Race Day

We traveled to Ottawa on Saturday for the 5K portion of the National Capital Race Weekend. We hadn't intended for the twins to run such a race at the tender age of eight. However, a friend had three race numbers that he couldn't use due to a conflicting event. So, he offered the numbers to us; actually, he (a teacher at the twins' school) pulled them out of class to offer us the numbers with the specific instructions that Daddy should run with his twins. It is hard to ignore this sort of behaviour.
So, we trooped down to Ottawa with all five kids on Saturday and a slightly under-the-weather mommy. (Under-the-weather and at-the-end-of-her-rope mommy is more like it.) But, we made it and I actually managed to snap two photos of my three runners at the 4.75 km mark. Can you see them? Dave is wearing the red shirt and grey shorts, Jacob has a maroon t-shirt and Hannah has a black t-shirt with the number 72 on it.My eyes welled up with tears as I spotted Dave in the crowd of thousands. He had Jacob on one side and Hannah on the other and was holding their hands and coaxing the last kilometre out of their tired little bodies. I yelled out their names and he weaved through the crowd so that the twins could see me and their brothers. (By this point their youngest brother was cutting up in the stroller, Benjamin was complaining that he wasn't running and Joseph was lying on his back under the stroller. I had given up on all activities other than containing Isaac and Joseph and getting at least one picture of the twins in their first race.) Despite their flushed faces and sweaty hair they smiled big and took off toward the finish line.
I and the three youngest then rushed off to the other side of City Hall where we had agreed to meet them. This required some fancy footwork through thousands of people (this is a very big race) with our double stroller. I was briefly held up when the stroller decided to get into a scrap with a TV truck; thankfully two teenage boys came to the rescue and we pushed on against the crowd (and almost into the calves of an elite runner!). I finally made it to the meeting spot and sat down on a bench next to a middle-aged man who was putting on his shoes and preparing for the 10k. He smiled and asked about the kids. I mentioned that I was waiting for my older two and my husband. I got ready for the head count and the inevitable, "5 kids!!!" Instead, he said, "We have 6 kids." I then mentioned that we had come from Barry's Bay and he said that he and his wife receive spiritual direction from a priest at Madonna House. My eyes widened, "Which priest?" Of course his spiritual director is also my spiritual director. Out of the thousands of people at that race I had 'randomly' sat down next to a man who shares the same spiritual father.
Ha! The Lord goes out of his way to show us that He is in charge - especially for mothers who are feeling sick and about ready to throw in the towel.
Buoyed by this experience, but still about ready to collapse, we headed home where we stopped at Harvey's for a quick supper.
At this point I should mention that I have given up wheat (long story, great results, fodder for another post). So, I ate my salad and watched with envy as the rest of the family wolfed down hamburgers and chicken fingers. My mood worsened and I headed over to Mucho Burrito to see if they served corn tortillas - no such luck. By this point the rest of the family was waiting in the van for a tardy mother who was now worn out, hungry and starting to forget the Lord's intimate care for her.
As this mommy descended into a fouler mood she found herself on Hwy 417 with her husband at the wheel and her daughter in the passenger seat. Suddenly Dave began to motion at the car in the next lane. He then increased his speed to pull up parallel with the little gold sedan. Because (drum roll please) it was Fr. Galen! Long story short: we all pulled over and had a good chat with Ben's godfather.
Moral of the story: I am cared for intimately by a good and loving God; He goes out of His way to let me know that He is in charge (especially when I feel like our life is all too much); and He even reminds me more than once and in extraordinary ways when I give into doubt.
Moralising aside: here are some gratuitous pics of the kids with their finishing medals. Oh, yes, they finished in around 34 minutes - pretty good for kids who have never run over 3 kilometres. Hannah said that Dave pulled her along as she was ready to quit at 2 kilometres. Jacob said that he made sure to smile at the medics so that they would know that he wasn't injured.
Somehow Joseph snagged a medal. (If you know Joseph this acquisition will not surprise you.) He also claimed with great authority that he would run the 3K (non-existent) later that evening which, according to his information, is specifically organised for three year old boys.
Isaac, because he was there too.
Hannah after swearing that she will never, ever run that distance again.

Not much

So, apparently life ended at First Communion around these parts. I checked the date of my last post and realised that it was over one week ago and I haven't taken a picture or written a word. However, I have thought many times of reaching for the camera and I have plenty of opening lines for brilliant posts. Despite my intentions, the camera is always a little out of reach and my thought process is limited to a long list of pithy and thought-provoking opening lines with absolutely nothing to back them up.

As an aside, I also keep a running list of opening lines for fictional books in my head. Lines like:
"It was only when she found small rubberized numbers with their corresponding letters scattered throughout her bed that she realised her cell phone was no longer functional."
Seriously.
That line is actually based on a real-life experience ... of mine.

And then I think of writing something that approaches rational and long-reasoned-out thought and I run across ladies like this and this and realise that there are a lot of women with a heck of a lot more goods upstairs than I. Shame on you, uncultivated mind. Will there ever be time to read enough to say more than soundbites?

Plus, I'm really tired.

I heard Mother Angelica say today that she is looking forward to heaven so that she no longer needs to feel exhausted. In her words, "I think that I was born tired. I wake up tired. I'm more tired by lunch and even more tired by bed. I'd like to know what it's like to feel really good."
Now, I think that I often do feel really good; but, lately, I have been losing too much sleep with a variety of engagements, visitors and normal-life stuff that have left me exhausted.
Yawn.

Also, it just keeps raining and raining and raining. And, when it's sunny the unmentioned biblical plague (read blackflies) emerges and, if not brave enough to endure the loss of blood, we stay inside. It sucks and I'm complaining: I do that sort of thing.

In other news, Jacob and Hannah might be running a 5k this weekend in the National Capital Race Weekend. Dave will run with them so that they don't get lost in the 10,000-strong crowd. Jacob suggested that he and Hannah would just stick together; but, somehow, that leaves me with a really bad feeling that by the end of the race we will no longer have 5 children.
Dave will have to run about 15 minutes slower than he normally does in order to pace them but that's what fatherhood is about - slowing down. I would love to run with them but I have been plagued with plantar fascitis and unable to run for a few months now.
Instead, I have been biking and have come to like this form of exercise but I would still love to throw on my shoes and head out for a good jog.

Offer it up, Afelskie. Yeah, I'm trying.

p.s. In really awesome news: I told Jacob the other day about what it means to offer something up. You know, do something that causes you pain or distress without complaint as a spiritual sacrifice. As a result, he downed a glass of odd-tasting milk in a really grotty restaurant outside of Algonquin Park. I know not his intention but I am expecting to win the lottery soon.
I also arrived home from the grocery store last night to find him praying the Rosary. Literally pacing back and forth with the beads in hand. He looked so much like his Grandpa Nick. These are the moments that make me realise that our efforts are producing some fruit; or, perhaps, our kids' piety so excels our own that they are making spiritual strides in spite of their parents. Either way it all works out.
p.p.s. I just looked up and Joe is painting his face. I didn't even know that he and Ben had paints.

First Holy Communion

Jacob (left), Hannah (right) - only hours old - one pound weight difference, 2 cm height difference
Eight years later, same sides - 15 pound weight difference, 4-5 inch height difference
Plus, we've added a few. (Isaac was taking a morning nap.)
Individual portraits. My mother made Hannah's First Communion gown. (Mom also made the twins' baptismal gowns in which five Afelskies and one Smith have been baptised over the past eight years.)
Hannah wore blue flowers in her hair and a blue sash in honour of Our Lady, Mother Mary. The sash was also made from the skirt of the bridesmaid dress that my younger sister wore for our wedding. Something borrowed, something blue.
Isn't she beautiful? My older sister suggested the hairstyle as I am severely hairstyling challenged. I put her hair in two braids and clipped it up in the back with dried blue flowers throughout. The hairstyle remained until evening when sleep necessitated the removal of the clips.
Jacob was warned to keep his outfit in perfect condition as there are three younger brothers who will have to wear it over the next few years. Apparently such an admonishment does not apply to climbing trees after receptions. When I asked him why he had climbed a pine tree (yes, pine!), he replied that he was playing hide and seek and it seemed like a really good place to hide. "Nobody else thought of hiding in a pine tree, Mom."
The procession. Jacob was first in line and I was unable to snap a photo before he was gone.
Hannah was randomly picked to carry the crown for Our Lady for the May crowning. Given the blue accents on her dress and in her hair, the selection was quite appropriate.
Beautiful dress, eh?
Fr. Brian Christie atop a ladder - only in the Catholic church.
Jacob preparing for his First Holy Communion with one last read.
A view of the hair.
The much-awaited moment. I debated putting this photo up as it is a moment of great intimacy but I find it so precious.
Piety drooping on Hannah's right.
I couldn't resist this one - my only art shot.


I pray that this picture is a harbinger of the rest of their lives. Keep them close, dear Lady. Bring them to your Son.

Ben's birthday in pictures

Seven Quick Takes Friday

1. Mass on Mother's Day ended with the standard Mother's Day blessing in which all mothers (and men who are hard of hearing) remained standing. Fortunately the blessing was long enough that, although lacking in the auditory department, most of these men were still somewhat perceptive enough to sit down mid-way through the blessing. Nevertheless, a few stalwarts remained til the end. Those who remained standing were largely unaccompanied by females strong enough to jerk them back into their seats by the coat's sleeve. However, I am willing to entertain the possibility of a new gender-protest movement within the Church. Gotta keep things interesting.

2. Mother's Day was followed by Ben's 5th birthday. We took lots of pictures but St. Anthony is still attempting to locate the cord necessary to the downloading of those pictures. Yes, I looked under the couch.

3. Despite any photographic proof, Ben's birthday was an overall success with a trip to Algonquin Park, a meal at the Wilno Tavern with paternal grandparents and a supper of hotdogs and fries (his request). He also told me that, upon his fifth birthday, he would start eating salad. I have yet to see any evidence of his new found resolve.

4. However, his fifth birthday has brought on a greater degree of spiritual sensitivity. Today at lunch he told Joseph that he (Joseph, not Ben) needed to go to Confession to get "all that bad stuff burned out of you". He did comfort Joseph by telling him that he would not get burned in the process. Interesting what they pick up.

5. Isaac is sleeping through the night. Some of you will say, "Isn't he 8 months old? About time." While others will look despondently at their three year old and stop reading this blog.
How did we do it? We made him cry it out. I waited til this point to do it because I was traumatised by Joseph's crying it out. I think that he literally cried for two nights straight before sleeping the third all the way through. On the very plus side, Joseph has slept every night through since those two fateful nights at six months of age. Because of this experience I was wary of doing the same to little Isaac. Dave assured me that Isaac has far less will than does his older brother. He was right.
Isaac cried for two 20 minutes sessions the first night, one two-minute session the second night and whimpered once on the third night. It was if he wanted to say, "What were you idiots waiting for?"

6. It is First Communion Sunday this weekend. This is a big event around these parts. The outfits are ready, the relatives are arriving, the food ... has yet to be bought, and the house is clean.
Are the hearts ready? I hope so.
I think that they are a lot better prepared than I was at their age. My only memory of my First Communion is of staying up way too late with a pile of my cousins, scaring the bejeebers out of the littlest one (sorry, Bridget) and being threatened with a spanking by my father. That and a white eyelet dress with a dropped waist and a yellow satin ribbon. I imagine that my most memorable sacrament just might be my last.

7. I had better stop. Hannah just told me that Isaac is eating newspaper.

Mother's Day

One of the benefits of Jacob and Hannah going to school is that, for the next few years, I am absolutely assured of receiving two Mother's Day cards. Actually, four cards, because the twins always produce the inevitable French ones with variations of "Je t'aime, Maman" in addition to the more effusive English cards. So, I awoke on Sunday morning (at an ungodly hour: Isaac chose to remind me of the suffering that is part and parcel of motherhood) and found the cards carefully laid out on the kitchen table.
Here are some choice excerpts:

Hannah:

"You are the best Mom in the world. I think you are wonderful ... I like your brown eyes and brown hair which looks nice and curly and long. I like what you wear. Thank you for shopping for me and buying me food and clothes for me... I remember when you said, "Who looks like me?" And I said, "I have long hair like you."

(Regarding the curly hair: I recently discovered that I can make use of the "useless curl" (direct quote from my hairdresser) that I have by using a "hair product" and clipping up the top layers which determinedly remain poker straight. Hannah is fascinated by this new curliness; thus, its inclusion in the Mother's Day card. Also, it has become a running joke in the family that it is a good thing that I carried all the kids in my womb as none of them seems to look much like me. Jacob's response to my lament was as follows, "Well, we look like Dad and you wear his ring so that's a good thing." Hannah said, "Well, Ben sort of looks like you but he's really skinny and you're, ummm..." That's the point at which she quickly changed the subject.)

And on to Jacob's letter. After reading it, you will quickly understand why Dave has contracted out all future special occasions to his eldest son. For your reading benefit I will also note that Jacob dotted each i with a heart.

Dear Mom,
I think you are the most lovely and responsible mom the world ever had! I love your black hair and your brown eyes that really fit in with your tannish skin. I think you are satisfying with your straight nose and your beautiful smile. That makes a pretty, beautiful, lovely face. I admire your tall, straight figure along with your beautiful clothes, especially your most stylish ones that you wear on special occasions. I simply adore the way you buy books, clothes and groceries and the work you do every day to be nice for us. It's really exciting when you take us to the library and rent us videos and also the way you love and care for us and congratulate us when we did really good on something. You do it at home, in the car, at a shop, having a walk together, anywhere! Remember when you mixed up our names? It was hilarious! You make me feel loved when you care for us. That is extra fabulous!
From your loving son, Jacob Afelsikie (sic).

In light of my son's extraordinary effusiveness and generousity of heart, I can forgive the occasional misspelling and run-on sentence. His twin is not as easily impressed: she cynically raised one eyebrow after reading his card. And, in reference to the earlier discussion about family traits, Jacob might look like Dave but I don't think that his father ever dotted an i with a heart.

Hardness of Heart: Trying to figure this one out

I thought that if I began this post with "The mass readings lately..." a few of you might press the 'next blog' button and blow this pop-stand; so, I decided to start my second sentence that way.

The mass readings lately have been talking a lot about hardness of heart: as in, "Do not harden your hearts as at Meribah" and the like. Our priest delivered an excellent homily on hardness of heart at Saturday morning mass. He spoke about the apostles and their hardness of heart. The apostles had spent three years in the intimate company of Jesus, the Lord of Lords and the King of Kings. They had seen him give sight to the blind, health to the sick, speech to the mute, forgiveness to the sinner.

And they still didn't get it when he rose from the dead. This "not getting it" was a hardness of heart.

Mary, upon arriving at the tomb, is actually unmoved by the sight of two angels and a 'gardener' asking her whom she was looking for. She refuses to abandon her pessimistic expectations (He Is Dead and Ain't Coming Back) to which she clings. She can not recognise heaven standing in front of her until Jesus calls her by name and she responds: "Rabbouni!"
Yet, even then, she still clings. She falls at Jesus's feet and clings to him. She can't let go and an aspect of that inability to let go is not to be emulated. (I once heard Mother Angelica call Mary Magdalene a clinger. She was only quoting Jesus: "Woman, let go of me.")

Of course all of this made me think about the things to which I cling. Especially the fears to which I cling. Fears that are so familiar that they have become routine and somewhat comfortable. Fears about sleeping at night, about the kids' safety, about health, about more children: can I trust these things to the Lord? Can I stop clinging and leave them with him? Can I get up out of my clinginess and go as he told Mary Magdalene to do? After all, He has proved himself countless times in my life - in both the little and the big things.

So, this Easter season I am trying to stop clinging to my fears. Fears that have become so familiar that I had forgotten that they were fears and not just old friends with whom I had a lot in common. A lifetime's work.

But, I started this whole thing by talking about hardness of heart. So, back to Saturday morning mass. As Father preached his homily he spoke about Peter after the Resurrection. Peter had witnessed the Risen Lord and he really had no idea what to do with this new reality. So, he went back to fishing; and not just as an afternoon diversion, but as an occupation. Why did he go back? Because of his hardness of heart. Because he didn't have a heart of flesh.

Up until this point I had always thought of hardness of heart as a refusal to repent, a denial of one's own sin, the inability to listen to what the Lord is saying. But, as Father spoke, I also saw hardness of heart for what it also is: the tough shield that we build around our hearts in order to protect ourselves from hurt that also prevents us from feeling the pain and the suffering of others. It's an inadvertent desensitization. It's the water running off the duck's back that allows us to get on with things and not hurt so much.

But, in the process of not hurting, we build a wall around us that lessens our care for others. We can no longer feel their pain because our hearts are hard. Along with the apathy that comes with hardness of heart comes a sort of cloudiness of vision. We can no longer see things as they really are. We can no longer recognise the heart of the matter - the spiritual reality that surrounds us. We can't grasp the Resurrection. And so we go back to fishing.

Now, I'm not trying to advocate that we all become a bunch of bleeding hearts that forever wallow in life's hurts and pains. No, a certain amount of 'toughness' is required. But, how do we do this and still maintain a softness of heart? How does the Resurrected One make any difference in our lives? How do we hear the Easter story and not just smile at the happy ending? How does it change our lives?

What was it that eventually changed things for Peter, the Apostles and millions of others who have lived and died for their faith? It was the Holy Spirit. It is the descent of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost that changed the fear into boldness and replaced the hearts of stone with hearts of flesh.

This season of Easter in which we find ourselves ends at Pentecost. And, much like Lent, it must be lived - as a time of growth, new understanding and personal reform and renewal. (What are you going to give up for Easter?)

And all of this made me think about my children and their hearts. Because at their tender ages they still seem to have hearts that are pretty fleshy. They are still moved to tears easily by tragedy - big and little. They immediately grasp injustice and demand that it be righted. Some might say that their world is simplistic or too black and white. (As in Jacob's remarks that if the NDP formed the government, it would be 'curtains' for unborn babies - show's over, folks.)

Sure, our older two are just beginning to see the shades of grey that are ever present. However, I think that their child-likeness, their fleshy hearts are something to be desired. I don't want them to become jaded, to casually turn a blind eye to disaster on the television screen or to the tears of their younger brothers. I want their hearts to be fleshy and real and capable of feeling.

So, I kept thinking, and that thinking turned to prayer, and I began to see the relationship between the discipline of our children and their hearts. It is so easy as a parent to turn to sarcasm or let rip some mean quip as we reprimand a son or daughter. Especially when there are sooo many kids and sooo many feelings and sooo much behaviour and we are sooo tired.

But what does that sarcasm, that comment, that meanness produce? I think that it produces a hardness of heart. That hardness is foremostly a method of defense. The child is hurt by the remark, or by being belittled, and so they cry. But then they begin to learn that they can toughen up so that they don't hurt so much. And so the heart begins to harden. And the learned process continues in the schoolyard, amongst friends and within the family.

And as I sat in mass on Saturday morning I saw how guilty I am of the hardening of my children's hearts. So easily I let fly a mean comment out of frustration. And so many times I have seen the look of betrayal in my children's eyes as they experience their own mother being mean. And, before my very eyes, a little bit of that precious and fleshy heart becomes hard. Ow.

So, along with becoming a little less clingy this Easter season, I'm also going to try to be a heck of a lot kinder to those in my care because hearts are at stake. And where hearts are at stake, so are souls.

Discipline during the Octave of Easter

Alternate Title: All Sugared Up - The Case of the Stolen Easter Eggs (12 to be exact)
Photo Credit: Hannah Afelskie
No one was hurt during this intervention.