Now What?

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

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

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

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

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

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

We think we have it bad with Magnus.

I imagine Kipling thinks she has it bad with us!

Wilde Fox

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

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?

(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

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

All eight of them.

Let the season begin!

today

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.