Ready, aye, ready?

This is the end

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Thu, 24 Jan 2013 21:50:00 +0000

It's time to wrap this old blog up, and start something new.

Still thinking about the direction of the new blog; give me some time, people, I'm a very busy woman.

Off on new adventures, once again.

A year later

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Sun, 29 Apr 2012 04:35:00 +0000

It's been a year since I've posted to this blog. A whole year. Wow, blog neglect.

During that year, I have been spending what little writing time I have on a twice-monthly column for my local paper, the Times Colonist. I've had modest success with it and it's been a lot of fun. But it has also meant that I simply don't have time to blog on a regular basis.

I'm thinking of just letting the blog go and trying some new version, with a firmer focus. Hey, nothing lasts forever in this world.

P.S. Happy feast day, St. Gianna! Fifty years in the presence of the Lord! Pray for us.

Happy Feast Day, St. Gianna!

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Thu, 28 Apr 2011 21:58:00 +0000

Jesus, I promise You to submit myself to all that You permit to befall me; make me only know Your will. My most sweet Jesus, infinitely merciful God, most tender Father of souls, and in a particular way of the most weak, most miserable, most infirm which You carry with special tenderness between Your divine arms, I come to You to ask You, through the love and merits of Your Sacred Heart, the grace to comprehend and to do always Your holy will, the grace to confide in You, the grace to rest securely through time and eternity in Your loving divine arms. Amen.

My dear friend, happy feast day. Keep the prayers of all HG mothers close to the throne of our beloved Saviour. Love you.

On spiritual attack

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Sun, 03 Apr 2011 05:13:00 +0000

When Big I. was a newborn baby, his grandfather, my husband's adopted father, was dying. Cancer had riddled his body, and as he died, my husband C. and I could not go to him; I had had a C-section and couldn't get on a plane for six weeks. C. managed to visit before the baby was born, but 13 days after I. came into this world, B left it.

A few months later, I. was baptized and his godmother gave us the gift of a CD of Christian lullabies by Michael Card. Every night, I would nurse I. to sleep in the rocker while we listened to Unseen Warriors. I often felt B.'s presence there, watching over the grandson who carried his name (I.'s middle name is B.'s name.)

One night, I started to feel the presence of someone else. And no matter how hard I tried to convince myself it was just my imagination mixed with postpartum hormones, I couldn't get rid of the feeling.

There was something evil on my front porch, watching us. Wanting my baby. Even writing these words six years later, I can feel my flesh crawling. There was a demon on my front step, and every time I called for the protection of our angel friends, our Unseen Warriors, it became seethingly furious.

After a week of this, I had had enough. I went out on the porch during the daytime, scattered holy water and holy salt, prayed, and then went inside. At bedtime, I sat in the rocker, looked at the window, and said out loud, "Lord, please send B. to go get rid of that thing." And it was gone.

When I think of spiritual attack, it is this instance that springs to mind in all its weirdness. It's like something out of a novel, or the thoughts of a crazy lady. It doesn't quite seem real. In its frightening absurdity, it shelters and hides other forms of demonic attack -- such as the one I have been experiencing for months.

Anyone who knows me well will tell you I have a terrible fear of non-existence. I used to think of it as fear of death, but dying doesn't frighten me. It's the possibility of nothing afterwards that really gets to me. It's been bothering me so much lately that I've been having little panic attacks, so much I sought some help. That help has greatly reduced my panic, but the very thought process, the doubt, still lingers. I thought I was just having doubts, even as I believed. But I think it's more than that. I think I'm being attacked again, just much more subtly.

An excellent article tonight on the way a demonic attack feels gave me a lot of perspective. It reminded me of my spiritual mentor, G., who always says, "Satan attacks any time you are in the process of a great spiritual good, especially if it has trials (which most do!)" So he attacks during that first year after a baby, when everyone's tired; or when a family is considering one more soul; or when you are trying to increase your prayer life; or when your children are sick and you are making great sacrifices of sleep and time and personal need for them; or when you are helping the poor, visiting the imprisoned, loving the sinner. He attacks seminarians and novices; he attacks people who are considering Jesus; he attacks people doing great and small works for God, neighbour, stranger and friend.

He always attacks me on my three greatest weaknesses: my fear, my pride and my gluttony. And for some reason, I always forget this happens.

In his great work The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis writes about the reality of demonic attack through the fictional demon Screwtape, who gives his "nephew" Wormwood advice. At one point Screwtape addresses humans and our non-belief in the demonic:

"Our policy, for the moment, is to conceal ourselves. Of course this has not always been so. We are really faced with a cruel dilemma. When the humans disbelieve in our existence we lose all he pleasing results of direct terrorism and we make no magicians. On the other hand, when they believe in us, we cannot make them materialists and sceptics. At least, not yet. I have great hopes that we shall learn in due time how to emotionalise and mythologise their science to such an extent that what is, in effect, belief in us, (though not under that name) will creep in while the human mind remains closed to belief in the Enemy."

I think we've reached that time. I wonder how many people reading this (if anyone still reads at all) will believe my story of the demon at the window, while denying the possibility of Christ crucified and risen? And why do I, who has experienced both this and the visitation of a saint, accept the frightening experience and question the sublime one?

Homesick

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Wed, 23 Mar 2011 05:49:00 +0000

This language echoes in my soul, even as I never learned to speak it. My grandfather spoke Gaelic as a young man, but never taught his own children. I still remember him calling me "di dunn broayagh" or "little brown maiden" as a child.

I sometimes think it is a shame my children know little of their heritage as half-Cape Bretoners. Instead, they are wee Canadians to the core.

Minimize the window and just listen to Mary Jane Lamond sing my heritage.

For my friend

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 04:03:00 +0000

From a stone to a fish

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Mon, 21 Mar 2011 04:28:00 +0000

More than three years ago, I blogged about (then) Little I.'s near drowning experience during a swimming lesson. The experience left him with an enduring fear of water over his head, and a reluctance to be in the swimming pool. He was so reluctant that I pulled him out of lessons several months afterwards; he was not passing the first level after months and months, and he had asked for "a break."

However, last summer all of the older children asked to start swimming lessons again, so I enrolled them. I. and A. were in the same class in September; in January, A. moved up to Swim Kids 2, while I. repeated Swim Kids 1.

I took the boys to their last lesson of this set tonight. I.'s lesson is first, then A.'s. so I decided to bring the baby and swim with whichever boy was not in a lesson while the other practised.

I. had his lesson first, then received his swimming report card. He walked up to me, beaming, clutching the swimming badge in his wet fist. He had passed, with only two tries!

He hopped into the pool with me and Baby E. and we started to play in the water. As I watched him swim, splashing and kicking, confidently swimming underwater, I could feel my eyes pricking and my throat clenching. He was having fun, fearless fun, in the very pool where I nearly lost him. This was wonderful!

Fear is a terrible emotion to harbour; it's like a stone in your stomach, or like fluid in the lungs. It pulls you down, steals your air. And now Big. I. is free of it, free and floating. I've never been more proud of him.

New column: Back to work

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Mon, 21 Mar 2011 04:13:00 +0000

Here's this week's column!

Prayer to Our Lady of Perpetual Help for Japan

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Mon, 14 Mar 2011 03:48:00 +0000

Our Lady of Perpetual Help, by iconographer Daniel Mitsui

Dear Mother of God, I humbly ask you now to help all your children in Japan. Mother, please console them as they weep for their dead, search for their missing, and care for each other in this time of need. Protect them from further harm, from the dangers of radiation, aftershocks, and any other tsunamis. Especially, give them the strength you showed as you watched your Son die on the Cross. I ask this all through your Son, Jesus Christ. Amen.

The Red Cross is accepting donations for Japan, as are other organizations. Please, even if it's only $10, give when and what you can. The Japanese are a testament to fortitude, bravery and calm in this multitude of disasters. We all need to support them through these enormous trials.

New column: Big family, lots of comments

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Sat, 05 Mar 2011 19:32:00 +0000

http://www.timescolonist.com/life/family+dynamics/4387372/story.html?cid=megadrop_story#Comments

Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Sat, 05 Mar 2011 05:48:00 +0000

Wow, oh wow, have you heard Adele's new album? Total aural bliss.

29 days to go

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Thu, 03 Mar 2011 05:11:00 +0000

I go back to work in 29 days. How I am going to leave this beautiful, funny and gregarious little guy, I have no clue.

What she said

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Tue, 01 Mar 2011 05:19:00 +0000

Oh, man, I love me some riled up feminism on the Interwebs this week.

If you don't want to read about motherhood and the impact of private life on the public sphere, go away and read something really stupid instead.

Here in the Love of Christ I Stand

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Tue, 01 Mar 2011 04:31:00 +0000

Just really discovered the Newsboys. I wish most contemporary Christian music was this thoughtful. Lots of it is just some dude singing "Jesus, halleluia, holy" over and over.

The Hoover

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 05:29:00 +0000

Baby E. likes to explore the world around him, just like most nine-month-olds. But he has a prodigious talent for finding things that could hurt him, and promptly sticking them in his mouth.
Stuff we've fished out of his gob this week include:

three pieces of LEGO;
dirt;
a hot banana pepper;
many, many pieces of paper;
the front page of the National Post;
a bottle cap;
a plastic bag;
wires;
a crayon;
a magnet.

Yes, I know this shows an appalling level of baby-proofing at my house. But come on, I have three other kids, and they have to live their lives, too. They try their best, but now that E. can crawl, he sometimes saunters into their rooms and helps himself to the bounty of forbidden objects.

My trusting swiping finger is getting a workout, at least.

Another (terrifying) parental milestone achieved

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 17:23:00 +0000

Mr. Sicky-pants, in all his snotty glory.

A. brought home a cold last week, which, for him, involved a whole lot of nose-blowing and a very red and sore upper lip. It was starting to resolve on Friday, much to his relief; I was just glad no one else had caught it.

I put baby E. to bed at nine, and crawled in half an hour later. It had been a long and busy day, and we soon were both snoring.

At midnight, I woke to a strange, almost hissing sound, and a flailing baby. I sat up and looked at E.; in an instant I knew he had croup. He was gasping for each breath, his whole chest coming in. He could barely breathe at all.

I picked him up and ran for the bathroom, thinking a hot, steamy shower would do the trick as it had for his siblings, so many times before. Instead, his breathing became worse. Then he wasn't really breathing at all. His mouth started turning blue.

"C.! Call 911! Call 911! He's not breathing!" I admit it, I was hysterical.

The 911 dispatcher told us to take him outside in the cool air and to wait for the ambulance. His breathing improved a little, but not much.

Just as the ambulance pulled up to our house, E. started to cough and then threw up an enormous amount of phlegm. He started to cry. It was the sweetest sound I've ever heard.

He spent the night at the ER, getting breathing treatments and steroid shots. We've spent the week since dealing with mild dehydration, a stuffed-solid nose, suction and Tylenol and saline drops. He's finally on the mend, but is now, joy of joys, teething his two front teeth.

This is the first time, I think, I've taken a kid to the hospital via ambulance. I'm hoping to never have to repeat the experience.

Wherever we go. However we dress, part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 17:19:00 +0000

Here are some shots of me breastfeeding...

E.'s very first latch:

E. and I on the couch:

Here's E. and I all dressed up for dinner in Tofino on my tenth wedding anniversary (photo by Hubby). Yes, I nursed like that in the restaurant, but used a scarf to cover the top of my breast:

Wherever we go. However we dress.

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 03:28:00 +0000

Forcing a woman to cover up while breastfeeding is an oppressive act. I never cover up while nursing in public because I want to make the point it is acceptable and normal to breastfeed in public, covered or uncovered. The choice is the mom's.

HT to Annie -- great job! www.phdinparenting.com

First column

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Mon, 21 Feb 2011 00:37:00 +0000

http://www.timescolonist.com/life/family-411/Parents+agonize+over+their+kids/4315196/story.html

Look for me every second Saturday in the Victoria Times Colonist.

Stay tuned this Saturday!

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Thu, 17 Feb 2011 05:31:00 +0000

I begin a new freelance gig this week as a parenting columnist with the Victoria Times Colonist. Link love requested this Saturday!

Wow, I still have a blog?

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Thu, 17 Feb 2011 05:27:00 +0000

Yes, I do!

And here is the reason it has been neglected:

Edward is almost nine months old. We adore him. Even when he chews on us.

Repost: Memories of Remembrance Day

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Thu, 11 Nov 2010 19:24:00 +0000

Still up to my ears in laundry, nursing and a bout of mastitis. Please enjoy last year's post, and may you thank a vet today!

Remembrance Day has always been an important occasion for me. As a little girl, I donned my Girl Guide uniform and marched in parade after parade, and laid a wreath for my mother's father, who served as a gunner with the Newfoundlanders in the Second World War. Grandfather Spawn served in many places, including Africa, and was reportedly the tallest man in the British Army.

In university, I was fortunate enough to hang around with friends who were also grateful for the sacrifices of our grandfathers and great-grandfathers. I attended at least two ceremonies at the National War Memorial with Kathryn and John; each year, we skipped classes (shame on Carleton for being open on Remembrance Day) and headed down to the War Memorial to do our duty as proud and grateful young people.

John was a former reservist by then, and made a point of introducing us to any soldiers and veterans he knew. I remember making signs one year, saying "Thank you for our freedom, from students of Carleton University."

One year, the War Memorial was under construction; the government held the ceremony right on the lawn of Parliament Hill. We felt strange, walking onto the Hill; it just didn't feel right. Many people looked uneasy.

But then, music swelled from the Peace Tower. It wasn't the tolling of the hour. It was a song played on the clock's carillon.

"What is that?" I said to John and Kathryn. In reply, John began to sing along.

"They'll be blue birds over/ the white cliffs of Dover/ tomorrow, just you wait and see...."

They were playing war-time music and hymns. "The White Cliffs of Dover" faded, followed by "For Those in Peril on the Sea" and then by "To Thee My Country" and many others. And suddenly, holding the ceremony there on the Hill felt right, and the crowd was united in singing.

The best part of the national ceremony, every year, was the veteran's parade. They marched by, some of them using canes, others being pushed in wheelchairs, as thousand of people lined the route. We would clap, and wave and cheer, and yell "Thank you! Thank you!" until our throats were hoarse and our voices gone.

Back then, I remember feeling as if these were the very last veterans of a "true" war for Canada, the last ones to carry that burden. Little did I know that 12 years later, I would be living in a military house on a military base, with one neighbour and friend just returned from Afghanistan last year, haunted by what he's witnessed; another neighbour who just left for Afghanistan earlier this month; and more friends than I can count who have sent their husbands and wives over to that country. We worry ourselves sick about these friends, and yet we are so proud of their willingness to risk their lives for women and children in another country, women and children who have been brutally oppressed and abused and scarred.

The Hubby is sailing today, and therefore is attending the ship's Remembrance Day ceremony, rather than helping me drag our kids to the local cenotaph. The children and I are watching the national Remembrance Day ceremoney in Ottawa this year, and as always, it's making me cry from a mixture of homesickness and pride and gratitude. But this year, I'm also thinking of D. and C. and the others I know who are modern vets; I'm thinking of my grandfathers and Hubby's grandfather, who served in the First and Second World Wars; and I'm thinking of Hubby, ready and willing to fulfill the same duty these men have.

Of course, like everyone else, I hope that wherever he serves, he stays safe. But I won't prevent him doing what he thinks is right. And I hope the next generation of university students lines the streets of Ottawa to clap and shout thank you to the veterans of this generation, many years from now.

I have no words...

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 05:27:00 +0000

...maybe they're being sucked out with all this milk I make! Will try to update after Hallowe'en.

The cuteness!

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 04:48:00 +0000

I know I'm biased, but isn't E. just the most adorable baby currently on the planet?

We interrupt this spell of writer's block for the following...

noreply@blogger.com (Cin) — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 18:56:00 +0000

Hubby is on a short sail for the next three weeks. I can so relate to Momma Kitteh.