Warning: if you're squeamish, avoid photos 6 and 12!

Hannah, dear Hannah, I could write an ode to this dear daughter of ours.  She is five months short of twelve years old and in a delightful stage of adolescence.  She has a very strong sense of self, a good and practical handle on life, and a wonderful ability not to take herself too seriously.  She is also entering that point in girlhood when hair starts to take on a greater purpose.  Thus, we have begun to experiment with something other than the ponytail - I introduce you to the side braid.  (Is that what it's called?)  I spent this point in my youth with hair cut as short as a boy's.  Consequently, my braiding abilities are slightly challenged.  Together, though, we can learn.

I don't think that I can mention Hannah without noting how incredibly willing she is to serve others.  In fact, two of Hannah would be most useful.

These photos of Thanksgiving are old, but I only just found them in a hidden folder on the iPad.  A wonderful discovery, indeed.  Their quality is poor, but hopefully they convey the chaos, umm, joy that was Thanksgiving.  We hosted 7 adults and 15 children.  It was ... loud.  I don't know if loud is how the kids would qualify it, though.  You see, all but one of the adults come from families of four kids or less (my dear friend Sarah is one of eight children).  Therefore, it is really only Sarah who is used to such wild and raucous family gatherings.  (Perhaps Jenna is as well as she has a very large extended family.)  Our kids, on the other hand, have known nothing other than many, many children.  I imagine that our children are developing different filters than we did in order to live out family life. I can't help but wonder at how utterly different their experience is than ours.  As one friend of mine once commented, "I grew up in a sedate book club."  I don't think that is the way our children will recall their formative years.

Here is Hannah surrounded by two of the four K family sisters.  Hannah and Rebecca (on Hannah's left) could be mistaken for sisters.  Dave sometimes wonders about genetic lines...

And on a totally different subject:  Benjamin at the ER again.  Poor docile, peaceful and obliging Ben.  He has more than twice the number of stitches than any other sibling.  I think that his peaceful nature is actually key to his injury rate:  he has an uncanny knack of intercepting most of the objects thrown by his slightly more wild siblings... Jacob and Joe, I'm looking at you.

Nevertheless, this latest laceration had nothing to do with his brothers.  Rather, he fell off the couch and landed with such force on the hardwood floor that he split his chin wide open.  The ER nurse told him he needed a better story, "Maybe something to do with hockey, Ben?"

Lest we forget Hallowe'en - here they are.  I love this first photo because Joseph looks like he's in the middle of a beheading.  How he has never been to the ER in need of stitches or casting is beyond me.

Ben is dressed as a hockey player (complete with a black eye and stitches); Isaac is a dragon; Hannah is a black cat (see below for greater detail); Joseph is a knight; Sarah is Sarah; and Jacob is a member of the Press.  Jacob's real costume was reserved for school:  he dressed as his father, Mr. Afelskie, the gr. 8 teacher.  Jacob wore Dave's uniform:  dress pants, dress shirt, a tie, keys around his neck, glasses, pens in shirt pocket and running shoes.  His classmates and teachers knew exactly who he was the minute he took off his winter coat.

I love Hannah's costume.  I think that it's the stripes that I find so appealing; I can never get enough of a nautical theme.

My friend Anne-Marie and I decided to take three of our children to Pembroke for the day last week.  That means we took a four year old, a three year old and a two year old.  This was not a good idea.  It required far too many bathroom breaks, large amounts of Timbits, and extra-strength Tylenol on the part of at least one mother.  It was, however, somewhat bonding.

Also, the three little ones got to enjoy the ride-on cars at the mall.  We even inserted the required coins and let them experience the full effect of the vibrating motor boat and the shaky helicopter.  Unfortunately all three children were under the false belief that their mothers were bottomless sources of loonies and toonies.  Their eventual disappointment led to more Timbits and copious use of handheld devices.  Bad mommies.

Don't say I didn't warn you.  On the drive back from Pembroke, I asked Anne-Marie if she wanted a tour of the farm.  It just happened to be hunting season and guess what was hanging in the driveway of Dave's parents' house.  Guessing shouldn't prove difficult.  Isaac was slightly traumatized as the full meaning of hunting season hit him square between the eyes.  On the drive back home we realized that he thought the deer was still alive.  We assured him that the deer was, in fact, dead; he was only slightly less confused.  Despite the trauma, Isaac is very forgiving of his grandfather:  it is very easy for little boys to forgive grandfathers who possess many items of heavy machinery.

He eventually recovered.

I'm a very bad blogger

 I am, I really, really am.  I wish that I updated daily, or even weekly, for that matter.  However, time really does seem to run away on me.  I mean, look, Joseph is losing teeth - was he not yet a year old when I started this blog?

 These two pictures sort of tell the tale of who Joseph is:  look at the delight in those eyes.  And look at the fact that the stove actually says HI, as if Joseph is trying to greet you with both his body language and the large appliances in the room.  (Sorry, the sidebar is hiding the stove display that says HI because the broiler is set to high...)
Joseph has a bit of  speech impediment for which he is receiving therapy.  The absence of his front tooth hasn't helped his enunciation at all.  Dave said that Joe read out some of the prayer intentions at the school's Remembrance Day assembly, "He whistled his way through them, Elena."  One friend of mine is so endeared by Joseph's speech that she begged me not to send him to speech therapy.  While I agree that a six year old who speaks with a slight New York accent and a few marbles in his mouth is cute, it doesn't bode well for his future; thus, speech therapy.

 I found this photo on the iPad.  Dave and I had retreated to the front room and instructed the four oldest to clean the kitchen "like Mom and Dad would".  (That last part was a threat.)  They did, eventually.  However, they also took pictures.
Just great, eh?  I don't know if the water photo was a fortunate accident or if they were staging "photos taken just before disaster strikes".  (There is a website devoted to such pictures, you know.)  On another note, it's amazing how bananas seem to be a leif motif in most of our family photos.

I don't really know how to describe this shot.  Now that I really look at it, I have begun to wonder what exactly happened to those noodles.  Last night I threw a bunch of leftover rice noodles into the supper's chicken noodle soup:  were the noodles one in the same?
I am going to try and post more, if only to capture some of the funny things that these incredible children say on a daily basis.  For example, while driving in Pembroke the other night, Jacob began to  extol my virtues.   In an attempt to try and remove myself from the lofty pedestal onto which he had placed me, I said, "You know, Jacob, I really do love money."  Jacob burst out laughing and replied, "Boy, Mom, I bet that sounded a lot better in your head."
Ben has long been the quiet, more contemplative of the children.  (I was remarking to Dave that perhaps the word contemplative is really a mother's loving way of describing a child who doesn't think about much!)  So, I am always surprised when Ben's sense of humour bursts through.  It is quirky and reminds me of his maternal grandfather's.  The other day I was describing some sort of crazy plan that I had in mind and Ben looked at me, raised his eyebrows and said in a french accent, "That, Mother, sounds a leetle 'ca c'est fou fou'."
And to end this ramble?  Isaac has been attending classes an average of two days per week.  He consistently leaves in outdoor boots and arrives home in indoor shoes.  Just last week his teacher asked me if I could come in to pick up four sets of footwear that he had tucked into his cubby:  one pair of crocs, two pairs of rubber boots and a nice pair of leather shoes.  Ben is still keeping an eye on his younger brother on the playground and regularly makes sure that Isaac comes home with his backpack.  The other day, Ben reported that he witnessed Isaac engaged in some extraordinary behaviour.
"Umm, Mom, " said Ben, "I saw Isaac playing puppies on the schoolyard."
"Oh, that's cute,"  I responded.
"No, Mom, he was nursing from a little girl called Daisy."
My eyebrows rose as quickly as my heart rate, "Did anybody see?"
"No, it was the end of the day and I stopped them."
"Tell me they were wearing jackets?"
Ben assured me that they were and I spoke to Isaac about appropriate schoolyard play.
I imagine that I would have laughed had I overheard the admonition:  "Isaac, you must never ever nurse people at school..."  I mean, where do I go from there?