Mama-luia

I leave the baby for a few short minutes now, and he backs himself under the couch, where he is incapable of freeing himself without someone's help. The giggles this elicits from his older siblings, I fear, will further his desire to trap himself on a regular basis. I tend to think of this photo as a symbolic representation of our February. We experienced an aggressive stomach flu, coupled with a chimney fire -- while Patrick was out of town, naturally -- and a suspected (but thankfully ruled out) case of carbon monoxide poisoning for the kids. Thus, we backed ourselves further and further into the abyss until it became actually laughable how "stuck" we were. Like innocent babies jammed under an IKEA couch. We're through the worst of it, though, and are regaining our equilibrium. The big kids are back at school, and Anna is back to vacillating between wanting to "help" me with everything (like gift-wrapping the potatoes for the oven, one of he...

I feel like I have spent a lot of my "career" as a mom putting out fires, so to speak. I have grown accustomed to living in a state of reaction -- from broken glass, to spilled drinks (or an entire bottle of canola oil on my kitchen floor once), to sibling fights -- I feel like I am two steps behind the next mini-meltdown; I can't begin to say how exhausting this is, because there's never any "progress" made when I am simply responding to the next problem. The other day, I was thinking about hospitality, and how it's something I want to grow in. There are countless times when I'll have a guest over and the work-from-home husband will quietly slip out of his office to put the kettle on, and he'll politely ask me whether I've offered my company something to drink. Sadly, the answer is regularly "oops, I forgot." My desire for my guests is to anticipate their needs. How embarrassing -- to wait until they are parched and opening cup...

Winter is slowly, ever so slowly, waning into spring. A glance outdoors would suggest quite the opposite; just how much snow can one province get? And yet... dinner is no longer eaten in darkness. There is a new brightness in the sky. The noticeably longer days are giving me hope. Yet until the snow melts a bit, or the temperatures rise, I still choose to play the part of the hermit, and stay put under a blanket with a book at the ready. I recently deleted my Facebook account (for many reasons which can be boiled down to my own lack of self-control) , but I enjoy having something to occupy my mind while I'm nursing, or when the children are sleeping... or when I am hiding in the bathroom.... Don't pretend you don't sometimes take extra long bathroom breaks, too. :) So I have returned to my old love of reading. I used to wonder how so many moms got so much reading time crammed into their full days. And now I see, I had been reading, plenty , it was all just through s...

I love blogging and I want to blog more. But sometimes... just the mere idea of coming up with something to 'interesting' to write paralyzes me. Yet, because I love writing so much, I refuse to let the perfect be the enemy of the good, and so I decided to blog about something slightly prosaic, in part to just keep me in the habit. I'm blogging about what we ate each night. Although, I'm not convinced that what, or at least how, one eats at dinner is insignificant. In my bygone days of youth ministry, we were told during training to ask the teens, as a conversation opener, "What did you have for dinner?" It really is amazing what insight you can get into people's family dynamics just by inquiring into that one subject. And of course, more and more studies are coming out, saying a shared family meal is correlated to lower instances of substance abuse, depression, eating disorders, and risky sexual behavior; eating together matters. But... and that is...

 Noah: "Mommy, you know what would be the best life? To live in a cold house, to go to a restaurant for all your meals where you don't have to pay for the food, and then just sleep and go to Mass." It kind of sounds like he wants to be a homeless person, who frequents soup kitchens when he grows up. But a practicing Catholic, apparently, so... I suppose that's a small victory? "I would love to spend the rest of my life drinking mango juice, and being read to, or listening to audio books." Noah: Since I came to the table last, you should serve me first. Me: That is NOT how that Scripture verse works! Me: "Stop eating feta cheese in your blanket fort!" "You just wiped your tuna-crusted hands on my bare shoulder." Isaiah: (Singing) "Super-California-licious-expi-alidocious" (Singing) "Step, spaghetti, on we go!" (The lyrics are supposed to be "Step we gaily, on we go") (Sighing deeply)...

Our Elijah turned seven months old on Friday. We're more than half-way there to that exciting and vaguely wistful milestone of the first birthday. We're coming closer and closer to when he will be mobile and taking everything out of my cupboards, and wanting to climb the stairs, and chasing his older siblings in the yard. It goes by fast. And yet, it doesn't. I'm sure other moms understand what I mean. The days blur into night and back into days. Meanwhile there are these three other little people whom I love, who take up a lot of my energy too. (For instance, when Teacher says, "read aloud for fifteen minutes," it takes approximately 25-30, of course). It is all so cliche and almost embarrassing to say, but he is the perfect baby for our family. He makes us all laugh with his budding sense of humor (isn't it charming when babies begin to figure out how to make others laugh? And then they do it over and over?), his coos are the by far the best ...

Merry Christmas! Another beautiful Christmas season is upon us, after the longest possible Advent. We are having a happy, cozy time of all 12 days of Christmas. It's my fave. Five days before Christmas, the boys' school had their annual Christmas concert. Isaiah's class sang "The Friendly Beasts" and he did it so beautifully -- solemn but happy and proud and excited, with the quintessential scan of the audience for a familiar face and then an excited wave when he saw me and Elijah. I won't lie; I cried during his performance. I was so proud of him. He has come so far at school already. Noah played St. Joseph in the Nativity play for the Grades 1s and 2s. I was equally proud of him (but I refrained from crying). When it came time for Noah's play, Isaiah came and sat with me and Elijah, and he was pleased to tell me all the kids' names. As soon as the Christmas concert was finished, the excitement in our house became palpable. ...