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.

Proof that we still exist

I have been terribly remiss this summer with our camera: I have not been taking pictures. But, today, I realised that I had better snap a few before I look back and discover that no evidence exists of Isaac's 9th, 10th and 11th months (except on other people's cameras). So, here are a bunch of photos that I took this morning as he ambulated (a variety of crawling, aided-walking and scooting) throughout the house. As you can see, he is a character; and, being the fifth, he is absolutely spoiled rotten by his siblings (at least by the two oldest). Hannah is absolutely unable to let him cry without running to his aid - a fact of which he is well aware and makes use of quite admirably. Can you say little finger and wrapped around in the same sentence?
I am amazed that he will be one year old in three weeks. Wasn't I just yesterday awaiting his arrival?
See: a character. What is it about little baby teeth? They are so extremely cute - like little Chiclets. And why is blogger insisting on underlining these words??
That Monopoly property card is trash now. Certain items are expendable around these parts.
He is our first boy baby that has a decent one-year hairstyle. Both Ben and Joe had terrible hockey hair (i.e. a mullet) and Jacob's stood up on end. Hannah's, of course, styled itself in an attractive yet timeless duck tail.
Dave's dad thinks that he has the most character yet of all of the kids. If so, I am unsure what to expect of this little boy.
Maybe Grandpa Mike is right.