12 days of Christmas

I have never really understood Christmas.  I remarked to my spiritual director last year that I just didn't "get" God as a little baby.  Wise priest that he is, he smiled, laughed and said, "Knowing you, that doesn't surprise me."  I knew why he laughed but at the same time I felt like screaming, "Why are you laughing?  Why don't I get it?"

I finally decided to take this frustration, this lack of understanding to prayer.  I began to pray, "Help me to fathom just a little bit of why in the world an omnipotent God became a baby.  I just don't get it."  Well, I suppose that I understood a bit of the Incarnation on an intellectual level but that knowledge had yet to penetrate my heart.

Another thing about Christmas is that it is perhaps the hardest time of the whole year for me.  My birthday is on the 22nd and has always been a bit of a disappointment.  My birthday blues are very dark.  I imagine that this has something to do with the 22nd falling at an exceptionally busy time of year that usually brings sickness, lots of snow, lack of sunlight and failed birthday parties.  It's awfully hard to remember someone's birthday, let alone a gift, when it comes only days before the biggest gift-giving extravaganza of the year.

The combination of the birthday and Christmas is exacerbated by the fact that we live a long way away from my sisters and parents and thus the holidays can also be very, very lonely.  Thus, all of these factors come colliding together in a bit of a perfect storm.  Perhaps I was set up for not 'getting' Christmas.

I do, however, 'get' faith and have never had a doubt that if the Lord wants someone to understand something then He will allow that understanding to come.  The answer is there; I had just never asked the question before.

However, this Christmas Eve I did ask the question.

We found ourselves sitting two rows from the front of the church at the 5pm Christmas Eve mass.  Smack dab in front of the almost life-sized nativity scene.  I couldn't help but stare at that creche and beg, What does it  mean?

A few thoughts immediately came to mind.  The first was about Mary and Joseph arriving at the inn.  Not until a few days before when I had read Enid Blyton's Christmas Story to the boys had I realised that the inn was actually really, really physically crowded.  After all, if there was no room at the inn it was because it was filled with people.  Therefore it was probably also filled with noise and smells and food and drink and a whole host of other sensory events.  These are all things that I can handle, even relish, when well-rested, happy and not at some pivotal point in my life.  Giving birth is not one of those times.  If it were I arriving great with child at the door to the inn I would have been thankful to have been given the stable.  (Dave would have hoped for a room but I would have been praying that something 'outback' was available.)  Being a bit of a closet introvert (and insomniac), I would have gladly accepted straw and large domestic animals over people.  I wondered if Our Lady had felt the same.

And then I began to think about the actual circumstances of Our Lord's birth:  at what time was He born?  When exactly did the shepherds show up?  Who was there?  Who wasn't there?  Did Our Lady want her mother there?

Having given birth five times now I couldn't help but compare Our Lord's birth and Our Lady's labour and delivery with my own experiences.  And I realised something.  I am a control freak and one of the things that I like about the birth of a child is that it is completely out of my control. Thus, labour and delivery is one of the only times in my life when I actually feel like I can let go because I am acutely aware that I have no control.  However, until that first contraction, I futilely try to orchestrate the whole shebang.  And inevitably I fail.

I am never as rested as I want to be.  In fact, I have usually lost a whole night's sleep.  My mom is very rarely the one who sees us off to the hospital as she is 1000 miles away.  Only two of my children have been born into the hands of my family doctor.  The twins were delivered by an on-call obstetrician, Benjamin by the emergency room physician and Sarah was delivered by two nurses as the paramedics wheeled me into the room.

Nothing ever goes according to my plan.  And, inevitably, this is a good thing.  I arrive at the birth of each of my children thoroughly and utterly spent.  I am weepy and sore and don't want to see anyone other than Dave (and maybe my mom) walk through the door of my hospital room.  I even find it hard to answer the phone.  (My poor in-laws learned this the hard way after Isaac's birth!)

And somehow in the first few minutes of our deacon's homily at Christmas Eve mass I thought of all of this.  And it began to dawn on me that Our Lord was most likely born in the wee hours of the morning and Our Lady had no one but St. Joseph there to help.  No mother, no father, no midwife, no familiarity.  And I imagine that she was very tired and just wanted (oh, please) a good night's sleep.  And then a bunch of dirty shepherds have the gall to show up -  in the middle of the night.  None of it seems fair, does it?  And I just want life to be fair; I want my life to be fair!  And it isn't.   None of my life nor Our Lord's birth is the way that I would have planned it.  Yet it is the way that God planned it:  perfectly perfect.

And so, as I contemplated our Lord's birth and His Mother's experience, I was able to understand just a little bit better that the Incarnation is about Our Maker coming into the messiness of our lives out of love.  His arrival doesn't make things fair, or tidy up my life or balance my sacrifices with what I think should be my rewards.  His birth certainly doesn't move me any closer to my parents or sisters.  But His birth changes everything because He comes to be with us.  He comes to us in the midst of our dirty straw, our smelly animals, our shepherd-visitors and He accepts our meagre offering of swaddling clothes, whatever those might be.  He entrusts Himself to our care and to our love and He needs us.

Despite this moment of enlightenment, I turned away from the creche and tuned back into our deacon's homily.  He was speaking about little babies and how little babies only know how to do one thing.  I thought that the one thing would be some cheeky comment about pooping and spitting up; but it wasn't.  Instead, he said that the one thing that little babies know how to do is give love and receive love, with complete abandon.  I suddenly grasped more fully what it meant that Love was born on Christmas morn.

I love little babies.  I can't fathom our home without them.  I get teary-eyed just thinking about a 'last' baby.  They exhaust me, they frustrate me, they make me cry, they wreak havoc on my hormones, I often swear, Never again!; but I can't help but love them desperately.  I love to hold them, to look at them, to nurse them and to know them.  And what do they do so perfectly?  They love me and receive my love, without question, without judgement.  They love me unconditionally.

And then I knew in a heart sort of way that God as a wee little baby is simply about loving Him and allowing Him to love me, unconditionally.  I find it very difficult, and often uncomfortable,  to receive love and to be cared for.  But I don't find it hard to let little babies love me.  I find it incredibly easy, natural and comfortable to receive the love of a child.  In fact, I feel most myself, most truly me in the company of children.  So, this year I will try to get to know the Baby Jesus; to hold Him in my heart as a newborn babe and allow Him to love me in that form.  This will bring exhaustion and tears and the ruin of my plans; but it will all be for the good and I will know that I am loved.

And together we will grow up.

A milestone: 35

Yesterday I turned 35.  I remember when a good friend of mine in university turned 35 and I was only 21 and her age seemed miles away.  She is now 51 and I am five years away from 40; but still 5 years away from 30 as well.  However, judging by these pictures, those 35 years have been rather prolific.

We always take the standard birthday shot of Mommy or Daddy surrounded by the children.  Usually the cake is in the picture too.  However, this year the cake was somewhat pathetic in appearance although a little above OK in the taste department.  Thus, the cake didn't make it into the photo.  The tired mother surrounded by the sources of exhaustion did have her 35th birthday immortalised if only to prove that she never wears makeup on the 22nd of December.  We had a good day and Dave attempted to take over all of my usual jobs for the day.  By suppertime he looked at me and said, "I have been in the kitchen since 3 o'clock."  Yes, indeed.  We had a dinner of steak, mashed potatoes, carrots and Caesar salad.  The fire alarm went off a lot more than when I cook.

And to think I thought I had nothing to write about

I logged onto the blog in order to access my blogroll and, horror of horrors, realised that my last post was 10 days ago.  Where does time go?  Actually, I didn't just flippantly ask that question; I really and truly thought, Where did the last 10 days go?  And the answer was the following:

1.  Of course, the ubiquitous chiropractic appointments which, by the way, are over until the new year. They have, thankfully, been extremely helpful.  Not only is my back much better but so is my (drumroll, please) FOOT!!!!!!!!!!  The untouchable foot really is connected to the leg bone which is connected to the hipbone which, in a miraculous chain of musculo-skeletal events, all work together so that when one is righted so is the other.
The overall effect?  I have been able to run again without pain. I do need to listen a bit more to my body and take the necessary precautions to prevent injury especially since my knee is now hurting...  Oh, ageing body, why do you fail me?  The running is truly a balm to the soul and I spend much of it saying, "Thank you, God!  Thank you, soooo much."
A funny side note is that one of these preventative-injury measures is walking backwards for 100 strides/day.  Much to Dave's and some of the children's chagrin, I choose to walk backwards outside for the last 100 metres of my run.  When I told Dave and Hannah this, they both said, "You do that outside?"  Jacob, on the other hand, found me walking backward one day and ran to meet me yelling, "Cool, Mom!  Can I guide you home?"  Dave should be thankful that the majority of my runs are in the early hours of the morning and no one is out to see me except for the three streetlights that I magically turn on and off each time I run underneath them...

2.  When I wasn't driving madly to and from Pembroke I was either at the kids' Christmas concert, Dave's Christmas party or entertaining guests at the house.  Dave told me that I have officially run him off his feet.  I was about to tell him the same.

3.  The Christmas concert was its usual display of the absence of the arts in the public school system.  The evening started with the teachers singing about waiting for Jesus while Dave managed to look all of 17 years old as he sang amidst his colleagues.  Isaac was absolutely overwhelmed by his father's stage career and kept yelling from the back of the hall, "Daddy!  Daddy!"  He later did the same for each of his siblings.  Sarah sat in her carseat looking quizzical and slightly circumspect:  Where have they brought me now?

Poor Jacob and Hannah had to rap about Christmas wrap while holding tubes of Christmas paper and dancing.  When not dancing with the tubes they had to hold them off to the side until the tube dancing started again.  Unfortunately Jacob chose to store his tube between his legs pointing straight out.  This caused me to pray frantically for the end of the song while Dave stared straight ahead and grimaced, "Just pretend not to notice!!"  Dear socially-unaware Jacob.

Joseph made his stage debut in, you guessed it, a shirt and tie.  He sang about the absence of his two front teeth which are, nevertheless, quite present.  His spotty school attendance reared its head as he spent most of the song with his hands thrust casually into his pockets while he either scanned the crowd for family members or stared at his classmates in an attempt to mimic the actions to the song.  He did look awfully cute, though.

Ben played St. Joseph with his best friend Cecelia as Mother Mary.   He remarked that this was their first appearance together on stage.  Perhaps they are planning a Vaudevillian career in the future.  The two saints were thrown in toward the end of the concert as a token mark of Catholicism.  I wasn't really sure what they had to do with the overarching theme of the concert but they served as a reminder that Jesus is the Reason for the Season.  In an interesting turn of events one of the dads in the school (a recent convert to evangelical Protestantism) also noted the lack of any Gospel message and decided to deliver his own on the steps of the church as the concert goers exited.  Complete with Gospel tracts.  Things are always interesting in Barry's Bay.  (Dear Kerr family, you missed a real good one this year.  Enjoy your classical Catholic school.)

4.  The Christmas party was enjoyable and provided me with a chance to dress up in something other than jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt.  Unfortunately I wore a dress that worked at home but didn't work when holding Sarah and trying to carry on a conversation with Dave's colleagues.  Most cocktail dresses are not designed to be worn while juggling a baby at a stand-up bar.  The coverage problem was quickly solved by the addition of a white swaddling blanket worn as a shawl.  The one downside was that the scarf was also adorned with bumblebees.  (Thank you, Theresa R.)  So much for my attempt at sophistication.   I did wear heels - even if they were borrowed.

5.  And the overarching theme of the past two weeks is that Isaac decided to toilet train.  I have never had a child who asked to potty train.  He really did just get up on the toilet and pee.  With each of the others I have always had to place them on the pot and wait ages until they finally peed and discovered that such bodily functions could actually be willed and thus controlled.  Isaac just got up and did it.  He does, however, demand applause which must be duly given if one wants to control his high-pitched screams, "Clap!!! Clap!!!"  And there goes the baby's nap...
The disadvantage of this toilet training is that I don't think that either Dave or I was ready for it.  Thus, we often forget to take his diaper off in the morning or we forget until too late that he needs to be brought to the bathroom.  This has resulted in a definite decrease in diaper use and a marked increase in laundry.  Oh well, we'll all get there one day.

6.  Oh wait, there is one more over-arching theme.  In a fit of exhaustion last Monday afternoon I sat six month old Sarah down for a talk.  I told her that I was sorry but I was going to have to let her cry it out that night as I had full confidence that she was able to sleep through the night without eating.  She looked at me sweetly and, with noticeable intelligence, smiled.  Apparently she is an extremely reasonable and highly intelligent child as she has slept through the night since last Monday without me having to lie awake listening to her cry even once.  Much like Isaac and the toilet, she just did it.  All I had to do was reason with her.  Who knew?  Let's hope my blog-mention of her sleeping doesn't throw the whole thing off.  In the not too distant past she has been known to read with full comprehension.

7.  And here we are in the last week before school.  We are looking forward to the break and, in a characteristic we-don't-know-how-take-a-break move, have decided to redo the boys bedroom over the Christmas holidays.   Right now they sleep in what amounts to a cold, but large, cell.  Is it no wonder that they beg nightly to sleep on the living room couch?  Thus, the addition of carpet and some nice paint might just be a corporal work of mercy.

The end.  For now.

Feeling Better

As you can see Sarah has grown a little over the last six months.  Also, Isaac is fully cognisant of his role as older brother.

Hannah accepting her first place award for the Remembrance Day poster at the legion.  Santa's getting a little too close.

Jacob accepting his third place poetry award.  Something's going on between him and the big guy.

Sarah in all her stripey glory.

Yes, Sammy is still around and Sarah gives us lots of smiles.  She is such a pleasant, peaceful little person.  She really radiates calm.

She's also very joyful.

Joseph's present from his maternal grandparents.  He has grown to be quite an archery whiz in under one week.  This really was a great gift idea.  And no one has sustained an injury, yet.

Yes, that is the Morning Offering written on the window.  It is part of my attempt at catechesis.  Unfortunately, it isn't working that well and the whole bottom line is just one big smudge.

Ben trying out the bow and arrow set.

Isaac nursing his baby cocker spaniel.  This morning he sat down in the green chair with his dog, pulled up his shirt and began to nurse.  He then screamed at me:  There! which meant that I was supposed to sit on the couch opposite and nurse Sarah.  I complied and we nursed away until Isaac removed his dog, looked definitively at the dog, said Baby and then ran to the kitchen where he returned with a whisk.  He then made sure that I knew that the dog was in fact a baby and began to beat the 'baby' mercilessly with the whisk.  I wonder what a La Leche League leader would say about that.

One step from the edge

Who would have known that a post about chiropractic care would elicit so many comments?  The adjustments are going well but I fear that the driving might counteract the whole thing.  My nerves are pretty raw lately and sleep is suffering at both ends of the night.  The arrival of Advent is coupled with the beginning of the cold and snowy season.  Thus, the blogosphere tells me to get the house and my childrens' heart ready for the coming of Christ with creches and calendars and artfully produced treats themed according to the feast day.  All I can think of is messy nativity sets and messy straw falling out of mangers and messy baking ingredients all mixed together with wet mitts and puddles of melting snow.  Something's got to give and I think it's me.

Therefore, I told Dave 30 minutes ago that I was feeling on the edge of a panic attack at the thought of Advent.  He responded with only a slight touch of sarcasm, "Why? You've gotta make the kids holy in the next four weeks?"
"Well, maybe that and I have to set down traditions that they will carry on and eventually write about on their own blogs..."
"Elena, all you have to do is survive.  You don't even have to light the candles."
So, there.  That's all I'm going to do this Advent:  light the candles (because they happen to be ready); nothing else unless I happen to find the time and the will.

And, now, onto a story.

It was Joseph's fifth birthday on Wednesday, the 28th.  I had mistakenly scheduled a chiropractic appointment for that day so I decided to combine the trip to Pembroke with supper out at East Side Mario's.  Thus would Joseph have a special supper and I wouldn't have to make a cake since the servers at ESM's bring a small cake to the table if someone is having a birthday.  I knew that Joseph would love a pile of waiters and waitresses arriving at the table with a blazing cake and a special birthday song sung at lightning speed.

The best laid plans of mice and men.

To really set up this story we need to backtrack to lunch on Joe's birthday.  One of the advantages of Dave teaching at the kids' school is that he can visit their classrooms and, among other perks, easily take them out for lunch on their special day.  Therefore, he and Joe decided that a trip to Subway would be a good idea for a birthday lunch.  So, the excited birthday boy had his first meal out of the day:  a sub, a really big orange juice and a bag of Doritos.  These are all foods that he doesn't regularly eat.

He traipsed back to school brewing with excitement (and foreign-to-his-tummy foods) and, after the school day, arrived back home with his siblings for the hour trip to Pembroke.  I had called the restaurant earlier that day to reserve a table and let them know that we were celebrating a birthday.  They booked the small room at the entrance for our party of eight.

After the back-cracking we headed over to the restaurant to continue the birthday celebrations.  Joe was determined to have pizza for supper rather than his standard chicken fingers and fries.  He was also equally determined not to eat anything until his pizza arrived.  He did, however, feel the need to drink glasses and glasses of water.  The word copious comes to mind. In a multi-tasking sort of motherly way I noted out of the corner of my eye that he was imbibing large amounts of liquid (both water and chocolate milk) as he waited for his order.  My brain wondered at this but my hands were busy with nursing the baby and helping to keep order.

The meals arrived and Joe dug into his personal pizza while Jacob looked on dismayed by the difference in size between his hamburger and his brother's pizza.  The waitress came in several times to take plates, refresh drinks and check that all was well.  At one point I asked her if she could bring a pitcher of water as Joe was eyeing up my glass.  She brought the water to the table and removed the last of the empty plates.  My mind registered that the restaurant staff would soon arrive with the cake and the song.  Curiously a memory from a few years ago popped into my mind.  When Isaac was 3 months old I went to Halifax with him leaving the rest of the kids at home with Dave.  When I arrived back Dave and all the kids came to the airport to pick me up.  It was the supper hour so we went to eat at East Side Mario's.  Half way through the supper Joseph, then only three years old, suddenly threw up on the floor of the restaurant.  It was an interesting welcome home.  It was this memory that I was about to ask Dave if he recalled when I noticed that Joseph was looking a little strange.

I realise now that the memory was to this story what the thought that the phone is about to ring just before it does is to the phone ringing.  (Did you get that?  Because I didn't.)  Not only was Joseph not his normal cheery, almost too-excited sort of guy, he was looking a little strange, a little volcanic.  His face said, "Something odd is going on in my stomach and I don't like it."  My motherly instincts quickly realised that vomit was imminent and I quickly told Dave, "Tell them to cancel the cake!"  At this point Jacob, who was watching at the door of the room, yelled, "The cake is coming!"

And then Joe's face contorted and his spine did that snake-like movement that provides only seconds warning that stomach contents are on their way up.  With lightning speed I scanned the table to see if there was anything into which he could throw up.  Without a thought my right hand (my left was holding the nursing baby) grabbed the empty water jugged and whipped it under Joseph's chin.  I wasn't fast enough to catch all of the vomit but I was able to catch the majority of the up-chucking.  The rest landed on his pants completely soaking him.

And then the cake arrived and the upbeat song suddenly sounded frantic and Dave ordered, "Just smile and pretend it didn't happen!"  Except that no one heard him.  (Or no one obeyed.)  Ben kept yelling, "Joe threw up!  Joe threw up!"  Joseph had a look of complete devastation on his face as the cake was placed before him and I started to laugh and try to mouth to the servers that the birthday boy had suddenly gotten sick.  The servers didn't read lips and they asked questions like, "Is he OK?  Is he scared by the song?  Did he not like his meal?"

And they just kept singing and I started to laugh as I caught the words to the song:

"It's your birthday and we hope your feeling fine!"

The ESM crew eventually left and Joe sat looking pathetic with a personal chocolate cake and a burnt-out sparkler staring him in the face.

Dave went into clean-up mode and tried to mop things up with baby wipes which he deposited in the water jug (where else?) and then discreetly emptied in the bathroom.  He also took Joe to the bathroom in attempt to complete the clean-up.  Joe, being absolutely soaked, insisted on walking like a stiff mummy in order to avoid rubbing his legs against his jeans.  Dave, being the type who likes to avoid all attention, kept telling him, "Just walk normally."  Joe just looked up with no words but a question in his eyes:  What is normal?

We did make it out of the restaurant with both the birthday boy and his cake.  He recovered so quickly that he was begging to eat his cake only five miles out of town.  I don't know if I have learned anything from this debacle.  At least we can laugh.

p.s.  The kids just piled in the door from school.  Sarah had a bad night last night and thus I woke a little late this morning.  By the time I emerged from the bedroom the kids were already dressed in their outdoor gear.  Thus, it is only now at the end of the day, that I notice that Joseph wore a tie and shirt to school.  With camouflage pants.

Sorry about all the brackets

Oh my, life is busy lately.  Not just full, busy.  Since Sarah's birth (almost 6 months ago) my back has been sending me pink slips in the form of intense pain around the clock.  I kept thinking, "I'll do something about this pain; it hasn't been that long etc. etc."  and then I suddenly realised that I had been saying that for months, not weeks.  So, in the spirit of self-care (catch phrase) and the desire to stand at mass rather than pretend that I am nursing to cover the fact that I need to sit, I decided to contact a chiropractor in Pembroke (an hour away) to deal with my foot injury.

Didn't I say back pain?  Yes, but my foot (in the form of plantar fascitis) still hasn't healed since Isaac's birth.  As a former doctor of mine once said:  "Boy!  You really know how to get on top of things fast."  So, I made the call and showed up for a foot assessment two weeks ago.  The chiropractor quickly determined that my back, namely my poor unstable pelvis, needed to be treated before the foot could even be approached.  (An unapproachable foot, who knew?)

The reason I went with this chiropractor rather than our local one is that the Pembroke doctor has a reputation for 'fixing' things and he has Low Intensity Laser Therapy.  I'm not explaining it, you can look it up if you want.  So,  I arrived for my assessment and ended up with an appointment card that has more ink on it than time slots.  Ouch.  I just finished my first week of driving to Pembroke three times/week; I have to do this for the next 2-3 weeks until the laser sessions are done.  This means that three times a week Dave rushes home from school, I pack Sarah and an obliging sibling in the van, leave some sort of workable supper and drive the hour to Pembroke where I sit for 21 minutes while Sarah gurgles on the examination table and Jacob discusses the merits of laser therapies with the tech.  I then drive the hour back trying not to think about supper and telling Hannah to keep all snacks well away from me.  Inevitably, I take a wrong turn leaving Pembroke as my spatial sense is dismal in the daytime and abysmal at night.  The twins laugh and say, "I'm getting scared," as signs for Petawawa not Barry's Bay begin to appear.  The road also gets darker and darker and Sarah screams louder and louder expressing her mother's feelings exactly.  In fact, my spatial sense is so bad that I repeatedly turn the wrong way out of the exam room at the chiropractor's and end up in hallways marked private.  I need Jacob just to get out of the chiropractic building.

So, a whole lot of gas (and insurance remitting later) my back is already feeling better.  This is in part due to the sacro-iliac belt with which I have been fitted.  You can look that one up, too.  The belt does its job; unfortunately part of its job is to push all of the previously hidden hip fat up, up, up and over the top of the belt into a region that just doesn't wear it that well.  My wardrobe needs to be readjusted; either that or I should stop eating.

There you go:  I am biting the bullet and getting myself all fixed up.  Thankfully, the weather has been more than cooperative:  where is the snow, exactly? and the temps have been sitting at around 15 degrees.  I have played the alphabet and number game with the twins on the drive so many times that the three of us know exactly where three q's and two z's can be found.  Sarah has been remarkably obliging about the entire venture and only cries for the first 45 minutes of the trip back.  Unlike her mother, she has a keen sense of geography and always ceases her pleading once we hit Round Lake.

And there you have the story of our recent daily life in a slightly larger than normal nutshell.

On a slightly less mundane note:  I am trying to remember that Advent is approaching, not just Christmas.  Where are those candles?  Do we have candles?  Joseph's fifth birthday is next Wednesday and I am soon to turn 35.  Wasn't I just 17?

Hannah took first prize in the Legion's Remembrance Day poster contest and Jacob took third in the poetry division.  (Does it mean anything that one of the judges happens to live in close proximity to our house and regularly offers me drives when I'm out exercising?)  Their wins mean that we get to attend "a wee party"  (those are the exact words from the official letter) precisely 10 minutes after I arrive home from laser therapy.  The timing of the event, quickly attended by my motherly whining (How am I going to manage this with a nursing baby?), were quickly quelled when I read the quote at the bottom of the Legion's letterhead:

They served til death.  Why not we?

Touche.

My very first knitting post

My mother has been after me for a while to add some creativity to my life.  Over the years she has sent me cross stitch packages, a lap quilt kit, embroidery books and the list goes on.  I have had very noble plans for all of these motherly gifts.  My mother, after all, is a power house of creativity.  She has a certificate in haute couture from the Richard Robinson Fashion Academy and spent much of my childhood sewing us clothes as well as operating a dressmaking business out of our teensy tiny living room.  I remember many days and nights watching my mom sewing candy-floss pink bridesmaid dresses and dying lace in old tea to try to match the off-white wedding gown that she was sewing for a customer.  Our Christmas tree was, and is, covered in beautiful homemade ornaments and our stockings were never just socks.  I remember craft sales hosted in our living room when we lived in Ottawa; tables laden with crocheted shawls and velveteen hearts to be hung on the tree.

I don't know if she has any idea how much I have admired and appreciated her creativity and, what I consider, amazing abilities.  I have often wondered why I don't just do the same.  Similarly, I have  thought that I could, simply by virtue of being her daughter.  Part of it, I think, is that she sews so well that I never felt that I could start as my attempts would fall miserably flat in comparison to hers.  

However, with the birth of Sarah, my mom began to encourage me to knit.  She had recently rediscovered the needles and yarn and had brought two beautiful blankets for Sarah when she arrived from Halifax in June.  My maternal grandmother was also a prolific knitter.  By prolific I mean that the needles were never far from her reach and she could knit almost anything that she put her mind to.  In fact, her hands (as far as I remember) only held two things:  knitting needles and cigarettes.  We benefitted far more from the former.  Most of the Lynch grandchildren have "Gran" afghans as testimony to her abilities.  My Aunt Sandy jokes that Lynches are conceived and die under afghans.  Gran knit, a lot.   

Perhaps it was inevitable:  knitting is written into my soul;)  (Only to be discovered in my mid-thirties with a house full of children and a need to make something a little more lasting than a bed.)  So, the other day, when I lamented to Dave that I needed to create something other than supper, I finally took my mother up on her knitting suggestion.  I began to knit and, unlike any other endeavour before, I am hooked.  Here are my second and third projects.  Look forward to more.  (Pardon my wistful look:  the wind was blowing and I was trying to keep the ever-present children out of the shot.)

Post Hallowe'en blues

Pictures of mummies, french mimes and ninjas are forthcoming; however, most efforts at, well, anything around these parts have been thwarted by a terrific case of strep throat in the boy about whom I only just boasted to his father had never required antibiotics.  Until Tuesday.  Coupled with my mention of Sarah's sleeping abilities, I am quickly learning that pride comes before a fall, even when it comes to bacterial infections.  

Poor little Joseph.  He hasn't been to school since I don't know when as what started as a stomach flu and cold eventually showed its true colours as the horrible menace that it really is, strep throat.  He arrived home from school some time before Hallowe'en literally collapsing on the step with an, "I need a really big break."  He got what he asked for.

I spent Tuesday in the ER with Joseph and Sarah in toe as our family doctor had no appointments.  Thankfully, Dave was home sick with a head cold (and report cards) and, thus, I could leave Isaac at home with him.  It is times like these that I am so grateful for our small town hospital where, much like Cheers, everybody knows your name.  Neighbours who work at the hospital take one look at the suffering child and produce racing cars, four pencils with basketballs and footballs as erasers and, without asking, purchase water and juice for us at the cafeteria.  There really are good people out there.

We eventually made it home from the ER with a prescription and a boy who couldn't move his neck due to the swelling of his lymph nodes.  In his words:  "My neck is in infinity pain."  We can thank Jacob for his introduction of higher mathematics to his younger brother.  Joe's stiff neck had me terribly worried about meningitis and phone calls were exchanged between mother, daughters and sisters.  Their words reassured me.

By night time Joseph was asleep on the couch and Isaac was screaming in his sleep from the confines of his crib.  I took one look at Dave who said, "I'll go.  I'll bring my report cards with me."  So, off Isaac and Dave went to the ER where they were treated by the same doctor who treated Joseph.  (What kind of hours does this poor guy work?)  

Isaac seems to be on the mend and Joseph revives between doses of Tylenol and Motrin.  I count it as progress when a fight breaks out between brothers.  Jacob thinks that Joseph's crooked, stiff neck is "really cool" and encourages us to look on the bright side, "If he's still like this next year, he can go as the Hunchback of Notredame for Hallowe'en."  Silver linings all around.

An attempt at weekly posting gone awry

The knitting continues; perhaps providing a reason for the decrease in posting?  I finished one scarf for Hannah.  It is interesting and, I imagine, will be something that we look back on with great fondness and humour as we contemplate its lack of integrity from its home in the dress-up box.  The second scarf, however, is a work of tremendous accomplishment.  For a second scarf.  Even the boys want it, despite its colour.  Dave still remains largely indifferent.  And slightly confused as to how his wife is slowly becoming her mother.

It is Monday and I have run almost head first into Hallowe'en.  I must convince Jacob that wearing last year's costume is really a great opportunity to improve on the prior year's efforts rather than an admission that there is nothing else in which to dress but the cut up bed sheet stored lovingly in the ziploc bag.  (My back hurts too much to fix the grammar in that last sentence.)  Thankfully the two little boys are quite excited to dress as ninjas, costumes for which their wardrobes provide the necessary components.  Thank you Youtube.  Hannah said that she is going as herself and I am unconcerned.  Her ability to run the world will surely produce something great for Hallowe'en.  And Isaac is still completely unaware that there is a major holiday on Wednesday and will likely be compliant when asked to wear the lamb or penguin suit.  Sarah will dress as a baby in a sling who read August's post in which her mother, quite stupidly, wrote that she slept through the night.  Ahh, the gods of sleep will have their revenge.  And it will be terrible.

Hannah and other balms to my soul

It is career day at the kids' school today.  Ben dressed up as a carpenter.  He wore a toolbelt with a few of Dave's real tools stuffed in the appropriate slots.  Joseph dressed as a cowboy after asking if it would be OK if he wore a dragon costume.

Jacob is at home after crashing on his kneecap last night following the scaling of a pole in the basement.  Joseph tried to help as best as he could by placing his eldest brother on the couch with a blanket, some ice and a hobby horse to be used as a crutch.  Jacob vetoed the hobby horse and opted for the plasma car as his means of transport.  The plasma car was our birthday gift to Isaac; consequently Jacob has to avoid Isaac as he navigates the house so as to prevent the high-pitched screaming with which Isaac is so gifted.

And, Hannah, dear Hannah, without any prompting, dressed as a mother for career day.  She wore my apron and carried a measuring cup.  She did, however, balk at the idea of carrying a baby doll in a sling.   For any of you who attended my wedding shower, Hannah is wearing the apron that you helped decorate with drawings and cute sayings.  One of the sayings, written by Dave's sister, is:  "Cooking wears me out, Kissin' don't!"  However, over the years the fabric-painted letters have worn to:  "Cooking wears me out, ssin don't!"  I wonder if anyone will notice.

In other news, I have begun to knit after much prompting by my mother.  I finally sat down last night after supper with two needles, a ball of pink yarn and a youtube video.  In no time I was casting on with ease and purling away.  After an hour and 10 rows of stitches I was still at the table with a baby teetering on the edge of real discontent, two children on my lap, three on the table and one computer playing the full musical of Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat (minus the questionable scene with Potiphar and his wife).  If Dave hadn't been present the kitchen would have been in complete disarray and I would probably have moved on to Godspell once Joseph had come to a close.  It is amazing the lengths to which a woman will go in order to create something, if only a long pink rectangle.  Dave called us to the front room for prayers where I put down the needles in order to re-ball the mess of yarn made by Isaac who refused to watch Broadway.  I then sat down in the Lazyboy, put the baby into nursing position and turned on Foyle's War while continuing to knit.  The night was immensely satisfying.  I now understand how creativity routinely trumps housework and why so many children wearing handmade clothes can sing Broadway from memory.

The Sarah Edition

A big photo catch-up

I decided to catch up with a big post of pictures so as to tie up the remains of the summer and head into the fall.  After all, according to the blog, the kids haven't even gone back to school yet.  Trust me, they have.
The above are some dangerously eroding cliffs to whose edges the kids kept going far too close.  I had little time to enjoy the scenery as I was in constant high alert that Isaac and Joseph might at any moment plunge to their deaths.  Somehow at least three of the boys ended up in a timeout on the one bench available for seating.

This is back at the beachhouse.  The grainyness is due to the iPad's inability to take good photos when using the zoom function.

We went to this incredibly awesome restaurant in ?? (anyone remember?).  It was run by a young couple, she from Alberta and he from Australia.  They had converted an old house into a funky eatery with fabulous food; you know, the kind that doesn't come with just fries on the side - more like rolls flavoured with dulse.  The place was so good that Dave and I went back two days later to belatedly celebrate our tenth anniversary.  We decided to pretend that we had only one child and Sarah celebrated with us.  She had milk.  On our first visit we ate outside at picnic tables under the shade of gorgeous old trees.  We had the best seats in the house as it was quite hot and the restaurant, being in Nova Scotia, had no A/C.  Thus, our, and that of the other patrons, dining experience was heightened by our choice of seating.  The place also had two hammocks in the trees under which we ate.  The above is Dave attempting to relax on a vacation without the aid of sheer exhaustion.  Notice the difficulty in relaxing his neck completely...

My sister and I both rode horses in our younger years and it was one of her wishes to go riding while on vacation.  So, we found a trail riding place and took the twins with us.  Jacob was put on the most ornery and recalcitrant horse that I have ever ridden.  (Trust me, I attempted to ride him after Jacob's turn.)  This horse resisted all attempts at steering and insisted on following the rear end of Hannah's mount.  At least they kept smiling, until they started crying.

See my hand:  I am motioning to Dave that my back (only 2.5 months post partem) is in a considerable degree of pain.  My ligaments were as well the next morning.

Back to the frigid waters of the Bay of Fundy.  Ben contemplating the lack of sensation in his feet.

Hannah looking after everyone.

Godmother watching over godson.

Not sure about the face.  What a physique, though.  That chest will one day carry me out of burning houses.  Or at least push my wheelchair.

A brave, brave boy.  Who wishes he had more body fat.

Amazed that brainfreeze is not just caused by ice cream.

Oh, my dear crooked-mouthed little boy.  Your cry endears me.

Especially when it ends quickly.

The view of our glorious location on the road in to the beachhouse.  The house was located in the woods on the right and the two bodies of water are the Bay of Fundy and the tidal pool in which we swam.  Those are also the woods to which we almost set fire.  Imagine the devastation...

We finally came home and Isaac turned two.  I licked the icing in an attempt to stay gluten-free.  Pathetic, I know.  Jacob has begun to pray that I will no longer have to be gluten-free except that he pronounces gluten as glutton and thus the prayer suddenly has far graver implications.

Dave's parents turned 70 this year and celebrated their 40th wedding anniversary.  We along with Dave's sister hosted a BBQ/reunion at the farm.  Here are my in-laws showcasing another cake of which I licked the icing.  The BBQ was great and the best part was all the second cousins running around together.  They were all equally wild (well, some a little more than others) - Tanya, yours were some of the politest and sweetest kids that I have ever met.  Jacob decided that his best friends are now these boy cousins and the others are waiting for the next reunion.

And then Fr. Mike came to visit and we went to Algonquin Park where trees are the main showpieces.  No cake, no icing at the Park.

Fr. Mike thanking God for a celibate vocation.

Small town life

Small town life can be both a blessing and a curse.  Although I was raised in a smallish city, I can empathise with those who want to flee the confines of their dot on the map as well as though who prefer to venture no farther.  I often wonder how my kids will feel when their adulthood arrives.  However, if you can hack it, there is a lot of humour to be found in small town living.  Even when you happen to be the topic of gossip.

But first the blessing.  I was at the grocery store yesterday with two kids in the double jogger and one walking beside me.  I often do this when I need to pick up a few last minute items.  In fact, I once heard myself referred to as that lady with the big stroller ... who's always walking.  At the cash I got talking with a retired teacher from the kids' school.  She looked at the stroller and asked for my address so that she could drive my two bags home.  I welcomed the offer and arrived home to find both bags waiting beside the front door.  There is something very comforting about such care.

However, before I arrived home, I hollered a hello across the highway to a friend waiting at the chip truck.  She motioned wildly indicating for me to stop.  Then, two year old in hand, she stood at the side of the road and yelled, "I hear that you're pregnant."  Except, instead of saying pregnant, she made a ballooning motion in front of her stomach.  I responded, "Really?  I didn't realise that we were having a seventh.  Have you talked to Dave?"  "So you're not?" she yelled.  "Not today anyway.  Let this one grow up a little."  After a bit more questioning she told me that someone at her work had told her the big news.  I don't even know anyone at her work.  I told her to spread the opposite rumour.

I have resolved to do more stomach crunches.

Another Story

 Oh, my.  Am I ever behind in the blogging department.  I hadn't realised that it had been 10 days since I last posted and I still haven't finished documenting our August vacation.  I have good reason, though. I just returned from a trip to Halifax with baby Sarah where I witnessed the perpetual vows of my younger sister, Martha/Sr. Ilaria.  It was a very quick trip (Sat.-Tues.) but it was well worth it.  My uncle Simon from London, England came for the vows and the tiring nature of the trip was definitely paid back by the time I got to spend with this uncle.  I will post some pictures of the vows once my mom sends me her photos.  So, back to August.

One of the delights of the beach house was that we were able to have nightly bonfires at the seaside.  The first few nights my father lit these fires; but on the last, as dad had left for Romania, Dave headed down to the beach in order to set the blaze.  I don't know if there is anything so enjoyable as a bonfire for young children.  The prospect of surviving on little else than marshmallows, hotdogs and a few chips thrown in just because your Grandma says so is, well, enviable.  And, truthfully, I don't think that I have ever eaten so many roasted marshmallows at one sitting.  I believe that my dad saw it as his nightly mission to keep the nursing mother well stocked with sticky sweetness.

 At the moment I am blogging on the front porch and the lighting is causing me to see more of my reflection in the computer than the actual pictures which I have chosen.  Thus, I sure hope that you are looking at a picture of a bonfire or a potential one rather than one of me nursing (of which Hannah took many).  Back to the bonfires.  On one side of the bonfire was the real ocean and on the other side (see above picture) was a tidal pool that would fill up like a salt water lake at high tide.  What you can see is low tide.  On the last night of the vacation, when Dave lit the ill-fated bonfire, it was high tide.

 Yes, Jacob figures in this story.  Dave headed down to the beach a little early and by the time I arrived his fire was roaring ... as only a country boy with something to prove can do.  Unfortunately, the wind was also roaring.  I exited the bush and was greeted by copious amounts of smoke blowing in all directions.  (The wind in Nova Scotia has the unique ability of blowing in more than one direction.)  It was then that I remembered the sign outside of the municipal hall on the county road.  It had a little arrow pointing to various colours indicating the dryness of the surrounding countryside and thus the risk of forest fire.  Before my days living in the country I would have completely ignored this sign.  Luckily, however, I have spent the past decade in the sticks and have begun to pay attention to these signs.  There is one on the road into our town and it had been indicating a fire ban the entire summer due to the drought.  Now, I knew that there was also a drought in N.S.;  but I am so used to thinking of that province as wet that a drought there seemed laughable.

When greeted by the smoke I said, "Do you think that maybe we should put out the fire?  It seems a little windy and I think that there is a fire ban on."  (Yes, we sound extremely irresponsible.)  It was around this point that someone noticed that the large pieces of driftwood surrounding the fire and acting as benches had caught fire.  The members of my family to whom I am blood related began to both panic and laugh while Dave remained silent and cool.  Someone said, "Quick, get a bucket or something!!"

(No, Hannah did not fly a kite during the event; I just liked this picture.)  The little boys, Joe and Ben, ran back up to the house to find buckets.  They quickly arrived back at the beach with the smallest buckets possible.  They might have successfully doused a match with what they had found.  I was looking around for sand to throw on the flames; however, the beach was entirely composed of small rocks which, in the circumstances, were quite useless.  The wind kept on blowing and I began to worry that sparks would fly into the bush which was only metres away. (Oh, yes - that's why I included the above picture:  proximity of bush to fire.)  I thought, "This is how forest fires start:  idiots start them.  I didn't know we were idiots.  I had suspected that we had traces of idiocy but now I know the truth.  We finally have a vacation and now we burn down both the bush and the house.  I'm so embarrassed.  Why does everything have to end this way?..."  I tend to catastrophise.  Dave's thought process was probably more like, "There is a fire.  I will put it out.  There is no need to worry.  What is wrong with her family?"

And then there was Jacob.  Man of action.  Boy who will save the day ... or at least make an attempt.  Jacob is that particular brand of intellectual who, while possessing an inordinate amount of intelligence, tends to fall slightly short in the common sense department.  While the little boys responded to, "Quick, get something to put the fire out!!", with pathetically small buckets, Jacob took things one step farther.

He put himself on the line, sacrificing himself for the greater cause.  He remained calm, cool and collected.  He ran to the water where he plunged his head into the icy saltiness and filled his mouth with the Atlantic.  He then hurried back to the fire and emptied the contents of his mouth onto the flames.  He then repeated this process over and over again until the fire began to ... remain exactly as it was.  It was my mother who noticed Jacob's interesting attempt at volunteer firefighting.  Dave looked puzzled as he watched his firstborn and asked, "What are you doing?".  I, on the other hand, understood exactly what Jacob was doing and felt somewhat proud.  The rest of the family just looked on in pee-inducing laughter. Never before had I witnessed such a charming yet completely useless attempt to put out a fire.  His elephant-like attempts at flame dousing warmed my heart and did the same to the flames.

And that's the end of the story.  Dave, despite the family into which he has married, put out the fire.  I believe that he first cleared the area of us before he was able to make any headway.  He even checked the beach a few times before bed to make sure that all was well.  Jacob, on the other hand, felt no need to brush his teeth that night ... or for a few nights thereafter.

A quick story

 I promised some stories in my last post; so, I have chosen to start with the one illustrated by these photos.  During the last few weeks of August we were privileged to vacation with my parents and younger sister at a beautiful beach house in Parrsboro, N.S.  Parrsboro is on the Bay of Fundy (world's highest tides) and boasts many natural attractions including acres and acres of blueberry fields.  The beach house was a last minute booking and thus my dad was only able to stay the first few days before he had to make an early departure to accompany a group of students to Romania.  These photos were taken as the beloved Grandpa was bidding adieu.  Above is Grandpa finishing the loading of the vehicle while Joseph walks over for a hug.

 And then I ask all the kids to gather around for one last photo with their grandpa.  They begin to arrive.      Notice that Joseph has something in his hand that he is putting in his mouth.  At the time I didn't notice this.

 Notice that everyone is smiling like good photo kids while Joseph is missing his characteristic grin.  In fact, he seems to be turning in towards his grandpa in a considerable amount of pain mixed with, What have I done?

And that's where the photos end because a mother must relinquish the camera when one of her children begins to scream in agony because he has a fishing bobber (see below) attached to his lip.  Sorry that the picture is so big but the size is illustrative as one can see that there is a little spring-action hook inside the top red attachment.  Thankfully this hook is not a barbed fishing hook. Thankfully I deduced very quickly that it was spring-loaded and thus easy to release.  Thankfully it had been sterilised by sea water...  (a minute possibility). Thankfully Joe's tetanus shot is up to date.

Because Anne-Marie K. told me to post pictures...

 These pictures are all teasers:  they have stories behind them or, umm, in front of them - meaning they indicate stories yet to come.  The above, though, is simply Hannah on duty; which she seems to be, a lot.

 And there's my sister whom I once held just like Hannah and Sarah in the first picture.  Except I was a lot chubbier and darker.

 Sarah:  yes, she still exists.  My MIL says that Sarah looks just like me in this picture.  I'm not so sure.  She actually reminds me more of my sisters.

 There is a real story behind this one.  If I forget to tell it, remind me.

 Yup, we went somewhere very windy and I attempted a blogger profile shot but blogger won't let me change my photo.  Consequently, I am destined to be forever pregnant.

Hannah having a moment's rest.  See, we do let her off duty.