I came across recently an old piece I wrote for one of my teacher newsletters (back when I did prep coverage). It goes back nearly five years. Maybe you'll remember it. If not, enjoy!

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What’s it really like being a teacher, you might ask? Imagine yourself as a cool celebrity. The kind who cannot go anywhere without being noticed. Well, teaching is a job for those who failed at real celebrity status, and so are desperately trying to get some of that pseudo-status. 

At the grocery store:

Child: “Look! It’s Mr. Millette!”

Mr. Millette: “Just uh getting some milk here to help my muscles out… *flexes slightly*… 2% for me.”

Child: “Wow!”

Next day at school, in front of the whole class:

Child: “I saw Mr. Millette at the grocery store yesterday buying milk!”

Rest of class: “Wow!”

Yep, Mr. Millette is pretty cool. He even drinks milk. I was thinking about just how cool I was to students one night. I couldn’t sleep because of it. That or I have a 4-month-old baby. Anyway, sleep wouldn’t come. Unfortunately, I had to spend the next day in Saskatoon with the family. While in Saskatoon our two-year-old John Paul, as two-year-olds do, picked the worst possible time to fill his diaper. Given where we were, I had to do a diaper change in the vehicle. I hunched over uncomfortably in the van. I dared not open the door since we were in a busy area of town, and didn't need any added attention (after all, you never know when a student might walk by). The van became a hot and sweaty box of tear inducing odour. I may or may not have passed out in the operation. But on we went. Tiredness is a funny thing. That is, you don't really feel like yourself. Whatever. I finished the diaper change. Back to our day’s adventures.

As we left one area of the city, we gave John Paul a bottle filled with juice. By the time we arrived at a restaurant we noticed his bottle was empty and John Paul was soaking wet! Arrgh. No change of clothes either. Whatever, it'll dry.

So, we went and ate. Afterwards we went to a mall to buy a few things and lounge around. When we got back to the van, we noticed John Paul was really wet. Like soaked. Even my wife, Becca, and I, who had carried him around a bit, were a little damp. What the heck! How much juice did he spill!?! This was crazy. Becca suggested I pull off his pants to let them dry. He could make the drive home in only his diaper. I started pulling his pants off. Curse his tight-fitting clothes! Those bodacious hips! Every time I kept pulling the pants down the diaper seemed to come down with them. I tried again. Same result. This was getting ridiculous. I looked over at my wife with a tired frustration. She looked at me with horror.

"He doesn't have a diaper on!" she screeched.

"What?!?"

My immediate thought was to ask why not, but then remembered I had changed him last, so there was only one thing I could say: "Well I put one on him! Don't ask me how it got off! Who did it?"

My wife didn't buy it. I guess it's come to the point where I'm that dad. The one who is so out of it that he forgets to put a diaper on a kid. So, we had pee all over us. We were even stepping in it. So what? John Paul ended up getting a brand-new pair of pants in the whole deal. And my wife... let's just say that if she ever forgets to put a diaper on a kid... I'll tease her to no end! So there! Yeah. Watch out. You'll be sorry you ever mocked one honest mistake.

Later that night I repeated to my wife the horror of the situation when I was changing him. The stench. The lack of oxygen. The uncomfortable positioning. I was a hero really. I didn't see her there changing him! How about a little sympathy here? To no avail. Apparently changing a diaper requires that the old one be, what's the word, changed for a new one. 

Details.

And, of course, the next day at school:

Child – “Mr. Millette your shoes are squeaky. Did you step on something wet and sticky?”

Mr. Millette – “Uh… yeah… must be just milk… 2 % you know.”

Child – “Wow!”

If they only knew the real Mr. Millette. Yes, the real me. Diapers and all.

Or even no diapers and all.

On Being God: A Concerted Effort

Yes, another self-indulgent blog. What else is there to talk about these days anyway?

Our school Christmas concerts are now over. I've had a headache ever since they ended. Lack of sleep catches up to us all. The concert I'm in charge of (grades 3-5) went very well. Thanks be to God. Or is that "Thanks be to ME?" Doing yet another concert has made me feel like God in a way. No, not in the all-powerful way. More like in the way of how God makes things work despite human weakness.

I take charge of almost everything. I do the lights, the sound system, fix the sound system, replace the sound system computers 3x, even minutes before the first performance, backup up all sound system items in two different ways, organize all practices, set up, decorate, clean up, and everything in between. It takes about 100 hours out of my life. I try and spoon feed jobs to other teachers. All the pressure falls on my shoulders. The other teachers are blissfully unaware of what happens behind the scenes. I think of how at our local library we went for a Christmas craft night. The library worker had crafts set up in such a way that you'd have to be a fool to mess up the craft. And sure enough that's what people do, mess up. That's just life.

I think of how God works in the world. He surely spoon feeds us. He is deeply concerned with every little detail, whether we notice or not. He takes on our burdens, all too often with us not even noticing. Relationships break? God works behind the scenes to mend them. Pressure from life? "Cast all your cares on Him, because He cares for you" (1 Peter 5:7). Need beauty in life? Look around you, it's everywhere. Though don't we just take this for granted? We would be fools to mess this life up, and of course that's just what we do. Yes, I get to play God for a month and a half. Right?

To make a festive reply: Poppycock.

I mess up sound systems. Somehow God makes it right. I lose my temper with others. The Lord's peace prevails. I try to create beauty. The voices of little children, surely the most beautiful sound of all, are right in front of me in abundance. I lose sleep from stress of making things perfect. Again, "Cast all your cares on Him..." All the pressure is taken by God. I would have to be a fool to not know this. And surely I still mess up. That's life.

Being in charge of such an event is difficult... if you are in charge of it. It turns out I am not God after all. I'm not even an angel. I'm just like every other person. Messing things up, but being uplifted, unknowingly, all the same. And I think I would have it no other way.

 Our arts ed class practicing.

Jamming for a reason

late night dishes

Last night while the kids were finally getting ready for bed Becca hit the kitchen for some canning. You see we've been out of jam for a while. Rather than simply buy a jar of jam, instead we waited for raspberry season to start. Now Becca picked the raspberries then grounded out the seeds and made the jam. The canning supplies were hauled upstairs, and everything was duly sterilized and sealed. In the end we scored a quick five jars of raspberry jam. Oh, and there was still a mess of dishes to clean up.

As I saw Becca do all the work late into the night, after an already tiring day, the thought of "why bother?" certainly entered our heads. I mean, behold the jar of Smuckers raspberry jam. On sale at Walmart for a mere $2.97.

All that work to save $2.97 per jar?! As we did the dishes and tidied up together we started talking about childhood memories. I was recalling how my mom used to stay up well into the night most summer nights getting the canning done. We never knew how much work this must've been. I guess we took it for granted. And summertime was a time of work for sure. Everyday we'd hit the garden, and get the large acreage taken care of. The afternoon often brought a swim, but work never stopped at supper time. My parents always worked well into the evening each night. There was always something to fix, or some garden work to tend to. As Becca and I worked into the night we continued talking about how this work ethic would've been standard for the early farming days. Yes, nowadays much of it can be avoided. I mean, once again, $2.97 for a jar of jam. Yet we must realize just what is lost too. Seeing my parents work so hard, and us having to do the same, certainly taught lessons in hard work, sacrifice, and dedication. 

These indispensable virtues must be passed on.

For our own jam I recall how Joseph and John Paul helped pick the berries earlier in the week. A couple of times they came to me and told me they were done picking. Each time I sent them back out to the raspberry patch to keep working. You stop when you're done, not when you're tired. Eventually Becca snuck out and picked the rest. The late night of canning began with the kids taking note of what their mom was doing. They got to see the work at hand. They most likely glazed over the work, as I know I did as a child, but the point is they were exposed to the labour. And finally, this morning the boys excitedly ran to the breakfast table. They both downed double the amount of toast they normally eat. The jam was completely excellent. Smuckers eat your heart out.

There is more to a jar of jam than meets the eye. It's so much more than just jam. It's a life lesson: that we must labour for our fruit. And we must teach this to our children. One jar at a time.

Learning in a Library

The other day I was at the library (connected to the high school) trying to use up a few minutes while I waited for my winter tires to get put on at the nearby tire shop. So there I was hunched in at the kids section, looking for a few books to bring home for the boys. Just then I heard from the nearby computer section a man politely complaining to a young lady about the computers. I looked over and there was this heavily bearded, 50 something year old man talking about how that particular library computer did not allow access to facebook. Yes, some unfortunate thoughts crossed my mind, to the tune of: "He must not have a job. Just some guy looking for free internet so that he can go on facebook. Pathetic." The person he was complaining to was a 20 something year old girl who evidently was a teacher at the high school and seemed to be waiting for someone (to possibly tutor). Whatever, I went on with my book selection. "Ooh, a Curious George book I've never read! Is it too early for Christmas books? Who writes the Babar books? Nevermind, they seem like communist books to me."


Then I overheard the man ask the nearby young lady: "So what do you think about Trump?"

The girl stammered: "Oh I don't like him. I would've voted for the other one."

"Oh really! Why?" began the man. He then launched into a complete and thorough assault on the disastrous policies of Clinton. The girl replied: "Uh, like, uh, I probably would've even vote if I was there.. uh, but Trump doesn't pay taxes!"

The man then launched into detail about how though he wasn't defending Trump, there are certain tax exemptions he was allowed due to various business losses. He then launched into another assault on the Clinton machine, and their billionaire backers.

"Uh, like, uh I don't know. Like I'm not really sure. But Trump loves guns," was her reply.

More rebuttals from the man. He even launched into a history lesson on certain ideological movements, complete with commentary on the Reagan/Gorbachev Coldwar years. Finally the man, in realizing she didn't even appear to know who those two leaders were, asked in exasperation: "Don't you know anything about politics? Haven't you ever studied history?"

"Uh, like I don't really care for history. Like I never studied it. I just know that I think Trump is mean," she replied.

"You teach here? But you don't know any of these things? What do you teach?" he asked.

"Whatever they tell me" she stated truthfully.

"Well education is dumbed down if you ask me. No offense, but I'm not sure people who haven't studied history should be allowed to vote" the man finally stated.

I wanted to keep listening, but I had to go sign out my Curious George books. I shook my head a little. Boy did I receive a lesson. It seems to me that the man, not the girl, should be the one teaching high school. Bushy beard and all. But it just goes to show the age old adage,

you can't judge a book by it's cover.

Balancing Act

Ahh the good old days. It was all about balance in those days. I'm talking about my three years as a student at Our Lady Seat of Wisdom (formerly Academy). The key to life, happiness, holiness, was balance. And looking back, it was so easy. Yes many of us would wake up at 6am, go to the church and pray, serve at Mass, and then on to breakfast and classes. In between classes the time was set for doing our readings (which were always impossible to keep up on... get to the point Kant!). The day continued as such, and then there'd be some more prayer time, supper, chores, and usually a sports game. We'd then return to our houses to work on essays, study, and relax with friends. Bedtime, for me, was usually at 9:30pm. Weekends often involved essays, sports, spending time with friends, nature, and God. Occasionally even trips to Ottawa were arranged. Just wonderful time. The success of those days was the balance. God. School. Health. Friends. Recreation. Oh my, what a saint I was. Patron saint of perfect students. Patron saint of tightrope walkers, what with the perfect balance.

Looking back, although it seemed like it was a great effort to live a balanced life, we were actually spoon fed this balance. I mean, even our classes were scheduled around a proper balance such as Mass, meals, and sports. It's sort of like waking up in the morning, stumbling into the dining room, and seeing a perfectly cooked breakfast of eggs and bacon, with fresh coffee and orange juice, waiting before you. Yes, you can say: "I ate a hearty and balanced breakfast this morning!" But in reality, the breakfast is so evidently before you... how could you not?

Sigh.

Now it's time to think of the balance of "real" life as a married man with little kids, a job, and other commitments.

First off, waking up early: Check. Though it is more like stumbling out of bed and trying not to pass out on the floor before making it to the living room. Praying (not in the church): Check. Though the prayer is usually a: "please don't let me fall back asleep Lord, I need to get to work on time." And then it all sort of goes downhill from there. There is no opportunity for daily Mass (except for Wednesday nights). So I have to attempt very fervent spiritual communions, or risk living on spiritual fumes. But I'm sooooo tired to make fervent spiritual communions. Spiritual fumes can't be all bad, can they? Right? Work is hectic. It risks encompassing too much of my life. Bad for balance. Some teachers live at the school. Me, thankfully I have little kids to draw me away. They help with balance. Coming home from work involves never ending playing with the kids (which is fun!), chores, changing diapers (which is not fun!), and dealing with meltdowns. Eventually I guiltily steal away to the basement for a quick night workout, just like a knight in shining armour who abandons his princess in order to go play poker with the guys. Guilty as charged. But all in the name of balance! With the workout complete it's time for putting the kids to bed, night prayers, and maybe a bit of relaxation (aka watching sports). A night of restless sleep (Oh John Paul) brings more tiredness. The following pattern is repeated. But it is done increasingly poorly due to less and less sleep. Until by Friday night everything is survival mode. A balance is not yelling at the kids more than 10x a day. A balance is praying evening prayer without stopping 5x to blow someone's nose. A balance is actually spending 20 minutes playing with the kids versus collapsing on the couch and watching sports. In short, a balance, a very poor balance at that, is waaaay too much work. No more spoonfeeding for me. The voice in my head says: "You want something... get off your butt and work for it. I don't care if your tired." Suddenly I risk not replacing St. Joseph as the patron saint of married men. I'm like the patron saint of excuses.

I am grateful for my time at the (formerly known as) Academy. Though it was in hindsight easy, the experience of living such a balanced life has made me, however poorly, at least continue to strive for that balance. Yet life as I live it now also has it's perks. Whereas before I was spoon fed a balanced life, now I am spoon fed a life of sacrifice, dying to self, and love. In the end, there is one thing we are judged on. The one thing that must have no balance. That is love. Yes love is proven through sacrifice, virtue, and so on. But ultimately love must be the greatest of unbalances. To quote St. Jose Maria Escriva (The Way 427): "Lord, may I have balance and measure in everything...
                                                                                                                       ...except in love."

La Messe

We all know the saying: treat each Mass as if it were your first Mass, your last Mass, your only Mass. Words to live by.

It was 30 minutes before Mass. We had done remarkably well, I must humbly add. Supper was finished. Dishes done. The kids not only were dressed, but they'd had a bath beforehand as well. Why, we even had a clothing theme going on!







So I sat down and pulled out the remarkable book: "Preparing Yourself for Mass" by Msgr. Romano Guardini (1885-1968). I read a chapter on the importance of composure at Mass. Guardini explains that silence is not enough at Mass, our minds, bodies, and souls must be composed in such a way as to enter Mass despite the distractions around us (or within us). Beautiful stuff. I read the chapter, reflected on it for a while, and then proceeded to get everyone in the van for Mass. Truly this was going to be a Mass for the ages. How prepared we finally were! Composure. Got it.

There was a hiccup on the way. Joseph was being silly and not getting his coat and boots on like he was told to. No big deal. We still arrived a few minutes before Mass began.

And it began. We read the entrance antiphon. A beautiful antidote, often revealing a theme of reflection to keep in mind throughout Mass. With the antiphon completed, and my composure soaring high towards heaven, Father began with: "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." And then everything went black.

It began with Joseph. He started bopping up and down. Moving around. Wiggling. Talking. Getting books loudly. Drinking water noisily. Not sitting where he was supposed to. Talking back to me. Pushing me away. I looked up and it was already time for the Gospel. I spent the entire Gospel trying to get him to stand up. Threatening him with a life of misery if he didn't stand. No story later. No snack. No hockey stick next year. No use of our vehicles when he's older. No university. To no avail. The Gospel mercifully ended. I think I heard the word "seed" in there. The way it dragged on leads me to believe it was from the Gospel of John. Not a great time for a deep theological reflection. But it was over. Exasperated I flung Joseph onto Becca and told her I couldn't handle him anymore. She took him from me and I sat down to listen to the homily. As Father began I heard Joseph laughing. His laugh produced a laugh in John Paul. John Paul! Where was he?! There he was, hanging out in the centre aisle. He seemed to be playing peekaboo with some of the parishioners. Joseph's laughing made him start to giggle and grunt (John Paul's a goofball). I immediately went to force Joseph to be quiet, only to see that Becca had already had her hand over his mouth, and he was laughing despite the lack of oxygen. Eventually I went and did the walk of shame down the aisle, picked up my one son, and took him to the back. John Paul screamed and kicked in delight.

In the back John Paul squirmed and kicked until I put him down. He immediately made a beeline to a candle on a little table. I fought it away from him, and he zipped over to the stairs. I shooed him away, and then it was off to the wheelchairs, then the children's mailboxes, the collection baskets... where were those darn Development and Peace pamphlets when I needed them!... he needed something to destroy. I scooped him up. He squirmed and kicked. The bell rang for the consecration. He quietly pointed to the front and whispered: "Jshsshsh" (Jesus). How holy of him. Then it was back to war. I looked up and saw Becca with Joseph in a headlock. Well, I could see the thought was in her eyes anyway. Finally we made it to go down for Communion. As I returned to the pew Becca quickly took John Paul from me. Translation: "Joseph's your problem now!" After Holy Communion I got into another war with Joseph over who he was going to pray for. Finally, with a defiant sarcasm I'm sure, he replied: "Daddy." Then Mass ended ("Thanks be to God."). But it didn't! Aha... there was a D&P prayercard in the pews. We all were to recite this prayer. So we stood there impatiently, as John Paul had a squirmy meltdown, while this endless prayer was read: "Sisters and brothers... seeds for sowing... we must change the world... us... as the rivers flow into the seas... waterbottles are evil... Amen." Now it was over. After Joseph blew out the candles we apologized to Father and went home. In the vehicle Becca and I reflected on how we didn't have a clue what the readings were, or homily, or anything. And it was at that moment that I recalled the need to be composed at Mass. Composure to be open to the sacred mysteries. I guess sometimes composure requires small steps.... I didn't kill my kids. Baby steps.

May my next Mass be treated like my first Mass, my last Mass, my only Mass... and especially not my recent Mass.

Amen.

Dad Trads

I remember well going to Mass as an OLSWA student, and later as registrar, and seeing the dads at St. Hedwig's parish in Barry's Bay, Ontario. We're talking about the dads of those families where all the kids came pouring into Mass, always late, with the dad trumping in with his big winter boots and jacket, holding a kid, or two, or three, plus a diaper bag, car seat, some odds and ends winter mitts and scarves picked up along the way, and a Latin Missal so that he can translate the Mass into Latin. The dads are always tired, unshaven, wearing Mass clothes (never jeans) that are crumpled, old, and tucked in at the front only. They'd be spaced out. Their kids would predictably take advantage of them too, and sneakily act up from time to time. What were these dads doing? Certainly not praying, right?

I'd look at that and shake my head. Not too hard, mind you. I wouldn't want a hair to come out of place as I looked all spiffy and proper in my altar boy clothing. Thank goodness I'm not like them, nor ever will be, Lord. In charity, as I would walk by these families holding the processional cross I would be sure to walk with great confidence and zeal. With professionalism and apostolic purpose. Perhaps they will be inspired by this proper display of how to carry oneself at Mass? One does forget things when one gets older.

Sometimes a child or two of these dads would come to serve Mass as well. Heaven help us! They're wearing tan pants! With a black cassock?! I will try to protect these people from themselves. And so I would make sure these kids did NOT ring the bells, where such unsightly pants would be more noticeable. Perhaps they can simply wash the priest's hands. The altar will hide their pants for the majority of the parish who will be watching. 

Barry's Bay was full of such dads. They aren't as common out in Saskatchewan. There are some at the Traditional Latin Mass, but that's more or less all I've seen. I know I vowed to avoid such a la-ti-da attitude towards the Mass. "Familiaris Consortio" exhorts the family to be a sign to the world, after all!

So I was a little surprised to see such a dad at Mass tonight. This dad was the prototypical unshaven space cadet, right down to the winter clothes and late arrival, whom clearly was taken advantage of by his son who was with him. I don't know why some dads are like this. Can it really be that difficult? Are they really that tired? Is this how they treat the Mass?

Then I distinctly remember the boy asking the dad a question. He said: "Dad, are you happy that I'm at Mass with you?" As my eyes focused in a little closer I noticed something peculiar...

...the boy was asking me.




As I was saying good night to Joseph tonight, before I left the room I whispered in his ear: You made me very happy by coming to Mass with me...

...Jesus is very happy with us.