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.