Country rink photo shoot

Oooooh! Aaaaaaaah! Snow removal. . .

Captivated.
It only took one enormous orange snow tractor, trailed by 9 multi-coloured dump trucks to do it. Even I was hooked.

Wood Stove

We have a wood stove! No upstairs windows-- but we have a wood stove! More than any other development thus far, this one has made me feel most at home in this place. I feel it is a bit premature for me to wax and wane about something with which I have little experience. But I will gladly let someone else do it:

The wood stove offers much more than warmth. It creates an atmosphere that high-tech gas logs with a press-of-the-button remote control can’t come close to achieving. The welcome smell of wood smoke (sometimes a whole roomful on damp evenings before the chimney starts drawing properly), the snap and pop from dry kindling or a misplaced cedar log, the radiating heat and even the ashes have their place in the whole ambiance of heating with wood.

Boy Scouts and old salts love wood stoves almost as much as whittling on sticks with their pocket knives. Cutting firewood in the forest, sawing logs, splitting, hauling and stacking cut wood, even hauling it from the wood pile or garage to the wood box bring a measure of pleasure.

Tinkering with the damper on the stovepipe and setting the draft control to get a long, hot, efficient burn all add up to a rewarding experience, a real throwback to bygone days of pioneers who kept the fires burning to ward off winter’s chill.

As I turn off the room light and settle back in my easy chair, I quickly get lost in the hypnotic dance of the flames flickering through the isinglass. Thoughts of inflated fuel prices and brutal windchills drift away leaving only the cozy smell of woodsmoke lingering in the air. The stove’s radiant glow warms my feet, my face and the whole room offering comforting reassurance that all is good with the world.

-Tim Sweet- WNR Magazine-

Heart Day

"What's Valentine's Day?" Caelah asked me, sometime late January.
"It's just another excuse for a party," I replied.

And it is. We don't love one another a little more on Valentine's Day. We just allow our love to be manifested in shades of red and pink for one day, and sweeten the deal with lots of chocolate. I used to love writing up Valentine's for my classmates, thoughtfully assigning each card to the most appropriate person. I can't give Patrick the one that says; I love you Valentine, because then he'll think I do love him. And I do, of course. He just can't know that.

Caelah and I worked as a team on her Valentine's this year. She helped me glue important bits where they belonged, and painstakingly signed her name 25 times. (Good thing she only has six letters to pen---I had 8!) We popped them each into an envolope with a chocolate heart, making sure that her teacher and bus driver each got one too. It was fun. But it was even more fun to look over her own stash when she got home. They were beautiful! I was thrilled to see how many were handmade.

That evening, true to my word, we had a party. Some friends and their three little munchkins arrived from across town, despite the snow blizzard and traffic, bearing beautiful tulips and chocolate cake. We all piled around our tiny kitchen table in our tiny kitchen, improvising where we had to, (we had more bums than seats, thus, temporarily employed an old wooden chest). We munched on fajitas. Chatted over the noise. And then . . . we went skating. "We are hardy folk," is the way Melissa put it. Or crazy. That's up for debate.

Four adults; two teeter-tottery girls on teeny tiny skates; two little boys, non-skaters, and disgruntled about it; and two tired toddlers were to be bundled and strapped into three different strollers. At the last minute Aidan and I decided to take remove Gabriel from the equation, after having begged a favour of my sister, who promised to keep an ear out for him while he slept. One down, 9 to go.

The skate was surprisingly smooth and comfortable heading South. The girls skittered along, Janika more gracefully than Caelah, and the stroller-bound bambinos didn't rebel. But then we turned around. The snow came at us horizontally. Right into our eyes. The children began to lose some of their cooperative spirit, and the going was slow. But we made it. And were rewarded.

Back home, there was hot cider on the stove, and chocolate cake on the table. The noise level was markedly lower upon returning, now that the kiddoes bellies were full, and their energy dampened. It was so nice to end the day warm, well fed, and in good company. A good good day. Good for the belly. Good for the heart.

Look like a full table? Now add three more adults and one more baby.

My Valentine's gift from Aidan: A hardcover book full of our wedding photos!

Food

I just wanted to invite any of you who cook to have a look at a new blog I started:

http://flavourswap.blogspot.com

I am hoping to have many, many contributors who will join me in swapping recipes, and reporting back about successes and failures. Any suggested creative culinary twists, are also welcome.
Any of you who would like to post recipes, just give me permission to add you as a contributor.

Update

It looks like our little guy is on the road to tonsil removal. Apparently the high fevers are an unhappy symptom of strep throat. And Gabriel seems to be having chronic infections. The doctor said that what we are likely in for is a year of this: Fevers, antibiotics and general misery, until CHEO deems it serious enough to operate.
So, boo for the misery ahead. But yeah for a textbook illness, rather than a mysterious ailment.
Oh, motherhood . . .
Thank you, thank you, and thank you all for the love.

Sick

We need prayer.
Gabriel is a ball of fire. We have been trying to beat back his fevers for days now, and even medicine doesn't seem to be doing it. At 2:00 a.m. I ran a cool bath, and Gabriel and I tried to bathe away the worst of the fever, but it crept back up in no time. And then the hullucinations... If any of you have ever witnessed someone in the grip of a night terror, you can attest to the unsettling nature of them. Gabriel had finally settled beside our bed, and we all drifted off. Suddenly I heard whimpering and saw him on all fours scuttling backwards across the floor. He was frantic, looking up and down and behind him. Even once we held him, he would spasm and look all around joltingly with huge eyes. I was half expecting to see something hovering in the air. We just prayed and prayed and prayed that it was only a nightmare. Eventually I had to hold him in my arms until we both fell asleep.

This would be less worrisome if it had not been re-occuring every few weeks. But it has, since Christmas. Fever and fever after fever. And having a child on fire is heart wounding. How much longer can his little brain be overheated until he suffers brain damage? Has he already? How much can a little body take? I have absolutely no faith in the medical system. We have had one clueless doctor after another stuff him with antibiotics, and refer to their prescriptions as "fishing" for a cure to his ailments. At times like these I overflow with rejoicing for a faith beyond Man.

Please pray that we can get to the bottom of this. That a competent doctor would come our way. And if not, that his body would heal on it's own. And most importantly, pray that our faith in the Great Physician would remain ever steady.

Snow days

Happy days. Cold enough for ice and snow, but not cold enough for frostbite and human hybernation. Yeah! Yesterday morning, Aidan and I got the entire brood dressed for the snow and headed outside, all before the ripe hour of 8:00 a.m. Caelah burrowed (...into an elaborate "fort" co-built during bus waits by she and daddy.) Elijah shoveled. And Gabriel sat. He seemed pleased just to be there.
We went out under the guise of "seeing Caelah off." But really, we had big plans. The moment we saw her little pink hat disappear from view on the big yellow bus, we strapped the boys into the stroller and headed to the canal for our first skate together of the season. Had Caelah known we were going skating, she never would have stepped onto that bus. These tactics will grow stale soon. She's too bright.

Perfect skating conditions: warm enough for light dressing, few people sharing the ice with us, smooth ice, and big fat snowflakes falling from the sky. The kind that land in perfect condition--tiny little ice stars clinging to our clothes. It also marked an initiation-- Gabriel's first "skate." Just another link in the chain of our canal saga. Aidan and I LOVE the place.

We courted on the ice. At the beginning, we skated hand-in-hand over and over and over again. Often, Aidan would skate backwards for ten minutes at a time so he could look me in the face as we skated, and it felt like we were dancing. We would speak about our plans and hopes between glides, and continue the chats over beer at a pub nearby, our cheeks rosy, and our hair all amess.

The canal was to be the site of our engagement. Aidan had wanted to lead me to Patterson Creek-- a tiny alcove of ice off the main canal. A perfect place. But I, not knowing his intentions, and deeply upset by the day's events, obstinately refused to go skating that evening. So he settled for a bench across from the Parliament buildings. No putting him off.

Since then, we have not lived more than four blocks from the canal. Caelah was bundled into a stroller at two weeks of age and taken onto the ice. Then came Elijah, and the push to buy a double stroller so that he too could join our skates. And now, with Gabriel, we must be more creative.
Soon, we will move away. Far beyond our comfortable four block canal radius. But we'll be back. And our little fledglings will be skating on their own, discovering the joys of ice for themselves.

Home & Whole

What a rush!
The alarm went off at 5:30 a.m on Saturday, and we simply threw the bags in the trunk and took off. The air was bitingly frigid as we got into the car, but we pushed the thought aside for the drive. I would be lying if I said it was a peaceful journey. There was no traffic, and the scenery was beautiful, but I was so nervous that I made my stomach hurt. A sense of foreboding had taken up residence in my gut. The closer we got, the higher the hills that dotted the horizon. And by the time we pulled up, I had convinced myself we were about to ski Everest.

Well, it wasn't Everest, but the rooky Ottawa girl was awed, just the same. From start to finish Tremblant was a novelty. First, the place was run like a well-lubed machine. The flow was fantastic. Even the longest lineups at the lifts were relatively quick to get through. Second, the scale. . . BIG! The main lift up to the top was called a "gondola": An enclosed capsule with two bench seats that could accommodate up to 8 people. I came to deeply appreciate this piece of ingenuity when the cold really set it. As for the slopes themselves, they seemed never-ending. Had you strung four Edelweiss runs one behind the other, they would still not have equalled the length of a Tremblant run. They took fifteen minutes to get down. I believe we only managed 8 runs over the five hours we were skiing.

The weather, unfortunately, was prohibitively coooooooooold! We did happen to go on a ridiculously cold day, but the wind that hit the top of the mountain must make even mild days chilly. We made the mistake of trying some of the runs on the North side of the mountain and had to endure a wind blasted ride up the hill on an exposed chair lift. But that's not all. I haven't mentioned the fog yet. At one point, one side of the hill was completely coverd in a dense fog that reduced visibility to perhaps five feet. We avoided those runs altogether, but it was mesmerizing to watch skiers disappear into the sunlit fog one after the other.

The scenery. . . I have been to BC, so I can't say that these were most majestic views I had every beheld, but they were breathtaking nonetheless. Obvious beauty was found in the hills themselves. Once you reach the top, you have a panoramic view of alpine hills spread a far as the eye can see. A less obvious source of beauty was the snow encrusted trees lining the slopes. The hill is riddled with snow-making machines. Much of the snow misses it's mark, coating the evergreens with a thick layer of white. Certain chairlifts swept us passed stands of heavy white pines that looked like they had been transplanted from a winter faery tale.
Despite the initial intimidation, Aidan and I held our own fairly well. Mind you, we weren't taking many risks. We did not stray from the intermediate runs at all. The few encounters we did have with a black diamond portion of trail left us on our behinds. I have no idea how people tackle powder moguls, but it is not a skill I have yet aquired. I was very impressed by my husband's skiing abilities. I trailed behind him for the most part and watched him execute tight, perfectly parallel turns. Following along, I imitated him, and actually fine-tuned my technique just by observation. I had eight fifteen minute self-instructed ski lessons, and reached the bottom a better skiier each time.

We set out for a dose of exhilaration, and found it. Now we are back to the grind with sick kids and work to do. But these things are our life. The mountains and small thrills in between are just a bonus.

Five years

Aidan and I have been married for five years now. Five years. It is incredible how much living happens in five years. "With ease," I keep saying. But I am well aware that the "ease" of which I speak is, in fact, God's hand of blessing upon us. He has granted us five years of calm seas. No trials or tribulations, only blessing. And, like a squirrel, I have been mentally storing up the memories of God's graciousness throughout these years so that I might reflect upon them, and draw from them, when harder times come upon us. It is a certainty they will.

How do two people celebrate five years of marriage? A funny concept, really, since every day marks new reasons to rejoice. The occasion, however, does offer us an excuse to do something we rarely can afford to do. Dinner out? No. Night at a hotel? No. We are going to launch ourselves down the biggest ski hill around: Tremblant. Neither of us have spent much time skiing, but we are passably able. One of my goals this winter is to learn how to get down a bunny hill on a snowboard. I have a narrow window of opportunity before another baby comes along. That will have to happen closer to home though. Tremblant is intimidating to begin with, let alone hurtling down it with both feet strapped to a board.

So, here's to five years. Think of us. Pray we arrive home exhilarated and un-concussed.

Little sinner

This creature is responsible for three consecutive nights of near complete sleep depravation. I have calcualted an average of 3 to 4 hours a night. And counting . . . Yes, he looks harmless, but really, he is trying hasten our expiration.
Gabriel is 11 months old. A teeny tiny little person. But he is already so evidently a fallen little being. Two days ago, I had my first startling taste of his capacity to sin. Baby-barnacle, I have recently dubbed him, was inhibiting my progress on lunch preparations. When I put him down on the kitchen floor, he proceeded to clench his little fists, jut out his chest, and roar in my general direction. I stopped to look his way, and he looked me in the eye, roaring again with so much force it made him tremble.
And that's not all. Once I finally retrieved him, he grabbed a fist full of my hair and yanked, emitting a growl, as if to say; "So there."
This fills me with dread. What will he become? Just a reminder to you all, our little bitty sinners need praying for. Oh, and their parents need praying for too, because the good and righteous path becomes far more difficult to navigate in a fog.

Flickering flame & Moonlit faces

I do realize that this post follows on the heels of another, which reflected upon the importance of things. But here's the thing. We just purchased a new camera, and it will certainly make things more interesting around here. My first photo: In the dark. No flash. No tripod. Beautiful. My favourite things are those that shine out of the darkness: Flickering flame & moonlit faces. These things were completely impossible to capture with the camera we had been using. Now, they stand a chance of being trapped on my lense.

Truth be told, I feel there was a wee bit of self indulgence involved. But I also feel an enormous desire to run out and capture our world in this lense, and see it reflect itself back at me so that I can learn from it.

We are thankful for what we have. And what we have will not be wasted.

Clay bowl

A man made his way across a lonely landscape. His feet were bare and caked with dust. His clothes were worn and tattered. In his arms he carried the only three items he could call his own: A bowl made of clay, a silver spoon and a rusty hunting knife. He came upon a creaky bridge, and as he crossed it, the silver spoon slipped from his grasp and was lost in the whirling water below. "Oh, my knife! Gone forever!" He continued on, holding his remaining possessions closer than before. He passed into a deep forest. It wasn't long before a monkey swooped down out of a tree and snatched his silver spoon from his hands. As the monkey disappeared in the treetops the man cried, "Oh, my spoon, lost to me also!" The bowl, he clung to with all his might, folding it into his garments so that it stayed close to his skin. However, he came to a broken wall, over which he had to climb. As he picked his way carefully across the boulders, his clay bowl slipped from his grasp and shattered on the stone. The man paused. No move he made. And then, with his head thrown back and his arms raised to the sky he hollered, "Free!." And he carried on, with a bounce in his step and his arms swinging.

I don't remember where I heard it before, or even the details of how it was told, but the essence of this parable stuck with me. The weight and responsibility of things can be so tiring. On occasion, the life of a pilgrim has appealed to me. Hold on to the ones you love, and go. . . leave everything else behind. I have never worked out the how or where of this scenario. But the idea is still exhilarating. No ties to anything but one another.
The Acts church did it. They sold everything they had and gave it to the ministry, and to support one another. In today's reality, however, love would, likely, only get you so far in this climate, and then you would either have to become dependant on social assistance, or freeze to death in the snow. What's the balance? How do we become people freed of our proverbial clay bowls?
Aidan and I spent the Lord's day with a family who is about to do just that. They, and their six boys are heading off to Africa to train up local men to become pastors. In their wake, they will leave behind everything. And I mean everything. We were taken on a tour of their empty house, and offered the last of their furniture and appliances. The boys will be allowed to fill one small suitcase apiece. No bikes, no skates, no stuffed bears.
This same family followed us to our building site later in the day, and toured our home-to-be. They loved it. Offering it high praise, and hinting that this would be the place they come on furlough. Surely the awkwardness this situation presented is evident to you. While this couple was in the midst of purging themselves of all of their wordly posessions, Aidan and I were equally as busy compiling our own.
Mercifully, it wasn't long before we were offered this little gem; "We have been greatly blessed by wealthy friends who's wealth is their ministry. Everything they own is given in hospitality and fellowship." You have much? Then give much. The more I meditate on this the more I understand. God has given us all clay bowls. Those of us who cling to our bowl until our knuckles turn white will never find peace. But those of us who hold on lightly, treating it as a thing to be passed around, will be just as the man who's own bowl slipped out of his fingers to the ground: Free.

Tradition

These are the holiday traditions that belong to me and my family:

Saint Nick's gift exchange, spent with Aidan's extended family. This involves lots of poetry, the presence of a "real" Saint Nick, (the orator of said poetry), and the result is much word garbling and laughter.

The Christmas Play: Always perfect in it's imperfection. This year, Elijah was a sheep who wanted to be lost. He tore away from the flock to get to Daddy at the far end of the sanctuary, and despite the head shepherd's best efforts, remained lost. A different end to the parable we all know.
Christmas Eve with the Van Dyk's: Rare visits with Aunt Stasia and Uncle Evan, who always come bearing great loot for the kids. Delicious Christmas bread: sticky and sweet and always polished off. An array of gourmet cheeses and tapenades. Orange peel tricks and sparking flames. Games, along with a healthy dose of family competition. (See Einstein Riddle below) And carol singing around the piano. The enjoyment of which I seem to forget from year to year, but rediscover after the first piano chord.

Einstein's Riddle

---

ALBERT EINSTEIN'S RIDDLE

ARE YOU IN THE TOP 2% OF INTELLIGENT PEOPLE IN THE WORLD? SOLVE THE RIDDLE AND FIND OUT.

There are no tricks, just pure logic, so good luck and don't give up.

1. In a street there are five houses, painted five different colours.
2. In each house lives a person of different nationality
3. These five homeowners each drink a different kind of beverage, smoke different brand of cigar and keep a different pet.

THE QUESTION: WHO OWNS THE FISH?

HINTS

1. The Brit lives in a red house.
2. The Swede keeps dogs as pets.
3. The Dane drinks tea.
4. The Green house is next to, and on the left of the White house.
5. The owner of the Green house drinks coffee.
6. The person who smokes Pall Mall rears birds.
7. The owner of the Yellow house smokes Dunhill.
8. The man living in the centre house drinks milk.
9. The Norwegian lives in the first house.
10. The man who smokes Blends lives next to the one who keeps cats.
11. The man who keeps horses lives next to the man who smokes Dunhill.
12. The man who smokes Blue Master drinks beer.
13. The German smokes Prince.
14. The Norwegian lives next to the blue house.
15. The man who smokes Blends has a neighbour who drinks water.

ALBERT EINSTEIN WROTE THIS RIDDLE EARLY DURING THE 19th CENTURY. HE SAID THAT 98% OF THE WORLD POPULATION WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO SOLVE IT.

(Guess who solved it? My super smart husband did! It didn't take him long, either.)

Be on the lookout for this logo. Aidan and Colin will make a famous beer brew one of these days and it will appear in glasses just like this, maybe in their own pub! Colin made these particular glasses for us.

Christmas Night & Day: Sqeezing everyone into the Millar household for the night. This means that 11 people are divided into three bedrooms. This year the men all piled into the master bedroom at the front of the house, and accordingly slept peacefully the whole night through. The rest of us . . . attended to a crying baby and a coughing girl from 3:00 a.m until dawn. Who cares. It's just one night.

The day always begins early in our family. This year, due to sleep deprivation, we actually made it to 7:00 a.m. before getting up. We all file downstairs to bulging stockings and hot coffee. The bigger gifts are opened from youngest to oldest. A very practical arrangement, since Elijah's enthusiasm could NOT be bridled. And then comes the BIG breakfast. The menu most years is fried eggs and thick pieces of smoked ham. But I had to throw homemade waffles and whipped cream into the mix this year.

Had there actually been SNOW this year, we would have spent the day sledding or romping in the snow, but this year there was no such option. Instead, I napped for three hours, while my father upended our 30 pound turkey's boiling juices onto his foot and recieved a very bad burn. Please read his version of this tale here.

The traditional turkey meal is consumed and much appreciated. However, I have big plans for garlic and rosemary chicken one of these years. (Recipe courtesy of Jared.) And then we play games until we can fit dessert into our bellies. This year, orange cheesecake topped with blueberries, and pecan torte was available, but we were all so tired we went home before we got to it.

Boxing Day: Games day. One of Aidan's cousins began a Boxing Day tradition of filling the day with games rather than shopping. She recently stopped hosting the event, but we like the idea. So we will likely continue it in the country with snow sport, or games around the wood stove. Yeah! This year Aidan's parents treated us all to a day at the Museum of Civilization and an Omnimax movie.

New Years Eve & Day: I have enjoyed this celebration so much these past few years. One of our friends and her family would open up their country home to twenty of us or so. We would all bring a mix of food and hang out all night long. Lots of games and laughter. Often, in whiter years, the males would race across the fields on a ski-doo. And the women would talk and talk and talk. We have never established a midnight protocal. One year we sang psalms right through. Another, we stopped to pray. Another, we spoke allowed our hopes and prayers for the year. After midnight, (and beyond for some), we would spread out throughout the house and get some sleep. Bodies everywhere!

I think what has warmed my heart most about these years has been the inclusion of our children. Twenty childless youths, and our little ones, whether they cry the night away or not, have been welcomed and cuddled and loved at every turn. Makes parenting easy to know that we, and our children, are loved that much.

This year, as is often the case, the tradition had to be passed on. We will now be the hosts. With much preparation, eight of us gathered at my sister's after evening worship to enjoy a three-part fodue. Smoky bacon cheese, pork and peanut satay, and velvety chocolat, to name a few. And while we all just vegged out in our pygamas, the intimacy of the group made it the happiest place in the world to be. The roads were icy, so we all bunked down all over the house around 2:30. In the morning, we had a crepe and whipped cream breakfast, using up the extra chocolate sauce and fruit.
The holidays are over. And I know they have been a blessing when I tingle with anticipation for them to begin once more next year. Lord willing, we will have a cosy country home to offer to all the people we love next year. New traditions will be established, all firmly anchored in love and fellowship.

Home of Tomorrow

The older I get, the more aware I am of the ebb and flow of trends. Some are a cause for concern, while some are not. But all are noteworthy, because they are societal tide-markers, revealing information about the collective whole that, if studied, give some indication of what is to come. There are people out there who are paid to do just that: take note, and extrapolate. Recently, I read one such application with regards to the housing market. And apparently, in twenty years, most of us will be living on top of one another.

By 2026, the average city dweller will buy into a condominium, and remain there throughout their entire life cycle. While this idea sounded truly distasteful to me, I found that I wasn't the least bit surprised. Top priorities of the average Canadian:

• convenience and ease
  
• speed and access
  
• work and money
• self at the center
  

Condominium living would certainly appeal to people with such priorities:

A small condominium [is] suitable for the dating, clubbing and the first job season of life. Many couples will [then] pick a larger three or four bedroom condominium . . . reluctant, when kids start arriving, to abandon the liveliness of downtown and the many conveniences of condo living. Developers will [also] be offering increasingly attractive perks [such as] improved security, larger rooms and storage facilities, more built-in appliances (including more sophisticated electronic access), and more in-house services ranging from daycare centers and medical offices to beauty salons and dining clubs. . .

-John Bentley Mays. House and Home (December '06)-

As for family life:

Bedrooms will look more like hotel suites, each with it's own bathroom ...web-based audio-visual center and better sound insulation...

Just think, you too, could eat, sleep, shop, workout, receive dental care, medical care and child care within the confines of one building. A bubble-- recycled air and all. And if you don't like your kids, don't worry, they will fade into obscurity, holed-up in their bedrooms.

Of all of the joys heralded by condo-happy developers, one benefit I cannot ignore: less driving. Building up keeps more people in the core, and more cars off the highways. But I can't help but wonder if it would all level out in the end. Will there be a tangled river of vehicles streaming from underground condo lots on Friday evenings, as people flee to the countryside, redefining the terms of our current rush hour, as they go? Or, alternately, and equally dour, will people mute their longings for nature, say goodbye to fresh country air, and become content in the confines of their concrete jungle?

All this talk about the city. What about us rebels? The ones who shake the dust from our sandals and turn our backs on the city to settle in the countryside? Apparently, we will become as good as foreigners. Members of "New Villages." Tiny, self-sufficient, nation states with our own network of home-based businesses, avoiding the pain and expense of driving into the city for our needs.

Twenty years has yet to come and go, and perhaps life will remain pretty much the same, but if any of this comes to pass, making a prophet out of some man, many of you will, apparently, be taking the elevator down to have a cavity filled, and I will be designing a personal state flag, and waving it every now and then to remind you I'm here, just beyond the borders of condoland.

Fourth Birthday

Four years. Four years of being taught how to parent by a precocious, independent-minded, dancing, prancing, talk-your-ear-off, joy of a daughter. We love her so much it hurts. And it is becoming clear that she has a life brimming with love ahead of her. We gathered together all the dearest people in her life to celebrate her day. Aunty Karin's sewing handiwork: A pink hat, mitt and scarf set.

A phone call from Aunty Kate , wishing her a happy birthday from on the road.

Bowling. Six kids: Six adults. And every adult was absolutely necessary to keep chaos at bay.

Elijah's tiger mask. "Grrrrrrr."

Beautiful baby Gaby

Things I have learned:
1. Six children have more than enough energy to make for a rousing party. I am not looking forward to future experiences of parties by the dozen.
2. Afternoon parties are great. The stress of creating a huge, well orchestrated meal is lifted from your shoulders. And, instead, a hodge-podge of finger foods can be thrown together without any complimentary-taste requirements. As for the little guests, they are much happier arriving on a lunch-filled stomach, and leaving before bedtime has expired.
3. The entire present opening ritual is incredibly uncomfortable. I have always thought so, even as a kid. And now I am learning all about the awkwardness of being a parent in these situations, as the child vocalizes their very honest assessments of the gifts they receive, and the parents do damage control as best they can.
4. Take great care with the guest list. It is so easy to miss someone, or, conversely, to over do it. A fine balance that must be re-negotiated every year as the circle of important people expands and shifts.
5. In the end, pray grace upon yourself by the bucketful. And, while you're at it, pray grace upon the attendees aswell. Both will require a large measure of it in order to enjoy the experience, and come away from it whole, and unharmed. On this particular occasion I somehow managed to be careless and hurtful to atleast a handful of people. And the reality is, I am certain to do it again. The wonderful thing, however, is that the very people I unintentionally injured are the very ones that love me enough to forgive me.

It was a good day. A hard day, but some of the best ones often are.

Creativity: Mache Plate

This one was the most involved yet.
Process:

1. I used one of our dinner plates to make a ten-layered papier-mache mold. (Rub it with vaseline before you start putting the wet paper on it or it will never come off again.) To reinforce the shape, I cut out circular cardboard inserts for the middle. Once dried, I pried the mold off the plate and trimmed the edges. This took weeks and weeks and weeks.
NOTE: Mache paste: 1 part white glue to 3 parts water.
This being my first mache project, I hadn't learned how to keep it bubble-free. The plate has a bumpy surface. But it adds to the character, right?

2.When it was all dry, I used sandpaper to try and smooth out some of the rough spots.

3. Put on white primer.

4. Painted and painted and painted. I had to use opaque acrylic or I would not have been able to paint vibrant flowers on top of a black surface. It also dries quickly. A very imprtant factor when sneaking paint time in between my boys' naps.

5. Two layers of varnish. Done!

Photo Journal: December

Winter in the country. We had just a taste of the pleasures in store for us and our children during the winter months. A pile of dirt was left behind from the fill work, and has since provided us with a nice sledding hill. At a good starting run, I managed to get the sled to the tree line at the far end of the yeard. Fun!


Where we are now:
Trusses are all up. Next up: insulation and wrapping, followed by windows and doors.
Basement floor is heated. Soooo nice. You walk down the stairs and the temperature goes up by 15 degrees. I can't wait until the main floors are done.
Waiting for mortgage to be sorted and fixed into place.
New benchmarks have been reached, but for me, the end is still nowhere in sight.

Mercies

I remember stepping off the curb. And I remember a hand catching the back of my coat. One strong, sharp yank backwards. And then I remember a muddy red and white blurr pass mere centimeters from my nose as an city bus swept past me on Rideau street. I could smell the bus. Taste salt on the wake of air it belched in my face. And I have never since been at ease when one speeds by me on the street in a lurshing rush of metal and smoke.
My father says the hand that grabbed me was that of a well dressed woman who, once having saved my life, then promptly melted into the Pre-Christmas bustling mob without a word. Who was she? I don't know. Would I have lived without her attentiveness and quick reflexes. Nope. Not likely.

Mercies. We have all heard about them, read about them, experienced them. And yesterday I lived through another. My daughter plummeted through a gap in the floor of our framed home, onto a concrete floor below, with only a bump on the head to show for it. She was making her way down the newly constructed stairs of our home-in-progress when she stumbled, pitched sideways onto some light foam that had been laid across the opening to the basement stairs, and disappeared below.
I was behind her. I saw it happen. I heard her shriek. I saw her curl in on herself. Saw the blue foam snap in two. And then saw nothing. And in my head: Please. Please. Please. Please. Then she cried. And I knew she was alive, and that it was ok to breathe again.
After her grandfather tore down the steps after her, and carried her back up to us, it didn't take long for us to discover a long raised bump on her scull where she, no doubt, smacked her head on a step before she hit the concrete. No bones broken. Memory intact:

"What did Oma and Opa give you for St. Nicks?"
" A faery--no, an angel dress."

And after a bit of well deserved sniffling, she was back to munching on raisin bread and arguing with her brother. I know that God giveth and taketh away. But he chose to keep her safely within our wordly grasp this day. And I have been thanking him all day long.

Whimsy

More lanterns. More faeries.
Hey, we all have fixations. Let me have mine!
This is a silhouette I painstakingly cut out with an exacto knife. I painted a sunset onto some tissue paper for the background with watercolour paints. And am now hunting for a glass container, or lamp shade the right size, upon which to mount it. I wish I had a nightlight like this when I was little.

I would if I could, but I can't, so I won't.

Please believe me when I say that you do not want to see any more pictures of the house, for the time being. Those of you who have been following along have seen all there is to see for now. Electrical wiring, additional trusses, insulation . . . these things don't make good pictures. Suffice it to say, I am as eager to see change as you. And change there will be. Eventually.
I have been awaiting the birth of the tudor facade. But that is going to have to wait until spring. The boys decided to leave the exterior until their fingers can work in warm weather again, and until the tudor panels can be installed in their expanded state.
Likely, posts over the winter will be on a micro-scale: concerning all things small, and seemingly insignificant. Like front doors, for example. I am very excited to introduce you to my garage sale beauty of a front door. Or dining room tables. We are stripping, and refinishing Aidan's late Oma's heavy wooden table. It might be the oldest thing we own.
I hope the slower pace doesn't stop you all from checking in every once and awhile. Piece by piece, a house will become a home. Patience.

Firsts

Got our first hydro bill today for 3496 John Shaw Rd. . .
Other exciting news, our basement floor has finally been poured! We are almost ready for winter.
Aidan is out there at the moment finishing window boxes so we can install a beautiful set of windows on the main floor. Our sills will be soooo deep. I love it. I can envision a jungle of greenery in every window.
Next will come the upstairs windows, and two doors. And voila, ready to wrap up the house against snow and unwelcome critters. I am looking forward to a winter of progress on the inner guts of the house. The place where the living will happen. Soon.

Creativity

I just had to show off my latest handiwork. A lily lantern made of wire and tissue paper. I have been on a craft binge! It has always hit me in waves, but I am currently riding a tsunami. Creativity is oozing out of my pores. In one month I have successfully produced, a new card design series, a faery costume, two or three chapters of a book, a faery lantern, half a strand of small paper lanterns, and am moving on to papier mache . . .

Bumbleboy

First, something from the archives:

Two little

faeries.

20 years apart.

Like mother, like daughter?

And now, I present to you Bumbleboy & Co.