came back, dressed as tiny ninja, ninja boy, ninja turtle and, in Mosely's own words, "Ummm ....[cute head tilt and crooked grin]....I don't know."

I told them that we were going to go to a college dressed up to say "trick or treat".

They happily agreed.

"Do you know what will happen when you say that?"

Blank stares all around.

"You'll get candy!"

Then applause, glee, rapture, such joy as three ninjas and an I Don't Know could display.

We went to the college, we got our free candy.

Bergen approached every door and first said "thank you" and then as he exited he followed it up with "shrick or shreat"!

As we got in the car Berg announced, "I like Halloween. Let's do it tomorrow!"

No Longer

2009-10-29T11:51:00.000-07:00

No longer will I look scornfully upon you when I notice your child walking down the street wearing only one flip flop. Maybe your daughter just tripped on her left flip flop, took it off and used her teeth to try to "fix" the problem, thus creating a new problem - a completely unwearable piece of footwear. And maybe you were only a block or so away from your car anyway so it just made more sense to walk back to the car with her one shoe-less than to really address the problem on the street with four other children in addition to the one-shoe-wonder walking down the street.
No longer will I assume you are a disrespectful food addict when I watch you sneak a granola bar/graham cracker/ cookie/ candy bar/ fruit roll up/ milkshake/ five course meal during a church service/ theatre performance/ meeting/ class/ study/ funeral. Maybe you had no time for breakfast between the morning mayhem of feeding your many small children, giving a loopy overgrown puppy his morning meal, dressing ten legs and ten feet and ten arms and being sure your bag was loaded for every potential disaster a day away from the safety of your home could bring. Maybe your lunch was a half eaten slice of apple and lick of brownie batter.

No longer will I secretly laugh at you when I watch you fall asleep during a children's theatre performance. Maybe your head is sinking over onto your son's head because you stayed up too late talking on the telephone to a friend from another state. Maybe your eyes have been blinked ten minutes too long because your infant son decided his regularly scheduled wake time needed an hour and a half earlier than usual morning call. Maybe that one night is reflective of how several weeks have been of trying to do too much too late too often.

I Didn't Know

2009-10-28T11:53:00.000-07:00

I am constantly learning new things.

Sure, plenty of those things are powerful, spiritual and perspective-altering.

But some of them are not.

For example.

I didn't know that size 6 jeans for six-year-olds are already $15 even at low-cost stores such as T.J. Maxx. (I just visited Ye Olde Good Will Shoppe to cure that one.)

I didn't know that petite clothing has very little do with your overall size. I always thought those clothes were for very tiny people so I sidestepped those racks. I recently found out that petite is actually talking about your height! As a relatively short person, why hasn't someone, anyone, told me this before? Was every salesperson in my life ignorant or uninformed? What? I have been walking on the hems of my jeans since....well, since I could walk. And now, now at thirty-six, I discover the world of petite. It's about time!

And this week I just solved another mystery that had left me confused for years.

After carving many pumpkins I always wondered how the innards of the pumpkins we carved could ever mutate into the form of the condensed pumpkin stuff I bought in cans for less than two dollars. I just chalked it up to the mysteries of processed foods and let it go. But I could never connect how the stringy, seedy pulp we plopped in the compost became such a different texture and consistency. And I assumed it must take hordes of real-life pumpkins to fill even one can of pumpkin at the store.

Guess what?

It was just this week that I was enlightened.

It's not the stringy, goopy, seedy stuff that makes it to the cans. Nope. It's the rest of the pumpkin. All the golden thick walls of the pumpkin which your knife slices right through.

Who knew?

Okay, well, probably everybody but me.

(And yeah - I was raised on a farm. So what? We had cows, not pumpkins!)

So in the spirit of making me feel less ridiculous,
wouldn't you like to tell me what you never knew?

Calls It Like He Sees It

2009-10-27T10:47:00.000-07:00

Bergen likes to call things by the names he thinks are best, even if they are not correct.

These delicious little peanut butter kiss cookies?

Needle Tips.

Are You Sure?

2009-10-26T10:28:00.000-07:00

I find myself always asking,

(repetitively, yes)

How can I best serve God?

(Right now. In this life. In the present.)

And the answer seems to always be given

(repetitively, yes)

softly in my mind,

boldly in my life.

By serving the people living at this house.

No, no, no.

Can't I do something glamorous?
Something big?
Exciting?
Cool?
Highly visible?
Dramatic?

God,
Don't you need a writer for a really popular magazine?
Do you need me to work at a theatre like Flat Rock Playhouse?
Do you want me to sell all of my possessions and travel across the country with my family in an RV for you?
Do you want me to sequester myself away in some private hideaway and write the next great novel?

Oh.

You
want
me
to stay
here?

To wash these clothes?
To wipe so many sticky hands?
To kiss golden heads when they cry?
To stay up late holding inconsolable babies?

To
serve
the
small
humans
who
may
(or may not)
ever say
thank you.

Are you sure?

Oh.

I am supposed to be busy
about the business
of
straightening
the
arrows
you gently placed
in
our
quiver?

Oh.

But . . . .
No one notices.
The hours are really long.
The salary is sub-standard.
The benefits
are
not entirely
tangible.

And
it's
hard.

Really hard.

Oh.

Not Allowed

2009-10-25T18:29:00.000-07:00

Maybe I have been a little too busy moving furniture around lately.

London secretly made this sign all by herself and then displayed it prominently on the fridge.

Translation: No Moving Furniture

Little Bites

2009-10-24T18:23:00.001-07:00

Piper Finnian is notorious for a lot of reasons around these parts.

Standing anywhere she can gather a crowd and announcing, "Everybody! Dance!"

Agreeing with all who may perchance comment about her cuteness. "I cooot!"

Wrapping grown men around her finger by announcing how much she loves them. Men such as Kevin Keigley, Nathan Heffington, Walter Howard, Jody Deming, Jamal Quattlebaum and Greg Boone.

Singing "How He Loves" at the top of her lungs.

Finding the half-eaten bag of M&Ms reserved for potty training and eating the remainder of the entire bag before being caught.

Recognizing songs by Michael Jackson and Ben Harper without any prompting.

Waiting until naptime every day to drop a toxic poop in her diaper.

And eating tiny bites of fruit and returning the fruit to its original container without my knowledge.

Such as apples in a wooden bowl on the kitchen table. (Tiny Piper bites through the whole bowl full.)

And this row of semi-eaten carrots, neatly lined up across the counter.

Operation Potty Traing: A Family Affair

2009-10-24T07:17:00.000-07:00

I don't enjoy potty training.

It's one of my least favorite parenting tasks.

I don't enjoy changing diapers either really, but somehow, for me, potty training is worse than a gross, but speedy and predictable diaper change.

So Piper is two and has been talking about the potty for some time. Lately, she's even begun to request a new diaper post-poo. I guess those are the generally accepted signs that she's more ready than I am to start this messy, time-consuming journey.

I decided to adopt my husband's well known philosophy of not playing around. I immediately began employing a system that involves bribery and back up.

I explained the whole m&m scheme to Piper. One m&m for sitting on the potty. Three m&m's for peeing. Five m&m's for poop.

She was impressed. (What age do we stop being impressed with a tiny number of candy-coated chocolates as a reward?)

I wasted no time executing my next step.

I called in the reinforcements.

London, Mosely and Bergen gathered around me with serious expressions on their cute kid faces. I explained the system I had just told their toddler sister. And then I added the incentive. "Whichever of you helps Piper do these things, receives the same number of m&m's as well."

They cheered. (Seriously.)

And then, just to show their sense of team play, they actually gathered around Piper in a huddle sort of way, placed all of their small hands one on top of another, and whispered for a few seconds before saying in unison, "One, two three . . . go Keigleys!"

I think they had just formed their own game plan.

And I am pleased to report that one day in to Operation Potty Training Piper, the kids' team efforts have proven most effective.

With the enticement of m&m's, the kids have been taking Piper regularly to the potty and shouting with more excitement than imaginable over her success, and theirs too.

I could not resist photographing their work.

I only wish I could have recorded their conversations during the task at hand as well.

Words of encouragement from Mosely. "You can do it, Piper." "Good work." "I am so proud of you."

Bergen's claim to be master of the flushing responsibilities.

And London's announcement - "I will be in charge of looking at Piper's bum to see if anything is coming out!"

What Is She Wearing?

2009-10-21T18:37:00.000-07:00

My friend Mandy and I were on our way to our weekly Bible study.

The kids were all buckled into their seats, quietly enjoying our little ride.

"Mommy. I think Piper just threw up," Bergen said.

"No, I don't think so Berg."

"Yeah. I think she did," he said.

"I throw up," Piper announced.

Mandy turned around to verify the facts.

"Uh. Yes. She did throw up."

We were almost at church so we kept heading in that direction so we could clean her up there.

Not to get too graphic, but it was pretty much a pure strawberry yogurt type of throw up. More than likely brought on by the quick downing of an unshaken yogurt drink and a new curvy road driven at speeds slightly too fast for the conditions caused by a sincere desire to not be late AGAIN to Bible study.

As we reached the stoplight, Piper said, "I throw up again Mom."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

What's my problem? Why do I keep doubting the validity of my children's claims?

Mandy and I both look back this time.

Oh yeah. She's throwing up again.

Mandy searches the floorboard for a blanket or any piece of material to help contain the overflow.

(Which is incredibly kind of her since she is like me and has a complete aversion to throw up in any form, particularly in the form of someone else's child. Oh, and she's pregnant, which we all know multiplies that sensitivity level enormously.)

Of course, there was nothing to be found on the floorboard - an absolute anomaly in our Suburban but Riley had just cleaned out the car the day before. Normally you could clothe the Duggar family with the contents located between the seats.

So here we go.

We arrive at church and Mandy escorts the other kids to class while I escort my sweet little stinky yogurt girl to the bathroom. But there's no recovering this outfit. It's a gross bile-strawberry mess.

The most pleasant and efficient nursery attendant offered me a change of clothes that the church keeps on hand for such occasions. I gratefully accepted.

And that is where this story really starts.

The outfit that I was graciously loaned was . . . . . well, it was a look I would have never willingly draped on my daughter's body.

The clothes weren't that awful, I guess.

And they did cover her nakedness.

And they were a marked improvement over the cute dress whose current primary decoration was yogurt vomit.

But the pink and turquoise printed turtleneck and matching turquoise thick corduroy jumper did make my sweet Willow look as if she was the eighteenth child of a homesteader who hand-fashioned her children's clothing from the scraps of Grandma's quilt. Not to mention that both the bulk and the cut of the material added enough weight to make Piper look like a tiny human weeble wobble.

(Don't think for a minute that I don't know how shallow and petty this sounds. I do. And now you know how shallow and petty I can be sometimes, okay?)

We made it through Bible study, but I was desperate to change this kid's clothes.

But then we decided to stop at the lodge for lunch.

I wanted to tell everyone why Piper was dressed like she was. I wanted to clear my throat and make a general announcement. I think if I could have made a sign to put around her neck explaining the entire scenario, I would have.

To compound the situation (and probably for God to prove His point to me) we had plans to head to art class directly after lunch, with no time for even a speedy clothes change. But I pulled into the house anyway and grabbed an outfit, tossing it in the car and telling myself that I would change Piper when we reached the art class or even the museum where she and Bergen would be playing while the girls attended their class.

When we reached the parking lot and I began trying to wrangle a two year old out of clothes she had no problem with in the back of car filled with five car seats while trying not to be late to our first art class, I finally realized how ludicrous I was being. How foolish and vain. How ridiculous.

Piper was dressed. She was not naked.

Piper was clean. Her clothes did not reek of stomach acids and sour yogurt.

Piper was content. Her attire in no way hindered her ability to run or to jump and play.

And that is all that was important to her.

So why wasn't that all that was important to me?

What was my problem, exactly?

I don't know.

Fear of man?

Vanity?

Pride? (That's my go-to sin apparently, in its many subtle and less-than-subtle forms.)

Yeah.

All of the above.

School Days

2009-10-20T17:21:00.000-07:00

You know what I love?

Borrowing ideas from people far more clever than I.

I saw a picture of my friend Kate's children playing with spaghetti noodles at a table.

I took her idea.

And did it at my own table. With my own kids.

At first, they couldn't get over the novelty of the fact that Mommy had just dumped noodles all over the table and actually instructed them to play with their food.

It was great. London spelled her name and underlined it. Hawkeye spelled a "b" and asked me to help him form the remaining letters. Mosely created a large head with an ultra-squiggly beard that made us all giggle. And Piper? Well, she just shoved handfuls of sticky pasta in her mouth.

This was just the start of a particularly fun week at the School of Keigley.

We've been covering every facet of education this week.

Monday some of the crew headed out to see a performance of "Peter and the Wolf" at a local theatre. Midway through the play, Bergen turned to me and whispered, "I like this play - don't you Mommy?" And the girls have been quoting the wolf's lines all day today.

This afternoon London and Mosely took their first art class in downtown Hendersonville. They studied Da Vinci. We introduced the painter extraordinaire last week and suddenly Mona Lisa seems to be everywhere. Bergen just thinks it is so funny that they even saw a Mona Lisa that someone had drawn a moustache across. The girls were so grown that they attended the class sans me and it was a bit surreal to watch them just go off and do their own little thing. (They have been infatuated with their own togetherness lately, even to the point of insisting on wearing matching outfits today.)

And then there's tomorrow. Tomorrow we get to take a guided hike with a homeschool group at Pisgah National Forest. The kids get to study raccoons and wood ducks and visit the fish hatchery.

And . . . . with that said . . . . I am off to pack a picnic lunch!

Just Because

2009-10-19T19:03:00.000-07:00

It's not Father's Day.

And it isn't Kevin's birthday.

But I feel like writing about him anyway.

In our house, the man is a Super Star.

He really is.

With all the trappings of celebrity . . . .

Not much private time (his biggest fans are continually interrupting him in the restroom - even if the door IS shut - try dealing with THAT Harrison Ford)

Everyone vying for his attention (Daddy, can you read this? Will you cut an apple for me? Can I cuddle with you? What are you going to watch Dad? Can I walk outside with you? Where are you going? When will you be back? Can I come? Can I have a bite? What is that? Have you seen my shoes? Can you help me wipe?)

His fashion cues being followed (seriously - Bergen dressed just like him this weekend)

The entourage that generally surrounds him (granted, the bulk of said entourage are his own offspring, but still)

Photos constantly being snapped (wait, this one is a lie)

The celebratory dance and mad dash to his side that happens when he enters the house after a day at work or ten minutes outside (you probably think this is a lie too, but it isn't)

But the guy does work pretty hard for the money. (So we better treat him right.) (Remember that song?)

Seriously.

He's a Super Star because he's a Dad.

And a good one.

Reader of bedtime stories. Incorporating various British accents or Southern drawls accordingly.

Constructing ramps over our bedroom steps for he and Berg to race Brutus the monster truck.

Capturing teachable moments to talk to Mosely about how her obedience pleases God when she comments about how proud she is to be learning how to make Magnus be obedient to her.

Offering warmth and security when London has a bad dream about her knee turning into a scary face.

Making our entire crowded dinner table roll out of our chairs laughing as he helps Fox to dance on the table in his diaper after our meal, all the while speaking as if he is the voice of the nearly five month old mini-man. (It is truly hysterical. You should see it in person.)

Thinking of ingenious solutions to basic problems - like the ice cold water bottle stashed near Otto in his stroller on hot summer days to keep his little space cool and comfortable.

Talking to Riley's Bible class about his experiences in Israel.

Gently bathing Piper and treating her to a special tiny spa day.

And this list isn't even exhaustive.

Today, I just feel like celebrating Kevin.

And I wanted you to see some of what I see.

Because it's a nice view.

A Little Stir Crazy

2009-10-17T22:09:00.000-07:00

Kevin was in Israel for a lot of days.

And some of those days felt much longer than others.

And those many days were also followed by many nights.

I might have gotten a little stir crazy while he was gone.

I might have rearranged the living room furniture in at least twelve various configurations, none of which seemed to please anyone but me.

I might have painted the kitchen cabinets with chalkboard paint and drawn on all the doors with colored chalk.

I might have cleaned out the kids' closets on multiple evenings.

I might have reorganized Kevin's plethora of t-shirts into tidy stacks according to style, color and usage.

I might have moved all of our family's unnecessarily extensive DVD collection from one storage cabinet to another, ordering the DVDs into categories that amused me - such as All Films That Feature Musical Instruction To Young Children, thus causing School of Rock and Sound of Music to dwell side by side in perfect harmony.

I might have given our bedroom a major overhaul, adding risers under our bed and picking up some new red curtains and moving bookshelves that were most certainly too heavy to lift.

I might have bought a huge framed painting of two lions hanging out at local store for a pittance compared to the cost of purchasing new canvas and framing my own artwork. And since I don't want a huge picture of two lions hanging out, I may have just painted right over that crazy scene to do my own art project.

And I might have found these cool windows in the barn and thought that they made a cute mock headboard.

But since Kevin has been home, our evenings seldom involve home projects such as these and the furniture has stayed in its proper place.

Mostly.

Important Things

2009-10-17T05:33:00.000-07:00

Riley was at school. The Little Willow was taking a nap. Wilder was kicking his feet in his crib. (It's how he likes to pass the time.)

And London, Mosely and Bergen were on a mission.

A mission to help.

They were scurrying around the house, looking for Things To Do.

They offered to tidy the living room.

I let them.

That wasn't enough though. They wanted more work.

I suggested they carry the little red bucket we keep dirty kitchen laundry in and put all of that little red bucket's contents into the washing machine.

They were excited to do it.

(I am not making this up.)

(Why do I assert that disclaimer so often on this blog?)

(And what's up with all of these parentheses?)

After unloading the laundry they kept flitting back and forth doing other odd jobs at my request. All the while wearing sweet smiles and laughing as they worked together.

I thought maybe all of this unexpected generosity of spirit was a sign. Was the world ending? Had they all suffered from some sort of head injury that I missed? What did they want?

I inquired of these cherubic small humans, "What's going on today?"

And London answered for the group.

(Because she does that.)

(Just like I overuse parentheses.)

She said,

"We like to do important things."

Oh.

You know, I actually get that.

From the mouth of a six-year-old budding thinker.

Business Theory. Educational philosophy. Motivational poster material.

"We like to do important things."

It's true.

Who wants to spend her life thinking that what she is doing, the bulk of what takes up her day, efforts and time, is not valuable, is unimportant?

Absolutely no one.

We are desperate to believe that what we do matters. That what we do is important. We like to do important things.

And it is precisely when we feel that what we are doing is unimportant, that we lose the joy, the pride in our work itself.

And, of course, we know the lesson is that what we do is important.

All of what we do.

Is important.

And it's not just important if it is missionary work in a third world country. It's not only preaching from a pulpit on Sunday mornings or Saturday nights, whenever the cool churches have service these days. It isn't just writing the next Christian novel or evangelizing on television.

It's whatever you are doing.

Right now.

In your ordinary (extraordinary) life.

Doing important work starts where you are.

It's important not because of what you do, but because of why you do it. And who you do it for.

Because we all like to do important things.

Words

2009-10-15T10:10:00.000-07:00

You know how some things people say stick with your forever?

For better or for worse?

Words really are powerful.

My 7th grade teacher once called me a "snot".

She probably does not even remember.

But I can't forget it.

The truth is, I probably was being a snot. And she probably was having a rotten day with one too many junior high snide comments.

But I am thirty-six years old and I can still clearly remember how those words made me feel.

Words.

What scary power.

I know this and yet I am always speaking without thinking.

I hear myself say such ridiculous things.

But that's not even the worst of it.

Those silly things probably will be soon forgotten by everyone who heard them.

It's the other things I say that are going to stick.

The more hurtful words and phrases. The ones I don't even want to admit in writing.

You know the ones.

I say them when I am unhappy. When I want someone to know just how unhappy they have made me. When I think it's their fault. When I want them to hurt, even just a little. Sometimes a lot.

I just say things.

And I may not even mean them.

And it's horrible enough when I say those rotten words to adults. But somehow, it seems, I am able to control that flow of speech better.

What is worse, really worse, is when I say these words to my children - the smaller-than-me people living in our house.

That's wrong.

And I know it.

I know it because I know the power of words - to heal or to hurt, to bring peace or to bring chaos.

And I would much rather my words lift my children up, rather than bring them down. I would much rather my mouth glorify God than bring Him shame.

Handle them carefully for words have more power than atom bombs.
- Pearl Strachan

Oh, Mo

2009-10-14T11:22:00.000-07:00

I just heard Mosely admonish Bergen.

"I don't understand Whine-ese," she said.

Huh.

That's pretty interesting Mosely.

I thought you were pretty fluent in that language yourself.

It Doesn't Compare

2009-10-13T19:40:00.000-07:00

Oh. Oh. Oh.

I think I am just now
beginning to understand
something
with new eyes.

About sin.
About forgiveness.
About comparing.
About me.

I am always
comparing
my sin to his sin.
My sin to your sin.

And
when I compare
I begin to think
that
I
am
okay.

But
we cannot place our sins
on some sin scale
and measure them along those lines.

Other people's sins
are
the wrong reference point.

The wrong point entirely.

It's not about
my sin
compared to
your sin.

It never has been.

It's only
about
my sin
compared to
the cost
Christ
already paid.

(We can only
compare
ourselves
to a
sinless Christ
who died
for a
sinful
me.)

Bergen Hawkeye - The Interview

2009-10-13T11:19:00.000-07:00

The following is an interview with a little boy.

A little boy who lives life so wide open and so exuberantly. A little boy missing two front teeth from two separate traumatic events. A boy with a scar on his right cheek from running into Jane's truck. And another scar on his chest from a nail on a dock last summer. A little boy who cries far more often from hurt feelings than from hurt limbs.

My little boy.

It is a rare and exclusive peek into the mind that is Hawkeye.

(Rare in that he does not frequently stand still long enough to answer a series of questions. Exclusive in the fact that who else would be pursuing a four-year-old to interview except his own mother.)

What you will read here will be unedited and unscripted.

Because if Bergen is anything, he's the real deal.

What is your full name?

Bergen Hawkeye Norton Keigley

Which of those names is your favorite and why?

I don't know. Bergen. Because it's a short name.

What color are your eyes?

Green.

What color is you hair?

Blonde.

And what is the shade of your skin?

Blonde.

How old are you?

This many. [holding up four fingers.]

What is your favorite toy?

Brutus. [ A monster truck with very large tires. Purchased originally as a Christmas present from his grandfather. Played with until recently retired due to a major accident. Re-purchased by his father about two weeks ago. ]

Why do you love Brutus?

Because he is just new and excited.

What was your favorite vacation and why?

At the beach. The beach is just so fun.

What do you like best about being a Keigley?

We don't always grow up that much.

Why do you love Daddy so much?

He's just real nice and cuddly.

What type of job would you like to have one day?

Just cleaning the dishes and dishing up kids' plates.

What is your favorite book?

Stellaluna. Because it's my night- night story.

What is your favorite song?

Beautiful Boy. [The Ben Harper version. Or, in Berg's words - "Ben Harpen".]

Is there anything you are afraid of?

Snakes. 'Cos they bite people too much.

What is it that you love to eat?

Chicken. Chicken nuggets.

What do you think of your little brother Otto Fox?

He's real nice and cute.

What do you like to do with him?

Play. Can I be done now?

The morning prior to this interview, we were walking through a parking lot. Bergen was adjusting his hat. He did not see the car side mirror as he walked. He completely knocked his forehead right into the solid, stationary object. I heard a loud smacking sound. I am not sure Bergen even blinked. No tears. A slight rub to the head and then back to his hat adjustment.

I asked Bergen why he thought he got hurt so often.

He answered, "Because being a boy is hard."

Our Little Wilde Fox

2009-10-12T13:27:00.000-07:00

Look who is beginning to eat cereal!

Can you believe that there was actually a moment in every one of our lives where we could swallow liquid only and then one day, at some precise minute in our past, a spoon was shoved into our tiny mouth and we experienced a great unknown.

And then that first-time experience quickly morphed into an action that we so completely take for granted that we probably have never even thought about it again.

Crazy - huh?

This Circus

2009-10-10T21:36:00.000-07:00

Tell me the truth, am I the only one who feels like life with small children is more often a circus than anything else?

Do these things happen only at our house?

At your house do reusable silicone muffin wrappers fall out of your washing machine when you open the door?

Do you walk into the kitchen to discover your toddler surrounded by piles of cornmeal, of which she is shoving into her mouth? And when you ask her what she is eating does she reply, "powder"?

Do children sing Michael Jackson's "Will You Be There?" with your husband while dancing around the kitchen using antique wooden rolling pins as microphones?

Does your two-year-old daughter absolutely refuse to take any bath sitting down?

During dinner at your place does it appear that the dining room chairs are on fire or something else equally alarming, causing your four-year-old to continually hop out of his seat despite constant reminders to stay seated?

Does silverware steadily drop to the floor during every meal together?

Do you have to put a feature length film in the DVD player to ensure a few quiet moments to chat with your husband?

And finally, do you ever enter the bathroom at your house, only to discover a urine soaked floor and upon inquiring of your children who is guilty of causing such an unfortunate disaster you get this confession and explanation - "It was me Mommy. I couldn't help it. My penis was backwards."

Brought To You By . . .

2009-10-09T20:39:00.000-07:00

As I said in the last post, it's no small task for both Kevin and I to leave the state of South Carolina sans children.

But leave it we did, if only for an overnight journey to Atlanta for that U2 concert I was raving about recently.

And our adventure was brought to us by some wonderful people we like to call Emma and Sally. Or Aunt E and Oma. Or "Aunt Eeeee-muh" if you are two.

How do you get to claim the title of sainthood anyway?

Do you have to be Catholic?

Or dead?

Well, if those are the two primary requirements then I guess Emma and Sally are officially out of the running. But despite the rules, I think they stand a pretty good chance for a nomination anyway.

Because a few weeks ago when I jokingly asked Emma if she wanted to bring her two young sons and come hang out with five of our children, four of whom are under the age of six, she didn't laugh or choke or change the subject. She said, "That sounds like fun. I'll check with Jon." (Maybe she forgot to count how many little kids that would be in total - like six, I think.)

And when we told Sally about the one night slumber party, she wanted in on the fun too, since she was heading up to the farm anyway. Just a little detour - right?

The kids were all so excited to have a sleepover at their own house with their pals Colton and Beckett. Bergen planned to share his room with Colton. Piper began early asking if Beckett could sleep in her room. (I think Emma said they tried this for a short while. Two two-year-olds in a tent. Probably not a sleep-inducing set up. But I bet they looked so cute.)

And as if simply taking care of the kids at home was not challenging enough, all of the younger kids even got to go on an adventure of their own - to the apple orchard!

(Where Sally said London declared that she realized the logic behind the naming of a certain apple variety. London said, "I know why they call this a golden delicious apple. They are golden. And they taste delicious.")

It was a blessing beyond words to be able to drive away in a car for a night's adventure and not even once have to worry about the safety or well-being of our children.

We knew they were with Aunt E and Oma.

That they were fed. Talked to. Played with. Tucked in. Laughed with. Cared for. Taken care of. Safe.

In short, loved.

I don't know if Emma and Sally are ready for a Round Two any time soon, but the Keigley kids cannot wait to do it all over again.

London and Mosely reminded me that they still want a tea party with Oma. Piper randomly declares to all within hearing distance, "Beckett. My friend." And as I tucked Berg into bed tonight he told me, "Colton liked my room. I just want him to sleep here all the time."

2009-10-09T08:41:00.000-07:00

(I love this picture of the four of us. It makes us look as if we are just extras in Jody's life. And that's funny to me.)

I guess I owe a big fat thank you to my older brother Danny.

Thanks, man.

Back in the day (the "day" being the years he spent driving Douglas and I back and forth to school in the silver hatchback Tercel covered in skateboarding stickers), Danny introduced me to what is arguably one of the greatest rock bands ever formed. A little Irish group named U2.

This was early on. As in, I still own several U2 cassette tapes. (Remember those?)

Fast forward to the present.

This week Kevin and I, along with our good pals Mandy and Jody, made a bit of a pilgrimage to Atlanta to see that now-internationally known band do their thing.

It was a real Look Up Lodge gathering - Nate, Lanier and Walter attended as well. Jane saw them the week before. And so did Walter. Yes, that means he went twice. Within the same week.

It was no small undertaking to make this happen, actually. Well, there really is no longer any small undertaking if it involves our family.

Aunt E and Oma graciously functioned as the grown ups in our absence. (More on that tomorrow!) And Nate and Jenn Rector kindly took care of the little Otto while we were at the actual show. (It requires a great deal of manpower to harness these Keigley kids.)

Actually, the whole adventure would have had a very different ending if Jody had not jokingly asked before we buckled our seat belts in the driveway, "Did you remember the tickets?" I think he probably expected a chuckle or a "good one Jody". Nope. He got a crazed Lacey leaping out of the car and bolting back to the house to procure the precious paper slips from their resting place on the top shelf of the bookcase.

Anyway.

The concert was . . . incredible. Crazy loud, reminding me of my advanced years. But Bono is amazing and The Edge is . . . . you know, The Edge. He's ridiculously good.

These guys have had such a long and successful career - it's astounding. They have been a band for almost more years than I have been breathing. I mean, these guys are someone's dad! (I wonder what my life would have been like if Carl Eibert had chosen rock and roll over dairy cows. Was that ever an option Dad?)

Everything about the experience was fun. The car ride. The beef jerky. The Mexican restaurant in Lilburn (or wherever we were) where I tried my first chimichanga. (A word spellcheck does not recognize.) The fact that it was just cold enough to justify wearing my new boots. Sitting in the backseat of the XTerra with my husband. Seeing Nate and Jenn Rector in their cute house with their quirky dog taking care of our youngest boy. Driving by the entrance of Mandy and Jody's first home. Bono singing "Amazing Grace". Me singing along too loudly to "Sunday Bloody Sunday". The whole thing.

(Oh, I guess that's not entirely true. I was not keen on paying $30 to park on a gravel pile in Atalanta.)

This post has no real point.

We had a great time.

And I wanted to talk about it.

I guess that's the point.