Faked birthday pictures

We realised four days after the fact that we hadn't managed the usual Mommy-surrounded-by-her-children birthday shot.  This was due to a variety of contributing factors, primarily the re-scheduling of the kids' Christmas concert to the night of my birthday.  All previous birthday plans were cancelled and I enjoyed the beginning of my 35th year in the basement of the church watching kids stumble through "Grandma got run over by a reindeer".  These are some of the finer perks of parenthood and the public school system.   So, we managed a cake on the 26th and I brushed my hair and posed for the annual photo shoot.  We have even provided photographic proof of the hair-brushing.

 It took a few shots until we we were all centred; but, despite Jacob's drunken state and Isaac's pink soother, I think that it turned out pretty well.  An aside:  do you realise that not one of my children has inherited my brown eyes?  I think that I must possess the most recessive set of dominant genes ever.

 This was the second blowing out of the candles.  The first blow was ruined by a child thrusting his hand in front of the camera as the flash went off.

Christmas pictures will be up soon - after we stage them on the 28th.

Summer of '69

I know that I've mentioned at least once before on this blog that I am a baking failure.  I really don't feel that badly about this as there are lots of fine institutions that can supplement this area of my life.  Plus, it helps to keep the weight off.  I am, however, able to produce pretty decent muffins, bread and chocolate chip cookies.  So, why I didn't start with chocolate chip cookies when asked to a Christmas Cookie Exchange, is beyond my understanding.

Instead, I began with shortbread ... which are currently melting in my children's mouths.  They taste like shortbread but my inability to produce dough that could be rolled and made into pretty stars and Christmas trees prevented them from making the Exchange cut.  It really is hard to convince a child to eat something that looks like a pile of off-white snow that refuses to melt. That was Friday.

On Saturday (after a Friday night Christmas party) I decided that I would try something akin to chocolate button cookies.  Dave simply asked, "Are you sure?"  I flashed him a look worthy of Confession.  I should listen to him more.  He really is the one most intimately acquainted with my baking and, thus, has earned the right to ask such questions.  (I do have a date with confession this week.)  Anyway, back to the cookies.

I checked with a friend and he gave me a good recipe for the chocolate cookies:  one that I had tasted before and remembered favourably.  So, I set about gathering my ingredients and began to bake on Saturday afternoon. I doubled the recipe (because it was going to be sooo good - and required 4-6 dozen) and started the measuring and mixing.  Dave joined me by rolling the little cookie balls in sugar so that they looked like dozens of chocolate Timbits awaiting their turn in the oven.   He did this while watching country music videos on Youtube (have you seen Camouflage?  Can you believe that I, I mean, he listens to this stuff?  Sheesh).   Perhaps the problem lay with the oven.

In the oven I watched as the pleasing little balls melted into pancakes.  Pancake-like cookies.  I thought, "Well, they still look pretty good and I imagine that they taste wonderful."  But then Joe tasted one, scrunched up his nose and searched through his limited mental rolodex of epicurean terms.  He settled on, "They taste sort of sour, Mom, and crumply."  I think the recipe called for twice the amount of molasses necessary.  Dave reassured me that our kids would eat them as they are sadly uninitiated when it comes to adequate baking.

So, I did something that I have never done before last night.  I baked after Elena Standard Time (7:30 pm) and produced 6 dozen of the best chocolate chip cookies ever.   All while watching a Bryan Adams concert on TV.  My baking  cuts like a knife.

The only problem is that these cookies are decidedly un-Christmassy and I think I am going to have to compensate by packaging them in really seasonal baggies.  The women attending this exchange are all devoutly Catholic; so, perhaps if I attach indulgences to my cookies, they will be a better sell.  Perhaps I could wrap up the chocolate ones, seal them with an imprimatur and assure years off of purgatory.  In fact, I think that next year's Christmas Cookie Exchange could become a real growth in holiness for area families.  At least if I am still invited.

It never grows old

I've hit that point in the pregnancy (almost 16 weeks) that the nausea is beginning to abate, the fatigue is gradually disappearing and I am rising from the couch just enough to remember what all this is for:  there is actually a new little somebody growing within me - body and soul, complete, irrepeatable.  And, as the title suggests, it never grows old.  In fact, as this sixth little Afelskie develops within me, I have to admit that I am more excited than ever to meet another new, completely unique individual - who will change our lives forever.  One day we will look at this sixth child and wonder how we could have lived without him or her.  This newest sibling will probably be one of the last to leave the nest and one of the ones that we try to hang on to more than the others who forged the path ahead.  And to think that we could have said no to this life.

Dave and I had a rare moment today after school.  The four oldest were in the basement playing and I decided to take Isaac outside to the driveway to play and wait for daddy.  I am also taking advantage of the lack of snow and balmy weather (8 degrees) that we are experiencing.  By the time we headed out, Dave was at the top of the street walking home.  So, we walked out to meet him and then took the dog for a brief walk in the back.  I put Isaac in the swing as Dave cleaned up the yard and Isaac screamed with joy - we are discovering more and more why his name is Isaac (joy, laughter).  Dave looked down at him and then at me and said, "Thanks, Mom, for saying yes.  If you hadn't, I (little Isaac) wouldn't be here."  I had been thinking the exact same thing at lunch when I kissed Isaac's adorable face and told him how much I loved his new face, one that hadn't existed before.

The mystery of it all is that God allows us to co-create with Him.  He allows us to say yes to His desire for new life.  Sometimes our yeses are half-hearted or practically non-existent; but He still waits for them.  And, what do we get?  More love.  Really.  I don't mean that in some cheesy, schmaltzy way.  I really do mean more love.  It seems that Dave and I have more love to give now to five children than we knew how to give when the first two came along.  When Joseph was born, I remember the nurse saying to him, "Get all the cuddles you can get in the hospital because once you get home Mommy's going to be too busy to snuggle you."  I imagine that I feared the same.  But, my goodness, her words couldn't have been farther from the truth.  I think that the children on the tail-end of the family get a matured love and the benefit of siblings who cater to their every need.  There is always someone to cuddle Isaac or take a bath with him or bring him a bottle.  He must feel so secure.

And, so, as we wait upon this sixth baby, this are-you-guys-crazy baby, I wait with joy and hope knowing that the reality is tiring (but it passes so quickly) and that this new little one will add new dimensions to our lives that we never could have imagined.

Pictures interspersed with some thoughts

Joseph turned four on the 28th of November.  This is him on the 27th at his paternal grandparents' house, otherwise known as the farm.  (I thought about writing The Farm but that might make it look like Dave's parents are confined to a mental institution.)  The picture is a little blurry as I literally ran into the room just in time to catch a picture of the birthday presents being illicitly opened.  His siblings were more than complicit in the activity.  Hannah even tried to disappear.

Joseph is very enthusiastic in all displays of emotion.

Slight disappointment at birthday clothes; they were, thankfully, offset by a package of G.I. Joes.

For his actual birthday, celebrated at home, he requested hotdogs and chips.  I was more than happy to comply.  My expression was much the same upon opening the Sour Cream'n'Onion chips.

Jacob invented a party game in which any family member who eats with their elbows on the table has to kiss the birthday boy.  Joseph is always game for affection so he sat through most of supper watching any and all elbow activity.  He even kissed himself a few times.

Can you tell he loves affection?  Doesn't that wall look ugly?  The green looks much better in natural lighting.

Are we sure that I am the mother?

More birthday delight.

The cake is from our local Baykery (not a misspelling, we do live in the Bay) and while it was rather feminine it was also quite good.   I added the moose as an attempt to add some sort of masculine accent.    And, in what seems to have become an Afelskie tradition, the message on the cake was spelled incorrectly:  Happy Birtday Joseph:  can you believe it?  they forgot a comma!  And an h...  I was at least able to correct the spelling of Joseph when I dictated the message to the bakery girl, "That's Joseph, not Jopshe."  I am not exaggerating.

More happiness.

Moose and walkie-talkies.  I won't even begin to describe the saga caused by the walkie-talkies; suffice to say that one walkie-talkie is now missing.  Also, walkie-talkies do not work properly if the baby monitors are on, it is helpful to know this beforehand.

An Advent Memory

I have yet to post about Joseph's fourth birthday (Nov. 28th) but I promise pictures, and soon.  I am presently horizontal on the living room couch waiting for this wave of nausea to pass.  I lost my breakfast about 45 minutes ago thanks to a round of over-zealous teeth brushing.  As I lie here I am thinking about writing Christmas cards (not going to happen) and hoping that I can type this post before my computer's reserve battery power runs out.  (I don't think that Joseph is yet skilled enough to both fetch the computer cord and plug in both ends.)  I did manage a successful St. Nicholas' Day and the kids were delighted with a collection of new books, puzzles and one sweater.  Jacob asked me last night if I am St. Nicholas. I responded by throwing the question back at him:  "What do you think?"  He replied, "Maybe, maybe not."  To which I answered, "Maybe, maybe not."  We left it at that.

However, I am not going to write about any recent news; instead, I am going to write about a story from 12 years ago that makes me laugh each time it comes to mind.  I know that there is at least one reader who will hopefully recall this Advent story as she was there with me.  I hope she doesn't remember it too differently.

Twelve years ago I was travelling with the National Evangelisation Team and we were in Vancouver, BC.  Specifically, I am remembering a day on which we weren't giving any retreats.  Instead, we somehow found ourselves at a soup kitchen in the downtown eastside.  Now, anyone who knows anything about the downtown eastside of Vancouver should immediately understand that this story should prove interesting.  I do believe that the downtown eastside has been, at times, quarantined for Hepatitis outbreaks, paramedics have refused to answer certain calls there and the place teems with drugs, prostitution and homelessness.  In such a place where sin abounds so does grace; however, I have no stories of particular grace for you today. As we travelled in our 12 passenger van trying to find a sufficiently large parking spot I remember seeing a young girl with a teddy bear in hand selling herself on the side of the road.  I also recall a man leading another man by a leash attached to a studded collar around his neck.  I am trying to remember whose idea it was to bring a team of naive 18 year olds and 20 somethings to this area on our day off.  Was it the head office or was it me and my fellow team leader?  Who knows.  What matters is that we found a parking spot and followed directions to a local soup kitchen that was run by a group of religious brothers, I think - my memory once again grows foggy.

The first thing that struck me about this soup kitchen was that the large and imposing front door had no handle, just a lock and a doorbell.  Clearly access could be denied.  We were allowed in and led to a labyrinth of rooms behind the main dining hall where we were instructed to chop celery and carrots for soup.  I have a blurry memory of a rotund 40ish man leading us around the place (I think that he was called Brother something or other) and then turning to me and my co-leader and asking us what we wanted to do other than chop veggies.  I imagine that my non-verbalised thoughts were something like, "Do you have any fruit?  Stay in the kitchen?  Remain hidden?"  Luckily my co-leader, Alex, was far more proactive and less embarrassed when it came to the Gospel.  "We'd love to sing a few Christmas carols while the men eat their lunches!"  I tried to smile enthusiastically as my eyes grew wide.  So, we chopped veggies and tuned guitars and then the brother asked us if we would also be willing to decorate the hall before the men arrived.  This was something to which I could enthusiastically agree.

Brief snippets of hanging glass balls with scotch tape above the tables remain with me to this day.  Who came up with the idea of hanging glass balls with scotch tape does not remain with me.  Scotch tape is a wonderful aid in the wrapping of gifts and the fixing of books but its strength is put to the test when it comes to glass balls and gravity.

Eventually lunch rolled around and we found ourselves parked in a corner with a couple of guitars, some Catholic Books of Worship (CBWs) and a mixed group of overly-happy teenagers and world-weary 20 somethings.  Alex had chosen a few Advent songs ( I do recall that he was a stickler when it came to not singing Christmas carols during Advent) and we embarked upon them.  Things were going fairly well until we began on a classic CBW song (my mind is drawing a completely blank) whose first few verses are sung to the same tune but then abruptly changes to an entirely different tune with which none of us seemed familiar.  We hit the awkward and unpractised verse and one by one our voices began to die out while Alex ploughed ahead bravely leading us with his guitar.  I tried not to make eye contact with any of my teammates as I knew that I would be reduced to a fit of laughter that wouldn't go over well with the group of surly looking men gathered before us.  I should mention that the clientele hadn't looked too pleased when they arrived to see yet another group of clean-cut do-gooders setting up shop with their guitars.  However, I made the mistake of briefly looking at a fellow teammate - this began the laughter.  I can still see my teammate Jason, now Fr. Jason of the Diocese of Dallas, holding his CBW bravely outward, rocking back and forth on his toes and then letting out a Texas-sized guffaw.

It was at this point that the scotch tape gave out.  As our liturgical attempts petered out in giggles, guffaws and one girl running into the kitchen and toward the bathroom, the glass balls that we had so skillfully hung up began to fall.  And smash.  On the tables where the men were eating.  I remember thinking that I couldn't have written a better screenplay.  It is these sorts of incidents that prove to me that God has an awesome sense of humour.

As the glass balls fell to their ruin, the heads of the soup-eating men began to lift one by one from their bowls.  By this point we were standing music-less in the corner with our CBWs wilting in our hands.  I imagine that some of us must have smiled - and felt very clean and over-privileged.  Somehow we found our way from our pathetic stage to the tables where we probably should have started out.  We sat down with the men and talked with them and attempted some sort of cleanup.  In fact, I have no real ending to this story.  I ended up sitting with a guy who had found himself on the streets after a round of firings from the tech sector in Ottawa.  He told me about his wife, his kids and his hopes to get his life back together.  I wished him the best and counted my blessings.  Lunch eventually drew to a close, the men shuffled back out to the streets and we cleaned up as best we could.

I don't know if our presence added anything to those mens' lives that day.  Probably not.  I sure hope that no glass fell in any soup bowls.  If anything, that day has gone down as a fabulous memory in a sad place and a reminder that scotch tape has specific uses that don't include hanging glass ornaments.  Also, don't worry if you screw up Advent - most things can be chalked up to experience and cooked into a really good story one day.  Happy memories usually include broken glass and lots of scotch tape.

Small Town Life

Benjamin came home on Thursday from school telling me that there was a float in the Christmas parade  and he just knew that I wouldn't let him go on it.  Confused?  So was I.  I slowed him down a little and tried to solicit some more concrete facts.  I then asked Jacob and Hannah if their school was putting a float in the Santa Clause parade.  They said no and that Ben was probably confused with the daycare float.  But, good old Ben, he kept insisting that there was a float and that the kindergarteners could go on it and that Mr. P said that he could come dressed as either an animal or God.  I don't have any God costumes so I hoped that he would choose an animal if in fact the float materialised.  So, I phoned the school and talked with Ben's teacher who indeed confirmed that Ben was correct.  In her words, God bless his little soul, he was completely right.  She said that only eight students had responded to the float request so it would be helpful if our older children also wanted to take part.   

From the above picture you can see that Jacob enthusiastically volunteered to play one of the three wise men.  (Yes, Anne-Marie G., that is your tree skirt.  I asked Mom if I could have it since we had no tree skirt and it has since doubled as a regal costume more than once.  Thank you.)

Ben chose to be a lamb.  That was probably a good choice as the nativity scene does not include penguins, dragons, zebra or giraffe, our other costume selections.  I asked him for a kiss just before I took this picture and he shook his head in embarrassment.

Ben's teacher is the fourth from the left, Mrs. E.  The educational assistant in his class, who provides music and a lot more each day, is Mr. P., second from the left.  Mrs. E's husband hammered together the stable.  Apparently its next life will be as a chicken coop.

I had to take a picture of this float as Mary and Joseph are a senior same-sex couple.  Wouldn't Lady Gaga be proud of us.  I don't think that anything so agenda-driven was behind these two ladies, just a lack of men in whatever club they were representing.  Nevertheless, I couldn't resist a picture.  I will provide no further commentary.

Jacob waving frantically when he spots us in the crowd.

Hannah had initially refused to participate in the float but she couldn't resist when her principal, Mrs. F., asked her to walk beside her and hold the school banner.  I think you can tell who Mrs. F. is.  These sorts of things make me very happy that the Catholic school system is still alive and pretty well.  It might have its faults but what would we have without it?  With it we still have a place where our children freely celebrate their faith and even march publicly to proclaim it.  That makes me very grateful and willing to keep fighting for its existence.  I try never to forget that the Catholic school system is the only place that many kids ever encounter anything to do with God and His love for each of us.

By the time I saw Ben he had abandoned his sheep hood to get a better look at the parade.  He was positively wired with excitement.  Jacob told me later that he found the float quite boring and got rather tired of yelling Merry Christmas.  He told me, "I would have much rather scrambled for candy on the sidewalk."  I then asked Ben what his favourite part was.  I thought that he might say that he really enjoyed the three horses that marched a few floats ahead of him.  I should have realised that his answer would be related to the horses, just not in the way I expected.  

Me:  What was your favourite part about the parade, Ben?

Ben:  The poo!!!  There were three piles and Mrs. E. almost stepped in it!

He keeps me grounded.

Finally, Pictures

I finally found a way to import our photos to our computer without the aid of the lost cord.  So, here are some pictures of daily life, Hallowe'en and Hannah at the cross-country race.  On another note, we had our first ultrasound yesterday.  Dave was able to come which made me very happy as I find ultrasounds a little nerve-wracking.  The tech at our hospital tends toward silence and the only information that she conveys is via her facial expressions.  Consequently, I stare at a light in the ceiling and avoid looking at her entirely.  I thought that Dave's presence might lighten the tone of the ultrasound; nevertheless, he wasn't invited in until the very end so I had to bear the tech's silence alone, and with a lot of Hail Mary's.  The only concrete information that we have concerning this new babe is that he or she is a singleton.  In my mother's words, "Big phew!".  Or as my older sister said, "I think that one set of twins is enough."  Or, in Dave's words, "I get my Toyota Sienna."  We all approach such news differently.

 Isaac amid destruction.

 Joseph likes to kiss and squeeze Isaac's hand whenever he passes by.  Jacob did the exact same thing with both Benjamin and Joseph.

 What's bedtime without a gun?

 A particularly fetching photo of a boy who is growing up very fast.

 Ben as Spiderman.

 Jacob as a mummy.  His costume became more and more unravelled as the evening progressed but the unravelling added to the overall effect.

 Joseph as an evil penguin.  He insisted on the evil part.

 Isaac in the requisite lamb costume.

 Isaac discovering Hallowe'en candy.

 Just a normal scene.  Interpret as you will.

And because we couldn't forget her:  Hannah after her cross-country race.  She didn't want to go out for Hallowe'en and opted to stay home and hand out candy.  Her assistance was gratefully accepted by me as we had 167 kids at our door that night.

Play by Play

Yesterday we spent the day in Renfrew visiting the dentist and doctor.  We all had dentist appointments in the morning but I cancelled mine as the thought of someone working in my mouth at this point in my first trimester just didn't go over well.  So, I snoozed in the van until Isaac woke up from his morning nap and then went in search of Tylenol at the local drugstore.  Why Tylenol, you ask?  I was hit last week with a whopper of a cold that seems to have lodged itself in my sphenoid sinus (I googled this to see if there was a sinus behind my eye) causing a right nostril that alternates between complete blockage and free-running tap.  A significant amount of pain has also resulted; thus, the Tylenol.

I would love to report that everyone passed their dental exams with flying colours, but this is never the case, is it?  Jacob finally managed a clean exam but Hannah had her first inkling of a cavity.  And, Dave, poor Dave, he always has to go back for a follow-up.  Ben was also clear and Joe, I am told, is doing a fabulous job of brushing his teeth as he has no plaque whatsoever.  He also hardly ever brushes his teeth.  Embarassingly, I get to him when I can - which isn't twice a day.  We were also admonished on the need to floss our kids' teeth.  This happens at every dental appointment.  One dental hygienist once sat me down, placed a well-meaning hand on my thigh and said, We need to talk about flossing.  I am always reduced to repentant floss-sinner and make promises to floss children's teeth for Advent and Lent as penance.  Then I leave; and the kids use their new floss for elaborate games involving tying up objects.  And I have to go to confession.  Mea culpa.

My doctor's appointment was uneventful except to confirm how much I love my doctor.  She was genuinely thrilled that I am having another baby.  She spent the last 5 minutes of the appointment telling me about births that had turned into emergencies that made her wonder why she continues to practise obstetrics.  These stories don't scare me, they fascinate me and make me very happy that she is at my side when delivering.  One of her stories included hand pumping a transfusion bag into a just-delivered mom as they raced along the highway in an ambulance.  Up until this point, I had never pictured her outside of the office before.  I thought, Gee, I guess if I want anyone by my side in that sort of situation, it's this doctor.  These stories also make me very thankful for medical interventions that save lives.

And then we dropped off our van to be undercoated and winter-tired.  We drove the 20 minutes home in Dave's parents' van only to realise that I had also dropped off the house keys at the mechanic's.  Dave discovered that our house is quite difficult to break into and we drove back to the garage.  Poor Dave, he is full of grace these days; especially since we arrived home at 5pm and he had a 4 hour tutoring session ahead of him starting at 5:30.  He is a very good man.

So, we sat down to eat supper, which was a mix of cold cereal and bagels, and I looked at the kitchen and the laundry and the kids who had only parts of pyjamas, and I almost cried.  But then the doorbell rang and a mother of nine was standing there with a huge pot of homemade soup and a baguette in her hands.  And a smile and a prayer.  And I almost cried.  (I should have taken a picture for her eventual holy card.)  It is always those most busy who find the time to provide the most tangible of help.

And today the three youngest are at home with me (Ben has a habit of developing stomach aches that last from breakfast til Jacob's and Hannah's departure for school) and I am in laundry-recovery mode.  At least I don't have to make supper tonight.

Update:  A big bag of Jolly Ranchers arrived in the mail today.  Thank you, Tanya.  This means more than you know.

Why the silence?

Well, I'm guessing that at least some of you have figured out why I have been so silent recently.  My last period of blog-quiet was two years ago when I was just expecting Isaac.  (Have you guessed yet?)  So, yes we are expecting a sixth bundle of joy at the beginning of June which makes me 10 weeks pregnant.  And very sick.  Which makes me wonder if we might indeed be expecting two bundles of joy.  (Jacob is rooting for triplet girls to even things out; he says he will help with the nights.)  I have wrestled with telling people about this pregnancy as five was a little crazy, but, six, well, six is, you know, a little over the edge, isn't it?

Maybe I thought so once, but not anymore.  Once you have the privilege of having all these little people around you, something wonderful happens:  you begin to realise that they are far more than number 1, 2 3 or 4 - they are completely unique human beings with whom you have the pleasure of living.  And when someone asks, "Are there 4 or 5?" as if an extra child is akin to a potato in the pot, a mother feels deeply offended.  This baby owes his or her conception to Dave and I feeling that Isaac needed a buddy.   And then we thought that June would be nice as Dave will be off for July and August, and then God said, "Did somebody say baby?" (this part is really necessary) and the rest is history.

Now, if you do some quick calculations back to my trip to Halifax, you will realise that the plane debacle's icky factor just went through the roof as I was 5 weeks pregnant at the time (and covered in vomit).  Are you now amazed that I did not break down in tears somewhere over eastern Ontario?

The last five weeks have been quite tough.  I am almost as sick as I was with the twins only without the ER trips and IV lines.  Yet. I think that the lack of medical intervention has to do with the three intervening pregnancies that have taught me many anti-vomit coping strategies.  If you are interested, we can talk in person.  Needless to say, the laundry is a little backed up, the floor is a little sticky but the bathrooms are clean.  There is also way too much Kraft Dinner around.  This last detail makes the kids extremely happy as does the gingerale that Joe keeps sneaking.

I also find myself in constant need of chewing on fruit gum (which Joe also sneaks).  Either gum or mints.  All of these candies are known as Mom's sick pills.  Joe told me at lunch today that he is a doctor and ordered me to open the mints so that he could try them as part of some sort of medical trial.  He is too short to be convincing.

Grocery store trips have become laughable as this anti-sugar mama now consistently leaves the grocery store with sherbert, mints, Oreos and anything fruity that can be sucked.  The latter tends not to include real fruit.  In fact, in a desperate bid for Jolly Ranchers I sent Dave to Walmart where he phoned me to say that neither he nor any of the staff knew what Jolly Ranchers were.  I don't understand.  And I still don't have Jolly Ranchers.  But I have rainbow sherbert; although I really wish that it was orange sherbert from Laura Secord.  The cravings are particularly strong this time around and I find that if I even hear mention of a specific type of food I feel that I need it.  I mistakenly read a blog entry about a woman in her first trimester whose husband was cooking her risotto.  I then berated Dave for not cooking me risotto.  He asked me what that is and if I wanted it.  I told him to forget it, I don't even like the stuff, and he made me fruit salad.  Poor guy, pray for him.

The kids are over the moon with excitement and are enjoying keeping the big news to themselves.  "I pray for you at school, Mom.  I just don't say why."  If any of the kids' schoolmates are reading this, they now know why.  I have yet to go to the doctor although I have managed to swing two Diclectin prescriptions.  I see the doctor on Monday and I imagine that an ultrasound will soon follow.  There is probably only one little person in there; but, another friend of mine is having twins (her 6th and 7th) and, the last time a friend of mine did that, I did too.  So, we'll see.

If you would be so kind, I would appreciate any prayers as it's high time that I felt slightly better.  Our family would also be a little bit healthier if I could manage to do more than stir a pot of noodles, throw frozen stuff in the oven and collapse on the couch with a bowl.  So, there you go, now you know.  We are very happy and will be even happier once I don't feel like dying anymore.  (An unfortunate side effect of bearing new life.)

I'm back; and it's all about throw-up

It's hard to start writing after taking such a long break from the blog.  My negligence started with some camera problems and was then compounded by a trip to Halifax (I don't like to advertise my travels until they are finished) which was bookended by an annual scourge of the stomach flu.

Isaac, Joseph and I were scheduled to depart for Halifax on Saturday, Oct. 1st.  Dave and the other kids were driving us down to the airport where we would merrily depart to a week's rest and relaxation.  Except that Jacob started throwing up on Friday night and Joseph awoke in a puddle of vomit on Saturday morning.  Hannah had already fought the scourge the previous weekend so half of us remained still untouched.  We managed to make it to Ottawa with only two highway stops for dry heaves.  Dave unceremoniously dropped me at the airport where I and a drugged-up Joseph and Isaac navigated our way through security and early boarding.  I kept repeating:  Dear God, please no throwing up on the plane.  In case my prayer was not as earnest as required I had brought extra clothing for us all in the diaper bag.  (If only I had heeded that little voice for the return flight.)

Amazingly, we made it to Halifax without losing any bodily fluids.  Isaac eventually fell asleep on the plane after I rocked him wildly to and fro in the tiny space provided for stewards and stewardesses to make coffee and passengers to wait for the bathroom.  All of this was performed with the seatbelt light ON!  Apparently, there is an unspoken agreement among airplane staff that mothers with crying babies need not obey any standard regulations.  I actually told the stewardess to shush once as Isaac was just about to fall asleep and her voice had startled him back awake.  After the shhh, shhh had escaped my lips I immediately apologised for having treated her as one of my older children, oops.

My mother met us at the airport and we arrived to the tail end of Hurricane Ophelia which essentially meant rain, rain and more rain.  Even the money is wet in Halifax.  The rest of the week was spent resting and shopping for items that I find hard to buy around our parts without trips into the city:  snowpants, really cheap clothing at Value Village etc.  In short, the week was uneventful except for one night in which I spent fighting the stomach scourge.  We flew back the following Saturday at 5:15pm.  My mother brought us to the airport and Isaac seemed a little irritable.  I thought perhaps that he might be sick but fed him anyway and prepped his in-flight bottle.  I was glad to see that there were many other babies and toddlers on the flight who would mask Isaac's cries.

I spent the first part of the flight setting Joseph up with his earphones and TV schedule (courtesy of the TV in the back of the seat) and trying to settle Isaac.  I walked him up and down the aisle, rocked him wildly outside of the bathroom and eventually returned to my seat where I asked for more milk for another bottle.  This would be the big mistake.  I wrapped him tightly in his blanket while gently rocking him and feeding him his bottle.  He would begin to fall asleep and then wake wildly with a painful cry. The only thing that seemed to help was sitting up so that his tummy was scrunched.  It was when I sat him up that the voluminous bottle made its reappearance.  It was a bit like a waterfall.  I just held him on my lap and watched the vomit cover his blanket, my shirts, jeans and that nice space between the two seats.  I neglected to watch it cover the luggage of the passenger behind me until I saw him filing an official complaint on an official green paper with the steward.

Up until this point I had never yet pressed that button with the little man located between the light and air controls.  I can now say that I have pushed that button and the flight attendants do come very quickly.  In this case, a male and female were first on the scene followed quickly by one other male.  They were all from Quebec (are all flight attendants from Quebec?).  All of their eyebrows went up and two of their smiles faded.  And then they went into action which amounted to bringing me serviettes and a bag into which I could throw Isaac's blanket.  The female attendant quickly rushed back with two products:  one which was a powder that when sprinkled on the vomit caused it to harden and the other a sort of gel that reduced the smell.  I sprinkled myself, Isaac and our seat liberally.

I should tell you that Joe's only reaction was to sneer at Isaac and continue watching the TV.

The first male attendant then asked me if I had another shirt with me.  I almost cried when I recalled my failure to include extra clothing for me in my on-line luggage.  "No,"  I whimpered.  "Oh!" he said and then suggested, "Perhaps inside-out?"  I just stared back.  I was then ushered to the back of the plane where two seats happened to be open.  The other passengers stared but one couple with a brand-new baby told me that I was handling the whole situation remarkably well.  Such remarks really do help at times like that.  I changed Isaac into an extra sleeper and installed an angry Joseph in front of another TV.  I also have a vague memory of hazard tape being strung across my former seat like some sort of crime scene.

The male attendant, who was quickly growing in my esteem from international playboy to a man with a real heart, arrived back at my side.  He had clearly made a decision.  "I have an extra shirt that I was going to wear on my overnight.  You can have it.  I will give you my address and you can send it back when you find the time."  When such an offer is made to a woman covered in vomit who has 40 minutes left in her flight and an airport departure to navigate, the only option she has is to humbly
accept.  If I wasn't happily married, I would have fallen in love.  I don't think that I have ever been so grateful for the kindness of strangers.

I changed into his green t-shirt emblazoned with a Scottish lion (bought in Scotland, he informed me) and returned to my seat where he continued to reassure me that I had caused absolutely no inconvenience.  To prove the normalcy of my situation he told me all about the flights back from Orlando where the kids are hyped up on Burger King and Disney World.  He also told me that one of his colleagues had once spilled 4 litres of milk on a passenger two hours into an overseas flight.  "Can you imagine the smell?" he laughed.

I put my flight attendant's shirt in the mail today along with a card thanking him for his kindness.  I hope that he is one day repaid for the love which he extended to me and my children on that doomed flight.  I have yet to write a letter of commendation to Air Canada; but, they will soon receive one and I hope that they let him know.  After handing me his address I couldn't help but notice that his name was Francois, a modern-day St. Francis; after all, a woman covered in vomit and holding a sick baby is a bit of a leper, isn't she?

Completely Negligent

I know, I know - I am becoming completely negligent of this blog.  I think of so many things to write but I am finding it harder and harder to find the time to sit down at the computer without ignoring the kids.  A certain amount of ignorance is acceptable but I am trying this year to be much more attentive to my children, especially since I only have Joe and Isaac home during the days.  And Joe is lonely.  Actually, he alternates between missing his buddy Benjamin and relishing the attention of his mother.  Isaac is not much of a playmate, yet.  He is more of a battering post for his older brother.  Joe never misses an opportunity to swipe at him or push him that little extra so that little Isaac topples to the floor.  Thankfully, Isaac is the steadiest-on-his-feet 13 month old that we have ever had - whether this is due to his his nature or the 'nurturing' of his brother, I am unsure.

I tried to post video of the twins' race day but the camera and the computer are not in an amicable relationship.  The day went well:  Jacob finished 6th and Hannah came in 5th.  Poor little Hannah:  she fell pretty badly on the gravel during her race and came across the line on the verge of tears.  The tears came once I located her in the crowd.  Both were happy with their results and I only lost Joseph twice - once he was spotted waiting at the front of the bake sale table line, while the second time I found him stealing juice at the beverage table.  He keeps me on my toes.

This fall has been a bit of an adjustment to just having Joe at home.  I am used to having children in pairs - the twins, Joe and Ben (18 months a part).  So. having two kids at home who are three years a part is a little strange; I have to do things like play!  Joe spent the first weeks of school finding his new groove a part from Benjamin.  I found him once at the kitchen counter hugging himself and saying, Thank you, Ben, that was such a nice hug.  I had to stop myself from driving to the school and pulling Ben right out of his kindergarten class.  Thankfully I have a certain amount of self control and Ben was allowed to come home at the proper time.  After all, Ben is enjoying school immensely and loves the structure of kindergarten.

And that's where I come to an abrupt ending caused by the arrival of my children at the door.

The weeks are flying by

I am always amazed how the start of school has the ability to speed up time, at least for a mother.  I certainly don't remember time flying by when I was still a student.  In fact, during my last few years of high school, upon the reception of my agenda, I would immediately flip to the last day of school and write the number one; I would then count backwards until I arrived at the first day of school which would be numbered near 200.  I would then do the same for all the days with the exception of the weekends.  Thereby I would have a running count of how many school days (not counting the weekends) were left until the end of the year and how many days in total remained until the end of the year.  In retrospect, I was obviously desperate to break free of public school.  I am definitely not looking to go back.  I often wonder why I got my bachelor of education.  But then I hear my mother's words:  What will you do if you lose your husband?  Optimism is not inherent in my family of origin.  Thus, the teaching degree.

Another rare quality among my sisters and me is athletic ability.  Well, now that I write that, I think that I need to qualify it.  My sisters and I are all very devoted athletes:  not one of us tends to miss a day of individual exercise without a good reason.  Good reasons count as sickness, injury and labour.  You will notice that I said individual exercise: we all pretty much (for lack of a better word) suck at group sports.  I am not so sure about my younger sister but I know that my older sister and I spent most of gym class either ducking the ball or forgetting our gym clothes.  My older sister actually forgot her gym clothes so many times that she passed gym by only 1 or 2%.  This makes me laugh now because my older sister has to be one of the best female runners that I know.  She's a speed demon despite a distinct lack of sleep and three children under 5 (which at one point were all under 4).  But, I digress.

Gym was consistently my lowest mark.  Not so for Dave.  Dave loves to hear me tell stories of my gym fails:  staring at the rope hanging from the ceiling and wondering how in the world I was meant to get my body more than two feet off the ground, let alone to the ceiling; telling the gym teacher that I was unable to even attempt a hurdle because I was sure to suffer flashbacks to horseback-riding injuries when confronted by the actual hurdle; earning Participaction each and every year in the Canada Fitness Test; and, last but not least, breaking my foot while standing in line for the vault.  My gym teacher was incredulous regarding the last incident and made me keep my shoe on and 'get back out there' as there was no way that I could have possibly broken a bone while standing still.  I clearly recall walking home with a broken foot while being hit by snowballs by Devin Bhatt.  I arrived home crying where I was told to be quiet as not to wake the baby.  When I finally did go back to school after a failed Ace bandage, an eventual cast and a bottle of Tylenol, I acted up during the national anthem and my grade four teacher yelled:  Culshaw, just because you have one leg doesn't mean I can't kick you out of here!  I think that school is markedly different now.  But back to athletics.

The funny thing is that most of those superb athletes of my childhood couldn't run a step if they tried now that they are adults.  I have learned that early blooming ain't what it's cracked up to be.  I am a relatively late bloomer.  I started running at 18 and managed to do so while wearing turquoise jogging pants and a grey sweatshirt that had some sort of animal on the front.  I did, however, keep at it.  I kept at it so much that a jogging stroller is a second vehicle around these parts and race times are frequent discussion points.  Then I injured my foot in the early Spring and had to start biking.  Consequently I became that mother of five who runs and bikes.  Little do these people know that I was once the chubby kid with the overly-pronated feet, weak ankles and the bad haircut.  Late blooming sometimes makes all the difference.  But, once again I have digressed.  Onto Dave.

Dave is another story when it comes to gym prowess.  I don't think that he would have married me if we had gone to the same elementary school.  He yearly achieved Gold in the Canada Fitness Test and actually signed up for gym in high school when it was no longer mandatory.  What a weirdo.

So, all of the above is simply a prelude to the following statement:  my children's athletic abilities astound me.  They can run really fast and long; they can hurdle over high jumps; and, wonder of wonders, they can do the monkey bars.  I can still only hang pathetically from the first rung.

Consequently, from time to time, I might sound a little overly proud of the kids' athletic feats.  Here goes:   Jacob and Hannah have hit grade three and are now allowed to compete in the upcoming Partridge Run.  The run is 800m cross-country and in order to compete they have to place as one of the top six girl and boy runners in their class.  They consistently place first.  Hannah's first win came despite wearing a pair of crappy shoes that kept coming undone and causing her to stop and re-velcro and then re-pass the other girls.  I am amazed by this.  The funny thing is that they are not.  Running comes so easily to these kids that they simply can't understand the kids who need to stop.  "Mom, so and so actually had to walk!" they tell me.  They don't seem to grasp that I was so and so.

Anyway, if I happen to post way too many pictures of them crossing lines and receiving ribbons come next week, I apologise in advance:  something vicarious is going on.

Firsts

Yesterday was the first day of school for Dave, Jacob, Hannah and (drumroll, please) Benjamin.

I had the pleasure of accompanying Benjamin to his interview with the kindergarten teacher. His interview was at 9:10am; however, he sat on the front-step with his lunch-kit in hand and his back-pack on his back from 7:30am until 9am when we finally left for the big walk to school. A friend mercifully watched the youngest two for me so that I could just be with Benjamin.

Benjamin: who has now officially become Ben according to his school cubby and the correspondences from the teacher. I remember Dave's mother telling me that she named Dave David, not Dave. She told me that school named him Dave; now I understand. One day when I pull all the kids from school (and finally homeschool) I will tell the school board that Section 43 of the Education Act (by which a teacher is allowed to act in the place of a parent when necessary) does not extend to the shortening of names.

Nevertheless. Ben passed his interview with flying colours or, rather, partial phonics and a complete inability to name letter names. This was a result of the phonics program that I used last year. It teaches kids the sounds that letters make but not the names of the letters. When the teacher asked Ben what letter S was, he replied, Snake. O was ostrich and J, well, J was Jacob and Joseph.

The remembrance of his two brothers launched him into a speech about Jacob being the biggest and Jo-Jo being the almost littlest but then there's Baby Isaac. And Sam. The teacher said, Sam? And Ben said, Yeah, my dog. And she sweetly said, Is he your pretend dog? And he said, No. He's my golden retriever and that means that he's golden, sort of like yellow. She then ticked off the box that says: People outside of his family can understand 75% of what he says. However, she did note that he said wabbit, not rabbit.

He was then asked to draw a picture of himself. Hannah asked me later if it was a floating head with sticks for legs and rectangles for arms. I answered yes and she nodded as if to say, That's what he always draws. However, dear Hannah, this time the floating head and its accompanying appendages were under a big blue ocean right next to a submarine. Wow, creative, said his teacher. Interesting, thought I. And then I was told to say good-bye. Just like that. As if he was going off to surgery and I would meet him in recovery.

I watched as he approached the circle-time carpet where the other Senior Kindergartners were waiting.  He was instructed to choose a seat. He circled the carpet like a scared, but haughty, animal before carefully choosing the letters Nn upon which to plop his bottom. And that was that. 

 And I walked home alone and retrieved Joseph and Isaac and felt stressed despite having not much to do. And when Ben arrived home he refused to describe his day, immediately changed into his pjs and went to the basement to play trains. Apparently he has been sworn to an oath of secrecy that has something to do with the importance of bedtime.

Hannah was a little more forthcoming and told me that after recess Ben had left the school yard to enter by the front door. I guess I was too emphatic about the importance of using the front entrance when we arrived that morning for his interview. Luckily his sister caught him and told him to get back in the yard and into line. Which he did; except that it was Hannah's line. So, she corrected him again and all was well. Dave later told me that he overheard Hannah instructing one of the Educational Assistants on bus and walker protocol at the end of the school day. This EA couldn't remember the exact procedure so Hannah reminded her that the walkers were allowed to leave after the departure of the first bus. The EA nodded and said, I believe you, Hannah. And all the walkers left. No wonder her report card says: Hannah is very good at understanding the rules of the classroom.

And now I am left with my two youngest. Isaac is focused completely upon walking and waiting for Hannah to come home. Joseph wants to go out for walks and trips to the bakery where he cries if he is not allowed an eclair - which he insists are bagels with lots of cream cheese. So, we go to the grocery store where he strongly asserts his God-given right to choose what goes in the cart. By aisle 3 we  accumulate chocolate milk, several Fruit-to-Gos, a box of Ritz crackers and a package of colourful sunglasses.  I had come for milk. "But I need little glasses!", he protests. And that's that.

Except that today at lunch I asked Joseph if he missed Benjamin and he look mournfully at me, said, "Yes.  He's not here to make me laugh," and threw his head down on the counter and tried to sob.  He is slightly melodramatic.  He is also a little dangerous as the lullaby that I overheard him singing today bears witness:
Rock-a-bye, baby on the treetop;
When the wind blows the cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall;
And down will come baby...
Into a bunch of branches with pokey things all over them;
Cradle and all.

I kid you not.  I have been left at home with my most determined child and a baby. I had better find a hobby.

Videos in honour of Isaac's first year

This first video is proof of Isaac's walking. He took his first steps around a week before his first birthday and he literally has never looked back. He wakes up each day determined to ace bi-ped ambulation. He is our earliest walker: all, with the exception of Jacob, walked after their first birthdays. This video is also a testimony to parenting styles; and how I might need to reassess mine;) As you can see, life around here is full of life. If you have ever watched the Clouseau/Pink Panther movies, Isaac reminds me of the little old man who stands still while the gorilla in the car is chased by the police outside of the nightclub.

And this video is just classic birthday stuff. He didn't like his cake and tried to give it back on several occasions. He also had no interest in birthday gifts and kept shoving aside his wrapped gift in an effort to make it to the walker that was Hannah and Jacob's first birthday gift. Also, note the little boy with the gun and how he is shuffled out of the birthday shot in one swift move by Dave.

No pictures

If I try to post pictures to accompany all of the following Afelskie anecdotes, I will never get this post finished. Our pictures are currently split between two computers, two cameras (one of which likes to turn off and on of its own volition) and Picasa (which I still don't quite know how to access - please, don't bother with a tutorial: I wouldn't listen anyway).

These anecdotes will be somewhat random; but, if you have ever spoken to me in person, you will understand that my mind is somewhat random and likes to skip around a lot. But, if you listen long enough, there is usually some sort of thread that unites my many thoughts.

So, first of all: I let Jacob and Hannah watch one of those Yahoo clips about a family with 18 kids. As an aside: why do these families always have to have really big hair (on the ladies) and feel convicted about wearing dresses, even while swimming? Anyway, the twins were, shall I say, super-energised by this family. Hannah was taken by the fact that they had two trampolines. (We don't even have one! Moral outrage.) She has now equated double-digit off-spring with trampolines and is encouraging us to have another baby. Jacob was able to see past the trampolines and into the future. He told me that he is hoping to marry a woman with a really big womb. (To hold all those children.) I just don't know how he can ascertain womb size on a normal sort of date.

Speaking of Jacob, he greeted Isaac and I upon waking by announcing that this is Isaac's 364th day of life outside of the womb. For all of you non-mathematicians, that means Isaac's birthday is tomorrow. Isaac is completely unaware of the upcoming milestone; however, he has taken his first steps and walked clear across the living room yesterday - twice, and in front of all his siblings and both parents. He enjoyed the applause.

He had his one-year check up last week at which our doctor asked if he has any words yet. Apparently 3-5 words by the first year is the norm. None of our children have had anything beyond mama and dada by year one, so I am never worried when I have to answer no to my doctor's queries. I did answer by telling her that he is just a smidgen short of being able to insert a plug into an outlet and shows great interest in electrical circuitry. She didn't record that in his chart. Dave's wondering if Isaac can drywall.

I bought all of the kids new zip-up hoodies for school. Jacob's says Varsity; Hannah's says Nature Club; and, my mistake, Ben's says Rookie while Joseph's says Team Captain. This title is not lost on Joseph and he now believes that he has become the oldest in the family. Joseph is a supremely confident child and, if he could articulate such thoughts, probably believes that destiny guided he and this sweatshirt into relationship. To compensate I mistakenly bought Ben two sweatshirts. (I could write a book on how to successfully and inadvertently waste money.) The second one says Founded in 1962. I don't know if this holds any significance.

We painted the kitchen and the hall is waiting a second coat. Well, Dave painted: I stirred the paint, brushed my teeth and went to bed. I am encouraged by a study that I read this morning that says that the Circadian Rhythm of men wires them to stay up late and sleep in while that of women is the opposite. I suppose that this is the consequence of late-night vigilance around the campfire; now, in the age of modernity, it allows for kitchen renos in the wee hours. It really is quite nice to wake up to a new kitchen. I will post pictures at some point. But for now I will tell you that the grey that we painted a few years ago (and never really liked) is now replaced by a avocado-like green on two walls and a cream on the other two walls. The green was a little two avocadoey for both of us and we agreed to lighten it; but, several days of inactivity (read: laziness) allowed the green to grow on us. Plus, we no longer feel the need to make more work for ourselves. Phew.

The new kitchen/dining-room colour has left us with a bit of an artwork problem. Michael O'Brien's painting of The Assumption used to grace the main wall in the dining room. However, it turns out that O'Brien doesn't look so hot inside of a ripe avocado. So, I came up with the idea of a black-and-white photo of each of the kids in matching black frames. When I told Dave this he smiled knowingly. To which I replied, Yeah, you're right. My plans will more than likely amount to me writing out these plans on a list next to my bed, and then on a list on the dresser and, finally, on the church bulletin on the fridge. By this point I will have written out my plans so many times that I will have successfully expunged them from my mind and I will wonder why we haven't put The Assumption back up. Amazing what Dave's smile can do.

I brought the kids to the library the other day. It wasn't open. Our library has the strangest hours of all libraries on the face of this earth. On one day of the week it actually opens twice: one of those openings being on the half-hour. I am surprised that our library isn't located in a secret location that changes bi-weekly, or something. The kids kept trying to open the back door all the while a voice from the depths of the library yelled, It's not open! At least we found a dead vole in the parking lot that we were able to stare at. We went to the bakery instead so that Dave could get some school work done.

And that's about all. We have a one-on-one marriage prep session with a couple tonight in our home. If you remember, pray for us all at 7:30 tonight. I think that it must be rather intimidating to have to come to an unknown couple's house in order to learn about Catholic sexual ethics (our priest's words, not mine). In fact, this poor couple showed up last week by accident; when I told them that they were a week early, a tremendous look of relief spread across the man's face. When I said sorry about the mix-up, he grinned really big and kept saying, Really, it's not a problem. He then proceeded to run backwards from our house to his truck all the while thanking me for sending him away. I've never seen anything like it. I told Dave that he had better go get a case of beer so that this guy can feel a little more comfortable.

Barely thought-out thoughts

I have been struck by the outpouring of grief over the death of Jack Layton: especially by the young. Judging from the massive coverage in the Ottawa Citizen and the accompanying pictures, Ottawa is awash in tears ... and Orange Crush. The latter was handed out by mourners at some point during the appointed time of official mourning. The use of my once-favourite soda pop is in reference to the surprise electoral tidal wave that the NDP (whose colour is orange) managed to produce during the last federal election, landing them as the official opposition.

The admiration of and grief over Jack Layton and his death reminds me that the world needs saints. Layton is the saint of the secular, socialist cause; and Orange Crush is his relic. I suppose it could also be used as a sacramental. And that is where my critique ends for the day: I will not address the causes he supported except to say that his passion was remarkable - I only wish he hadn't been so passionate about a few of the more questionable issues.

Reading the newspaper and on-line eulogies, accounts of his death, opinion pieces and interviews with politicos and average joes on the street leaves one with a pretty clear understanding of why he was admired, and now mourned. Countless people refer to his identification with the little guy, his genuine distress over individual suffering, his tireless work schedule, his determination to bring the suffering of the poor to a blue-chip audience. There is no doubt much to be admired. He is hailed as the conscience of Toronto (if not the whole country) and barely anyone can elucidate an opinion without the brushing back of tears. Religious or not, it is clear that the human condition begs for heroes.

Despite all of this, what I find most interesting is how people speak of his character in the face of his own suffering, his battle with cancer, his hip replacement and his eventual death. I read one account of a four hour meeting barely a week before his death in which he helped hammer out the future of the party despite his significant physical distress. It is this courage by which people are struck. He soldiered on through pain; indeed, the crutch that he used during the last election campaign was apparently what helped people to most identify with him: "Hey, he's just a guy like us! He needs new joints too. And perhaps Tylenol."

For some reason the crutch resonated most strongly in Quebec.

I find it fascinating that the leader of the party that most strongly advocates for the legalisation of euthanasia faced his own death with such dignity. He accepted his suffering and died according to a schedule that was not his own. And, guess what? Such a death speaks loudly to so many, especially the young. I only wish that he had lived long enough to write about it.

The whole thing reminds me of a story that my dad recently shared with me. He said that he read somewhere that a psychology professor told his undergraduate class that they should accept that suffering is a part of life; indeed, that suffering has meaning and doesn't need to be avoided. Apparently the class wiped its collective brow and breathed a sigh of relief as they had grown up being told that their sole purpose in life was happiness. When one is fed the solo felicitas (sorry, bad Latin) line one is understandably flummoxed if not scandalised when one encounters one's own suffering. When there is no understanding of the reality of sin and its effects, one is left ungrounded and with a lot of questions and frustrations:

What's wrong with me?

Why am I not happy?

I'm supposed to be happy!

Everyone else is happy!

My new jeans do not make me happy. (Let alone my haircut.)

My relationship failed again.

I must be faulty.

I can understand why that undergrad class welcomed their professor's words: they must have been a tremendous relief.

I think that the way that Jack Layton faced his sickness and death produced a similar relief among Canadians who watched him throughout the past two years. Dare I say his example provides hope, an example to follow? Because we all need someone to look up to.

I hope that his devoted Orange Crushees remember his example in the face of suffering: suffering that comes to all, can't be regulated, can't be wished away and can't be terminated at will. The outpouring of love, grief and admiration for Jack Layton speaks eloquently not to the purpose of his suffering but to the courage with which he faced it. May God have mercy upon his soul.

Long-lost sisters in a long-lost post

These picture are from way back at the start of July when my older sister, Rebecca, and two of her children (Rhett and Miriam) came to visit from Texas. My younger sister, Sr. Ilaria (formerly known as Martha) coincided her visit with that of Rebecca's to produce an occasion that last occurred nine years ago when Dave and I got married: the three of us together. Our mom and dad also joined us: Dad for one day and Mom for the week.

It was really amazing for me to see in-person Rebecca as a mother. I had yet to meet any of her children (still haven't met her wonderful husband); but, thanks to blogs and the telephone, I really didn't feel like I hadn't seen her in such a long time. However, it was great to see her in her motherly role (she has many others) - one that she performs with great skill and, above all, love.

I just love this photo of Sr. I.
Towards the end of the visit Rebecca's husband, Nathan, attempted to upstage Dave. He sent a beautiful bouquet of flowers with a simple note attached telling Rebecca that he loves her. The strangest thing was that the doorbell never rang; one of the kids simply found the bouquet lying on the floor inside the front door. Rebecca and Nathan also spoke on the phone for, on average, an hour each day. This was a real witness to me of how much they love one another and how great their friendship is.
Rhett and Joseph on the swing. The little boys got along wonderfully and took Rhett in as one more brother.
I attempted twins again (Miriam and Isaac are 4 months apart in age).
The twinning was disastrous: Isaac bore with it while Miriam protested loudly. This photo is totally staged. Hannah took it while we attempted to mind Miriam while Rebecca caught a quick nap. Singletons know that they were born that way.
Relaxing on the deck.
Trouble brewing: guns, brothers and beer.
The gun was passed over into more appropriate hands - those of a native-born Texan.
Hannah and her charge, little Miriam. These two girl cousins just loved each other. Actually, Hannah absolutely adored her Aunt Rebecca. Aunt Rebecca is feminine in a way that I am not. She brings cowboy boots, blingy jeans and high heels with flowers on them when she comes to visit. None of this was lost on little Hannah whom I found practising on high heels in the garage. My Birkenstocks clearly don't elicit the same reaction.
As Dave says when he looks at this picture: can the three of you be any different? As my dad calls us: Orange Bear, Blonde Bear and Brown Bear - with one Mama Bear and two cublets. Hopefully the time 'til the next visit won't be measured in years.