Moved in

This Saturday we moved from the garage to the big house. A "red letter day" for the Van Dyk family. In preparation for a dinner we were hosting Friday evening Aidan and I had stayed up well into the wee hours of the morning the night before getting important things done. We finished the railing. We installed the island and put together our dining table. We hung a chandelier and vacuumed as much of the dust off the floor as we could. The next day we began to shuttle things from the garage to the house, putting them in their proper places, and before we knew it there was little reason left not to move right in! We're home.

Warming a house

There is so much truth to the warmth that thoughtful little gifts can bring to a home. When I got home last evening my husband and brother-in-law were being adorably jittery, strongly and persistently encouraging me to follow them over to the big house to see the "progress on the railing." I followed them over and had a look at their handiwork. They certainly had done some good work but I was clearly missing something important. They were both standing quietly, eyes shifting from me to a place in the corner of the room, waiting for me to catch on. Finally Aidan pointed me in the right direction, "Look!"

Up in the far corner of the livingroom, hung from one of our posts, was a beautiful little clock. I squeeled with delight. Partly out of the basic pleasure of surprise, but also because the clock could not have looked more at home. It just fit. It is Colin's housewarming gift to us, and he couldn't have chosen a more fitting one. It reminds Aidan and I of our honeymoon in England. Our time spent curled up in cozy wooden pubs.

But perhaps the greatest thing this little clock has offered is an added hominess to the entire space. This one little gesture of thoughtfulness and generosity from my brother has brought me and my house a little bit closer to one another.

Between us and the edge

This building process has yielded it's fair share of opportunities for our children to seriously harm themselves: pits, gaps in floors, long nails, exposed electrical wires, sharp equipment. . . Yet all have escaped relatively unharmed. (Please, don't ask me to elaborate on my use of the term "relatively.") The miracle of this is, in large part, that I haven't done much to supervise my childrens' wanderings. They come and go. Up and down. In and out. And, despite being left mostly to their own devises, they have kept themselves out of trouble.

But even I have not been able to rest easy about the hallway upstairs. It offers a 10 foot drop straight down to the concrete floor of our livingroom, and has been completely exposed for a year now. My preventative actions have ony really extended to the littlest one. In theory, he is not allowed to go upstairs without one of us. (Please don't ask me to elaborate on my use of the term "in theory.") The eldest have been free to go up and down, as I have long since recognized, within them, a healthy sense of fear and self-preservation. But my heart still lurches when I see them peek their heads over the edge and holler, "hi mommy!"

I have had friends decline a tour of the upper floor because of the edge. And most who have built up the courage to climb the stairs have slowly and cautiously shuffled sideways, hugging the wall, until they reach the safety of a bedroom. We have had a few questions concerning our intensions for a railing, and have resisted the urge to tell people, "oh, no, we like it this way. Better view." But our tardiness in putting one up has had everything to do with the order in which things needed to be done. This explanation had been met with patient understanding, until recently, when my mother finally gave us an ultimatum; " I won't come visit until you get that railing up!"

Last night, Aidan finally began the process. The middle section is up while the last two will be completed this evening. True to her word, my mom will be visiting this Friday.

Alone at night in the country

Just me and the sleeping children, and the darkness. Oh, and of course, the crickets. But then, there are also the occasional sounds of our porch deck being walked on, or the garage door being tap-tapped. Be calm, my imagination. This is why I want a dog. A big, big dog. Even if he proves himself to be entirely too friendly and hopelessly unwatchful, he would likely provide enough doggy noises to distract me from the less pleasant ones coming from outside.

I keep trying to convince myself that country women must grow accustomed to being occasionally manless at night, but from where I'm sitting that sounds impossible without happy pills. And this is with me safely holed up in the decoy structure. What bad guy is going to start with the garage? (Don't answer that-- expensive power tools, multiple vehicles. . . ) What happens when I'm alone at night in the big house with all of those windows and doors? Not even crickets to keep me company. It'll have to be two big, big dogs. No. Let's make it one dog for every 10 feet of floor space. That'd trip a person up, atleast, should the dogs prove themselves unable to muster up anything scarier than a few face licks.

With these pleasant thoughts on record it's bedtime. Sleep? Pfff! Not until my husband is occupying his side of the bed. The side nearest the door so he'll get it first when the bad guy comes up the stairs. (Come on ladies, you know that's why you sleep on the side you do!)

Fall Cozy

"Fall cozy," a term I stole from somewhere, but from where, I cannot remember. A nod to whomever it was that provided it to me. It is a perfectly descriptive couple of words. As a chill creeps into the air and leaves begin to die their beautifully colourful deaths, I am always overcome with a delicious feeling of anticipation. This feeling is common to many, but perhaps more so to women who seem to develop a nesting compulsion, much like that of squirrels. Every squash encountered MUST become soup. Each apple, a pie. And before the month is out, the freezer will likely be stuffed with hearty good things made from the season's harvest.

This year I hold out no hope for a full freezer, but I do hold out perpetual hope for the perfect Fall Festival. I have attended many fall fairs in the hope of catching hold of a certain essence. An earthy gathering of wooden stalls selling homebaked goods and fresh produce. Livestock shows, of which I know nothing about but find fastinating all the same. And those quirky produce contests where a pumpkin might be awarded a red ribbon for it's enormous size, or a squash awarded for it's ressemblance to one of the prime ministers of the past. Simple games for the kids. No smoke belching carnival rides, just burlap sacks for potatosack racing, and barrels of apples for bobbing. Perhaps some open air fiddling under the stars?

I think that Road to Avonlea is responsible for much of what informs my ideas about such things. I do realize that we're living in a different day and age, but I yearn for what was. If any of my rural readers can direct my yearnings, or squash them entirely, please do. I'm tired of searching.

Ultrasound #1 . . .

. . . showed one little bouncy baby. He (she?) was bopping up and down. Flinging arms up high and making it very clear that he had a healthy little body and knew how to use it. However, my enjoyment of the moment was dampened by the documentary I watched a few months ago. In it, I learned that ultrasonic rays actually emit a high pitched keening noise that hurts the baby's ears! So, of course my little jumping bean was active. He was trying to express discomfort. Some things are best left unlearned. Sorry little bean. I just wanted to take a peek at you.

An Ode to Sixty Three B Havelock Street

I have loved this home. It was FULL of frustrating old-home tendencies, like doors that wouldn't shut, and stained and slanted floors, leaky windows that took real muscle power to open. . . I had to climb 16 stairs to get the groceries into the fridge, and demon squirrels haunted our rooftops all day long trying to infiltrate. But the place was good to us. We never felt cramped for space, despite the growth of our family. We were happy to share the warmth and colour of our home with others, pushing the limit around the kitchen table. And we were able to access all that downtown Ottawa has to offer: festivals, bike paths, coffee shops. . .

Now that we have been out of the house for awhile I can objectively assess my feelings towards the old place. I can say that the memories are overwhelmingly good, and I will always count us blessed to have been given those few precious years there.

My apologies to RSS Reader subscribers

To all of you who read my posts in an RSS Reader program, you will have noticed by now that I never get the post right the first time. This means that it gets published two or three times consecutively until I have fine tuned the post to a milder level of error and embarrassment. Do me a favour and just read the most recent publication. If not, and you find it amusing to peruse my more blemished versions, don't tell me about it.
Sincerely, Jo

Hopes & Warm fuzzies

I just had to write with a full heart. Aidan and I are snuggled up in the loft this evening waiting for our kids to settle into sleep. The usual routine. But this day will end better than yesterday because we started a new relationship today.

Our neighbours have been fleeting presences thus far. Aidan has been the one doing all of the interacting, and it has been mostly functional in nature. He's borrowed a boost, a phone, or a son for the day. As for me, all I have ever managed to do is wave out the car window. And I make sure I do every chance I get, as I recognize this act to be an intrinsic part of country relations. But I've known that it's not enough. Nothing meaningful is truly established through a wave.

This morning, however, I took it a bit further. I was out for my second-ever morning walk down the gravel road, wad of kleenex in hand, when a familiar white pick up truck headed my way. She was slowing down before I was even certain it was her, and my waving hand was soon clasped in a handshake as I announced that we were officially neighbours. Before long we were chatting way. For fifteen minutes, or so, we idled in the middle of the gravel road discussing everything from large families to bug bites. We were forced, eventually, to part or incur the wrath of the big yellow school bus driver rumbling up behind us, but before going our separate ways I told her I'd stop by later with the family.
And we did.

An hour ago Aidan and I were seated on their lawn, chatting with the whole family while our kids chased their dogs around the yard. I liked the way they liked my kids, reaching out to take theirs hands, and encouraging them to explore what was theirs. Even as it was taking place I could sense how important the interaction was. It was the beginning of our relationship with the closest neigbours we have. And I felt asthough we were being woven into a sovereign plan. Perhaps it's my wide-eyed optimism coming through again, the kind that doesn't look realistically into the future, but makes shiningly beautiful extrapolations based on one nice moment. But I am often struck deeply with a sense of opening. Asthough a door is swinging wide through which vistas of possibility exist for goodness and love and fellowship.

So I sit here brimmingly eager to trek into this new relationship. I will watch, and listen, and learn about, and from, my neighbours. I will pray for careful words and caring actions to flow from us all towards them. And perhaps God will take these dear people to himself somewhere along the way. That is my hope.

In which I detail, in a lengthy way, what I have been doing with my days

Mornings.
We wake around 8:00 a.m. All of us late in waking because bedtimes are pushed back too late, or stirrings in the nights interrupt our much-needed sleep. Gabriel stands in his crib and begins cooing, and chatting to his older siblings. Usually his one-way conversation is punctuated with sharp "no's", just because he can. The older two are wakened fully by his jabbering and make their way to our bed where, once Gabriel, too, is gathered up into bed, they all remain for another 40 minutes or so. I love this part of the day, and will be sad to see it go once Caelah has to be up and off to school. My three kids just smother me with affection. They mill about on the bed burrowing themselves into my neck and my arms. They compete, good-naturedly over the best spot, which happens to be directly on top of me. And I keep a mental tab on the baby within me, making sure there is no damage being done by knees and elbows.

Hesitantly, I eventually extract myself from my pile of cuddlers and set about getting something into their bellies. Our food, at the moment, is piled haphazardly into a storage shelf up here in the loft, while the rest is down in the fridge at the bottom of the stairs. I despise making the trip down those stairs in the morning. If I only stay up here where the floor is new and shiny and everything is cozy, I can forget that below is a dirty, dusty, bug-filled den of chaos filled with tottering piles of things I care about which are likely being invaded my spiders and centipedes. Often, I have managed to convince one of the kids to run the noble milk-fetching errand, showering them with high praise when they return. But the novelty of this will not last long I'm sure. We eat. Aidan, by now, at his desk a few feet away beginning his work for the day. And I muse about the many ways to fill up our own day.

Daytime.
Much exploration has been done this past month. My motivation for being off this property is strong. First, I feel helpless here. Second, Aidan needs to be able to hear himself think. Third, there is only sand on offer, and it has only been good for filling my children's noses, ears, diapers and eventually their bedding. This, I would rather do without.
Discoveries I have made while exploring:

*Arnprior beach. A beautiful beach off the Ottawa river in Arnprior. There isn't enough shade, and the shore line is very pebbled, but the sound of waves and the smell of water are things that were hard to come by in downtown Ottawa, and being a water-baby, I find it incredibly appealing and plan on getting my fill. Plus, it keeps this kids busy for hours.
*Bonnechere bakery. Everyone should have access to a good bakery because sometimes fresh bread and warm croissants taste better made by someone else. This particlar bakery is not a five out of five, but it's the nicest one I have found around here so far. It is beautiful, first of all, with exposed brick everywhere, and warm coloured accents. The baked goods are expensive but tasty. And the lunch items I have sampled are respectable. Most important, perhaps, the bread is excellent. But why don't they have an espresso machine? Why does this town not appreciate a good cappuccino? I met a woman at the beach the other day who summed it up for me; "We're just Timmy's kind'a people."
*Morris Island Conservation Area. I actually hesitated before adding this one, because when I happened upon it, it felt like a secret place just for me. Ridiculous, I know, but I have already begun to emotionally take possession of it. It will be one of those places I begin to think of as Mine. I first saw alluring signs for it along Galetta side road, without understanding what they indicated. The sign showed a symbol composed of water and trees cupped within a 'C'. It's obvious now that this is the standardized symbol for a conservation area, but to me it just looked the kind of sign I wanted to follow. So I did. And I was not disappointed. The 5 Km road spat me out at a place on the river that is so broad it looks like a lake. A beautiful treed picnic area awaited as did a map showing a series of trails that weave across two or three little islands. I got so excited. Hiking! Swimming! Cross-country skiing! Now I just need to find someone who shares my enthusiasm.
*Pakenham beach. A tiny secluded beach area off of the Mississippi river that is perfect for killing time. The river flows by lazily. The far bank thick with trees and only a stones throw away. Here we have shade, and a less intimidating expanse of water for the kids. Although, it is not hedged in by bouy lines, and rarely supervised, so this is up for debate. I like it because it's quiet. Very few kids come here at a time, so mine can take over the place. I can see it being a good place to wind down crazy kids at the end of a summer day.
*Almonte. I know. It's not like the town itself was a big discovery. It's just that I didn't know how easy it was to get to from here. So, I plan to make it my hub. They, at least, know the value of espresso. And it's just a nicer town than the Prior.
*Carp Library. If ever there was a library that fit my ideal, this would be it. It is full of light, clean and friendly, and completely devoted to children. Half of it is designated to little people, with bean bag chairs and puzzle tables and a drawing center. I love it there. And I have tested the patience of the librarians with three loud, smelly, and havoc-wreaking children, and they have been shown to surpass expectations. No hint of annoyance could I detect.

So, daytimes have been pleasant here. More so than I had expected. And I imagine this will only increase as I grow to know the area and people better with time.

Evenings.
Evenings are a bit less varied, and much less fun. We have yet to be able to bathe our children with any normalcy here. There has been one attempt in the kitchen sink. And another attempt in the bath upstairs the old fashioned way; boil twenty kettles of water and hope it gets warm enough for them to bare. Note: It never does. So, there have been shuttle runs into the city for baths and showers.

Also, all three kids are sleeping in an 8x8 space, forcing us to put them down for bed at the same time. This is a lenthy affair. Gabriel is truly ready, and tries to settle while the other two chat and giggle, or fuss and fight, their way to sleep. It takes an hour from start to finish.

As for social time. Ha! We can't have people here easily, because kids are sleeping, and neither of us can leave. Aidan, because he always has work to do. And me, because someone needs to supervise children while Aidan gets that work done. This is one of the hardest aspects of life here for me. I just want people time. I'll either get creative in seeking it out, or I will learn to be content with only my man and little people as company. And they are good company, just very familiar company, you know?

Nightime.
Nightime fills me with dread. If not for my God who miraculously upholds my body and keeps my mind intact, I would have gone crazy a few weeks back already. I have never before experienced allergies like those I am experiencing now. During the day, I suffer explosively messy sneezes and mild itchiness, but at night. . . I can usually fall asleep, but sometime in the night I awaken to a head so stuffed that I can't hear or see or breathe. And I am so itchy I just have to rub. And the moment I do, I begin to sneeze. Not once, but anywhere from 6 to twelve times, trying to contain it with rolls of toilet paper. And when than subsides I can then focus on the rawness of my throat. It aches and itches. And if I start to cough, I will not be able to stop. These sessions of misery last for two hours at a time.

Add to this equation crickets. Even now I can hear one of those evil critters chirping like an alarm clock with as much infuriating regularity as a dripping tap. And there's nothing that can be done about it. (Except squishing them, of course, but 1:00 a.m. is hardly prime cricket-squishing time.)

Finally, Gabriel troubles. Of all the times for him to begin testing his boundaries, he has chosen now. We made the grievous error a week ago of letting him into our bed one night. He had begun to fuss, and we didn't want him to wake the others. But the kid learns fast. The last few nights he has begun to howl, not for any other reason than to get himself back into our bed. He howls and howls. We check his diaper, give him water, check that he isn't feverish and yet he howls. Our strategy with all of the children, to the horror of some of you, is to let them cry at this point. We know our kids. We know that God, in His divine wisdom, has given us stubborn children, each and every one. So Aidan and I snuggle together in our bed, tense and alert, and together we stand against the noise, which sounds so much louder at night. Even the crickets can't compete. Last night's record was two hours. And folks, we know the kid is genuinely putting it on when we call out; "Gabriel lie down and sleep," and we hear him throw himself down on his bed and holler "No! No! No!" I can ever hear him jabbing a finger at us in the dark. Accusing.

Sleep. Blessed sleep.

And so go our days here in Kinburnia. All are welcome to interrupt with a visit at any point, and to infuse our life here with even more variety and colour.

Nature finds

*Pheasants? We are still not positive that they we have identified them correctly, but it would be yummy if we have. They have been spotted having a family reunion at the edge of our yard. And I have been told we can eat them. . . (The legalities of this are a little fuzzy, still. . .)They had better park themselves elsewhere if they know what's good for them. We have a hunter in the family now, and a penchance for eating meat.
*Crickets. Didn't know they were so big. Or so loud. They have invaded the garage, hence, our life here in the loft. Chirping at all hours of the day and night. It has become a household rule that all persons, upon entering the domain must scan the floor, and immediately pounce on any cricket they see. Tricky, because they can really pounce well themselves. Gross, because they crunch really loudly when contact is made. Admittedly, I have yet to do the deed myself. But will likely never have to as my offspring have zealously taken to the task.
*Wild turkeys. BIG! Apperently they aren't nice, so I hope, unlike the pheasants, they do not take to having family gatherings on our property or they too may need to take up space in our freezer.
*Funny sounding birds. Gabriel got a kick out a one this evening that did a good monkey impression. I must admit I was equally thrilled by the bird and began doing monkey impressions that sent my kids into fits of giggles. I'm not sure the men from the heating company found me half as amusing.

Little sister's bachelorette

One of our society's lewdest and most distasteful constructs has been that of the bachelor or bachelorette party. Such occasions are nearly unheard of in church circles, simply because they are typically the most wordly and disgusting affairs involving all sorts of inproprieties. And these are meant to be the gateway to the following day's marriage! Over the past 5 years we christian gals decided to take posession of this tradition and put some good back into it.

The day always fits the girl. For Elaine, our drama student, the evening was spent doing a scavenger hunt in which she was made to sing and perform embarassing little diddies for signatures. For Faye, all jazz and sophistication, we took her to a jazz bar and ate fancy food as we listened to live music. For Kate, there was no way around it, it had to be about beavers...

Let me explain. For inexplicable reasons, my quirky sister loves the tail-slapping, bark- chewing animal, and has for as long as I can remember. So, as her sister, I felt compelled to make a joke out of this, and exploit it for all it was worth, making it a beaver themed event. One thing I knew for sure is that we were going to Montreal. It is a very beaver friendly city. The list of possible activities for the day included:

• Buying, and forcing Kate to wear a beaver skin hat, (not a real fur hat. That's cruel.)
• Picnicking around Beaver Lake on Mount Royal.
• Stopping for a treat at a Beaver Tail shack.
• Playing spot the most Roots logos
• Dining at the 5 star rstaurant; Beaver Club at Fairmont Queen Elizabeth Hotel.

Two moves, and one pregnancy later this list was whitled down significantly. I just didn't have the energy or mental faculties to make it all happen. Some things were taken out of my hands. The Beaver Club turned out to be for full dining only, making it extremely cost prohibitive at $100 per head! And I could not seem to get my hands on a silly beaver hat. Why ever not? Aren't they the height of fashion nowadays?

The day turned out wonderfully, no matter how much beaver was taken out of it.

We all met at Kate's house on Friday night for a baking party. She is making her own guest favours, and really needed extra hands to help. A few of us decided to stay the night .By 8:30 a.m. eight girls were piled into two cars and heading to Montreal for the day. I had a bag full of fresh, warm Montreal-style bagels and a cooler full of cream cheesess, fruit and cold-cuts waiting in the trunk. We headed straight for Beaver Lake, getting lost in a beautiful cemetery at the top of the Mountain. It was so beautiful infact, that we briefly considered picnicking there, before our consciences began to bug us concerning the propriety of eating and giggling beside the graves of people we didn't know while their relatives were somberly bringing them flowers...

Beaver Lake. . . good food, chilly weather, lots of seagulls. Leave it to Meghan to entertain. She spent a good part of the time chasing away the impossible birds with big sticks.

We made our way to an 18th Centruy Festival in Old Montreal. Weavers, potters, soldiers, midwives, cobblers... Each stall exhibited and explained more about the life back in those days, making us most relieved to be living in the present day.
Our final destination; Jardin Nelson. A highly rated creperie which, had we not showed up when we did, would have no longer been an option for us. We made it into the place seconds before a mob of hungry people qeued up behind us, and the line up only grew as we ate until it wrapped around the buiilding.
What a beautiful place. An inner courtyard dripping with trees and hanging baskets. These great canopies were stretched up over our heads creating a really wonderful effect. And a live jazz band played on a platform to the left of us while we ate. And the crepes... Stuffed full of good things. Some of the girls even managed to fit a dessert crepe into them afterwards called Death by Chocolate.
Being reasonable girls, older and wiser, we didn't linger in the city any longer than we should, and made it home for bedtime. It was a day of moderation. No big spending. No over-the-top silliness. No over-scheduling. And yet it was fun. An important thing to learn, as I have been known to hold more to the go big or go home line of thinking. It says a lot about the company Kate and I keep that we enjoyed ourselves as much as we did within such moderate parameters. Them's some mighty fine ladies.

Photos

We were given this bathroom set for free! Colin worked for a home reno company at the time, and this was taken from a showroom. It works well against the chocolate brown walls.

Doesn't look anywhere near ready, but it's SOMETHING. The island will be faced in dark wood with dark drawers. The counter will be butcher block. Aidan's going to raise the whole island up a foot so there will be less bending over. The plywood walls are going to be covered in brick. It's been my biggest challenge to find the right stuff though.

My nice BIG farmhouse sink.

Gold eating nook.

Sunshine

My heart is well again. Thank you all for reminders and encouragements and love. Perhaps the installation of a flushing toilet helped tug me out it a little--yeah! Truly, it was simply time and prayer. The weekend passed and my sight has cleared. I feel surges of love for my children, and renewed resolve to finish this race, so to speak. I have finally embraced my paint colours. This comes as such a relief, as I spent a few agonizing days cursing my prego brain for the choices I made. This too, however, has run it's course. I have since accepted that I probably would have found fault with anything during those dark days. Now my I-can-work-with-it attitude has taken possession of me once more. And, yes, I will post pictures soon of the walls, so you too, can make judgments on my judgment. Be gentle.

The guys have been tiling and attaching light fixtures. The bathrooms should be usable soon. I hope the kitchen is firmly on their radar. I'm done with nagging. My greatest challenge at the moment is my heightened sense of smell. The loft, into which we have long ago been scheduled to move into, repulses me. It is as cozy as can me, yes, but it smells! The paint fumes have a stronghold and don't seem to be moving on. I can't even go near the doorway. My prayers are now focused upon my senses. May they settle into normalcy soon, or I will remain the drag factor to this whole operation. The one that's slowing us all up. And there isn't much time left for me to lag behind. I have a little girl heading to school in just over a week. . .

Tantrum & Sunshine

There is nothing less dignified, less admirable, less ridiculously self-indulgent than an adult throwing a tantrum. And yet I am on the verge of throwing one. I feel the tension coiling in my chest. Sense the pressure mounting and the tears moving upwards in a ball of woe, remaining lodged somewhere in the vacinity of my heart and coming no further because I am willing it not to. Of course I would love to give it all free reign. Just press the inner release button and send all of that mess spewing upwards and outwards at the world. Time and experience tell me that it would feel good. Really good. But time and experience also tell me that it wouldn't last. And that ancient companions Shame and Embarrassment always follow swiftly on the tail of such violent releases.

Sigh.

This is all the cumulative result of a long affair between me and this house. I just don't want to do this anymore. This relationship has grown stale. I was told it would, but refused to accept it as truth. The running commentary in my head is picking up the pace. Becoming more frenzied and less coherent. More panicked while far less willing to listen to reason:

Don't make me get up this morning. Don't make me cram my kids into our digusting car, filled with takeout debree and used baby wipes. Don't make me drive for 30 minutes to our perpetually UNFINISHED house only to make hard decisions that I no longer have the heart to make. Don't make me drive back and forth, back and forth, between here and somewhere collecting building materials I have never heard of from nice men who have seen my face three times already today and who find me no more competent with each return visit. Don't make me have to cook dinner when I get home from a day of this. A dinner I can't even stomach. Don't make me try and be civil, let alone loving and Christ-like to my family and friends when I just want to yell at them and swipe at them with nasty remarks. Don't make me try and rest when all I do is lie in bed tossing and turning all night because of the baby growing within me, or the unpleasant thoughts growing within me aswell. And please snuff out this conviction in my breast. The one that tells me that I MUST do all of these things. That I must do them with grace, and be a good wife and mother at the same time. This tenacious conviction makes things so much harder. . .

Who am I even talking to? God? Myself? Aidan? Who have I decided is making me do anything? Why have I decided to script this is a highjacking at gunpoint?

It's because I like to play the victim. To mentally lie down and curl up into the fetal position when things get too hard, rather than, as someone I know so often puts it; "suckin' it up, sunshine." Rather than clothing myself in integrity, smiling and enduring unto the end, I reduce myself to a whiny weakling, snivelling about my circumstances. I despise this trait and yet find myself retreating into it far too comfortably lately. And the internal fist-shaking is just an extra chink in the cop-out chain. It is directed at all of the above: God. Myself. My loved ones. And it takes up residence in my thought life simply because blame is just too darn easy.

Phew. I feel like I just frisked my head. Give it up. What else have you got in there? Hand it over. Let's have a look see? Leave it to "pen and paper" to reflect the content of your head back into your eyes. I've looked at it now. So have you. It's not pretty. Time to buck up. Stand up. Suck it up . . . sunshine.

Moving Day

What a horrible day it was. Moving days are the epitomy of disorder, and having my personals disorderly made me very unhappy. I had begun so well. I took great care to pack thoughtfully, placing things with like things. But as the day came upon us I had to throw my hands up and start stuffing whatever wherever.
Another unhappy aspect of moving is the inevitable damage done to the things you care about. I have already found one lamp with it's "neck" broken severely. It had been burdened severly by a bag full of shoes. I am not eager to discover the other casualties.
But, it is done. We are out, and have moved on. It feels good, like pulling one's self up over the rim of a deep long rutt.

Loft living

When I return from my trip down to Georgia, this will be home. We will not be able to move into the big house at that point, so loft living it shall be. At the moment things are messy, but I will have them in order as soon as I'm back. For the sake of my mental health, it will be imperative that I do so.

Aidan is now working out of the loft full time again. He can't take any more time off. The challenge will be to mother in the same 500 square foot space as my husband is working. . .

Chocolate mess

While I was in the middle of frenzied packing, barely able to keep an eye on the doings of my little people, one crept in under the radar and upended the entire contents of a super-sized container of Nestle Quick chocolate sauce. It made a lake in the kitchen, and then a trail to the tub as the culprit scooted through it on his behind.

I spent an hour scrubbing and sobbing . . . and praying. And have concluded that it was a refreshing break from the mundane.

Porches

Not much to show inside yet. So here are some photos of our beautiful porches.

Schedule & Relevant Info

Two week schedule:

Today-Tomorrow-- (a.m.) Packing like crazy. (p.m.) PAINTING
Saturday-- (a.m.) Moving out. (p.m.) PAINTING
Saturday 4th- Tuesday 14th-- Living in town at some friends.' (Every single p.m.) PAINTING
{Thurs 9th-Monday 13th-- I'm abandoning my family for a wedding in Tennessee.}
Tuesday 14th-- Moving into our new house. Ready or Not!

Relevant Info:

Mailing Address:

3496 John Shaw Rd.
R.R. 2
Kinburn, Ontario
K0A 2H0

Loft Phone: (Maybe we'll hear it, maybe we won't)
613-832-4707

Best means of getting in touch:
Aidan's Cell or Mine.
Our old phone number is currently forwarded to our cell.

And then there were four

We have been a three chick family for a year and a half now. . .

. . . But it looks like another wee one will be arriving in March sometime. I'm very ill with baby number four at the moment. And while the timing has brought it's challenges, we couldn't have been more ready or more pleased.

Ten day countdown

In ten days time we are technically no longer city dwellers. However recent developments, or lack thereof, have extended our stay by a few days. Our drywallers are "giving us the run-around," as Aidan would say. They were supposed to start two days ago, then bumped us until today, only to bump us to Monday. And people who do this twice, can be expected to do it yet again. Without taped walls we are STUCK. We can't paint. We can't install flooring. We can't move our furniture in or get our kitchen ready.

Everyone seems to be losing sleep on our behalf, but I'm telling you, by God's grace and mercy I am holding myself together quite nicely. It feels like an adventure. And I love those. But there is no dangling ending, waving in the wind. The end destination is tangibly within our grasp. So what if we have to camp our for a week or so? No problem. It will be messy. Maybe hot. We will be cranky and, in my case, very sore. But we will soon be living in the home of our dreams.

The wonderful woman who is moving into this place after we leave, has offered to find other accomodations herself for a few days to buy us some time. She astutely observed that it would be easier to be in limbo herself for while, rather than send a family of five into upheaval. Blessed woman! Her only condition is that we set aside a room for her to move in a bunch of her stuff. Done. Goodbye livingroom. And we have had offers of meals and babysitting. Concerned calls and many prayers. We are covered!

The plan is to get the loft set up over the garage for our week of "camping." We'll have a toilet and a roof over our head, so we are not really roughing it. I will be SICK of BBQ by the end of it, but will then move on to a beautiful gas range to play with.

Your prayers are coveted. And have already been felt.

A day in the life of a homebuilding mama...

I pulled out of the driveway at 8:30 with the three kids who were in varying states of dishevelment and disarray.

Drove to our friends' place in the east end for 9:00. Dropped the kids off there, bringing the total number of children under one roof to six, with minimal instructions on how to keep them alive, let alone happy.

Drove to Boone's and spent an hour and a half ordering: 3 toilets, a tub faucet, a sink faucet, a kitchen faucet and a shower faucet. Note: The toilets took the longest. Do you want an elongated bowl? Do you prefer the two-piece or single? Would you like a dual flush? How about a chrome handle?

Next came the Re-store where I fell in love with a mohagany fireplace mantel. Ornately carved with leaved branches and plumed birds. Alas, there was no way it was going to fit into the space I had in mind.

Hit Cohen and Cohen where I fought covetousness, once again, this time over everything I laid eyes on. There were massive carved wooden doors, stained glass windows, wrought-iron farmhouse grates, deacons benches and more. But I had come for brick, and sadly left without. . .

To Starbucks to refuel on a sandwhich. (No coffee. Good girl).

RONA to hunt down sinks. Why did they all come attached to something? Why were they all shaped like shells? Yeck. Also, no wide-planked flooring. And no paint sales.

Now to IKEA--the cult-like mecca for people who can't stop spending money on their homes. I spent another hour and a half in the kitchen department ordering new cabinets and countertops, and befriending the harried saleswoman. I was confident going in, but the red NON_REFUNDABLE stamp across my order form now has me doubting everything.

Off to the IKEA warehouse to pick up the things I just ordered. Talked a young guy into cramming way too much stuff into a way too small car.

Tearing down the highway, with a bunjee-closed trunk, to the lot where Aidan and I unloaded everything. (I barely had time to notice to gorgeous front steps Dave!)

Back across town, and I mean ACROSS town, from the West end to the East end in rush hour traffic to pick up the kids.

Home.

Who wants to try it?