No Longer

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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.