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Rrrrright!

As parents, we spend a lot of our time helping our kids learn new things, master new skills, in short, we help them grow up. And then, when it happens, it comes as a shock or at least a slight surprise.

Not too long ago–well, about a week ago, actually–"R"s were a very difficult sound for Solanne. She sounded like a young (and very cute) Elmer Fud: "I weally don't wememba that stowee."

Maïa tried to teach her sister how to pronounce the elusive R. She would correct her, remind her, cajole her. Solanne would try and try, but if pushed too hard she would remind us all, quite firmly, "I can't say Aws, it's too hawd!"

And they are. Francophones have a hard time with those English Rs. Think of it, your voice has to be able to register much lower for an R than for other letters (say it out loud, and you'll notice it). And it's at the back of your throat, in a most unexpected place for sounds.

Then, seemingly out of the blue, Solanne just got it. And then she got it again. And now, a few days in, I barely recognize her accent anymore. Her little voice hits that low note inside her throat and out comes her perfect little R.

Milestone: two-wheeler

Just in time to beat the snow, Maïa has learned how to ride a two-wheel bike. Last week, she managed about four or five seconds at time. But yesterday afternoon, after school, Maïa got up on her bike and kept her balance for half the length of our lane. Yay Maïa!!

Just when I thought it was a lost cause, that she would have those training wheels on until high school, she just up and went. Fly, my girl, fly.

L'étoile du jour

Yesterday was Solanne's big day. She had been waiting weeks for the day she would be l'étoile du jour.

When we first visited with Solanne's teacher in late August, we were introduced to the notion of the étoile du jour. Each day, a child would have the responsibility and the honour of being the star. This child would get to sit in the middle of circle during circle time and add the date to the calendar. She would bring the attendance sheet to the office and get to pick out a friend to accompany her. She would bring a toy for show-and-tell, and she would get to wear a little hat with a star on it to indicate her special status of the day.

It all sounded like lots of fun, but I was concerned about Solanne's language abilities in French for the first few weeks. Given that she was likely to be one of the first children to be picked for Star duty, on account of our name, I suggested to the teacher that she not put Solanne first. I thought she might cry being put on the spot and asked to talk to all the children.

There are moments in my "career" as a mom that I am happy that I'm wrong, and this was one of them. The teacher happily complied, so Solanne was the last on the roster to go. But after the first day of having an étoile du jour, Solanne came home and asked when she would get her turn. She couldn't wait! We had the calendar with the names of each star for each date. Solanne had to wait over three weeks. She seemed fine with the idea, but she was nearly beside herself with anticipation. Every day, she asked me when she would get her turn. Last Friday, we started a day-by-day countdown.

Weeks ago, she decided what she would wear for her day: a long-sleeved shirt with rainbow stripes on the arms. And about a week before her turn, she told me that she wanted three pig tails for the event. And every time she talked about it, her face lit up and she would literally bounce with joy.

She finally got her big day yesterday. It was everything she'd hoped it would be. It went well. She did the calendar (en français), wore the hat, chose a friend and brought the attendance sheet to the office – she even had the good fortune to run into Maïa in the hall for an impromptu hug. And her pigtails stayed in all day.

Zooming into the information highway

Maïa and Solanne have discovered email. Maïa was first with a quick message from her Nana's account to a friend of the family. Next was Solanne (with a lot of help from Mom), to the same friend, from Nana's account again. And here's one they composed together (to Nana, from Daddy's account):

I love cats and I love to play with cats i love you

frome your grand dotrs maia and solanne
we love to draw and write we did this email i put 2 letrs then solanne put 2 ltrs we playd out sayd we had a good tayme we love you love maia and solanne

Coming soon: their own email addresses. Then you, too, could receive messages from them!

First day of school

Today marked the first day of school for both Maïa and Solanne. It proved weird for me on both fronts.

This morning, Maïa and I headed out to her bus stop a couple of short blocks from our home. We met another girl (grade five) and her dad who were waiting for the same bus. A far cry from the 18 or 20 kids that waited with Maïa last year, most of whom lived on our street. This is an anglo neighbourhood, and our kids are being bused out to a French school.

When the bus came, we made sure it was going to the right place, and Maïa climbed up and waved good-bye. That was it. I haven't met her teacher—didn't even know her name until Maïa told me what it was today, after school. No meet-and-greet, no notes in an agenda, nothing. I feel like I'll be sending my kid into a black hole every morning, and she'll emerge, more or less safely, at the end of the day, slightly changed for the experiences she'll have had—without me.

On the other hand, we got to meet Solanne's teachers this morning. Teachers (plural) because the French system is ingeneous and incorporates free daycare every other day, so that Solanne gets full days at school: one full day of official "school" followed by a day of daycare. It's all integrated and seemless, except for the change of teachers. And both her teachers seem géniale.

Solanne will have what they call une entrée échelonnée, which loosely translated means "most inconvenient to parents." This week, there was the meeting with the teachers, then Friday she'll go for the full day, with five other classmates (this schedule dictates that Sol has to stay home on the other days while her classmates all get the opportunity to experience class in a tiny group). She'll be starting her regular schedule Friday of next week.

This has left us scrambling to find care for her. And here's my sudden awareness that I'm a working mom. Correction, we're working parents. Once upon a time, I was a working mom, but Derek was home, so if something came up, Derek could take care of it. But now with Derek planning his classes (and later, teaching) and me about to experience the busiest couple of weeks at work (because of this), neither of us have the option of taking time off.

We do have the extreme luck and luxury of being close to family again and able to ask grandmothers to pitch in (hey, they say they want to...). But I sometimes feel like I've failed somehow when I show up, hat in hand, asking them to take care of the kids, yet again. Like I've failed to keep my ducks in a row, or failed as a mom by having to put my job ahead of my kids (of course, when it comes down to it, I'd quit any job that didn't let me take care of my kids, but still...).

So while I struggle with Maïa's newfound independence from me and the fact that my teeny little baby is starting junior kindergarten, I'm also facing the working mother's dilema (or false dichotomy) of job vs kids. Never two without three, I guess.

Tangled

As I type this, Derek is reading a bedtime story to the girls: Charlotte's Web. It's the first time that he's ever read the story himself, and it's also the first time that he's read a novel to the girls. The first instalment was on our drive down to St Catharines last week. This week, they've had a chapter every night before bed.

Last night, Wilbur the little pig found out that he was being fattened up so that he would make a good Christmas dinner. Derek was reading away, but he noticed that Solanne became very quiet. She wiped her eyes. And sniffed. Then she piped up: "These silly eyes. They keep having tears. Why won't they stop?"

I was floored to learn that a three-year-old would put on such a brave face, to face sorrow and injustice. She's learning to be strong, to hang tight. Sometimes I wish they didn't have to learn that particular lesson.

Here's what Momma does for a living

...well, this is what she used to do.

A big part of my job for the past few months has been writing articles. I was the Managing Editor for a new external e-newsletter. I researched topics, interviewed visa officers and refugees, hired photographers, and wrote articles. I also managed the entire back end of the project: all the techie stuff as well as the giant bundle of red tape that needed to be sorted out. I was told that my articles were good, and I was really looking forward to my project seeing the light of day.

My brand-new newsletter was ready to go out, when I was told that it was put on hold, perhaps indefinitely. It is a long and tortured story, so if you want to know the details, you'll have to ask me in person.

Luckily, I had applied—and was hired—for a new job. So do not despair: I won't be out on the street!

While the newsletter is almost a distant memory now, some fruit of my labour remains. I had the opportunity to work on Success Stories (a regular feature on CIC's website) and write this article. It may be propaganda of a sort, but it's well-written propaganda, don't you think?

We're in!

The furniture is all in, my family is all under one roof, and we're even almost done unpacking all the boxes. We're home.

Derek is busy putting the final touches on his thesis, so the computer is prime real estate right now. But I will catch you up on all the fun things soon (including adventures with Bell and our party-line... I wish I were kidding).

Pictures to follow. Stories, too, I promise.

Dans les boîtes!

...or, we're up to our necks in boxes!





Who knew that bookcases make great little forts?



... as do empty closets!



Momma and Daddy are busy cleaning...



While the kids make the best of a chaotic situation.



Now we're packed and ready to go.

Wanted: cheap labour

uh... I mean good friends willing to give a helping hand!

We are officially moving on Sunday, June 15. I realise this is father's day and it might not be possible for some, but I'm throwing the invitation out there, anyway.

If you'd like to help, we would love to have you with us. We'll spring for pizza and beer... but only for the folks who end up in Ottawa with us. If you help us load up the truck in Montreal, we'll have to figure out some other kind of compensation. We need:

In Montreal: people to help load up the truck, starting around 11 am. If it's a nice day, possibly earlier to bring everything downstairs before I get there with the truck.

On the Ottawa side, we need people to help unload the truck. If we get enough people, we can do what we did last time, which was to have a line of people up the stairs and just hand boxes up (this, of course, doesn't work for couches and the like!). Last time, we unloaded the truck in about 30 minutes. Pizza and beer to ensue.

If you're up for it, great! Just send an email to me or to Derek. And if you can't help out, that's okay, too. We can recruit you to help us clean, paint, renovate, crawl under our deck... there are endless jobs for our dear friends and family!

Cabane a suc'

In this part of the world, it is impossible not to celebrate spring. The cold begins to lift, the snow melts into rivulets, and the sap in the maples starts to flow!

Our annual tradition is to take my mom out for her birthday to a Sugar Shack. This year, my mom's boyfriend/partner/beloved, Hedley, joined us for the festivities.

Here is our day in pictures:

Forgiveness 101

"I'm sorry that I did this." These are Maïa's words, and I hear them before I see what she's done.

What in the world is it now, I wonder. I look up, and I see my brand-new round styling brush—the one I've just told her not to touch—rolled up into and dangling from her waist-length hair. I tell her it's okay, I'll fix it.

She's asked for my forgiveness, and I've barely given it a second thought; of course I forgive her. Despite my assurances, she tells me she's sorry, again and again, as I carefully untangle the mess. Maïa has already learned that when we've made a mistake, we're pulled away from the one we've wronged. And the person she's wronged is the very person who can make it right again.

Asking for forgivenss is one of the hardest things for people to do. It means owning up to being mean, or just plain dumb. Saying, "I'm really sorry I hurt you," opens up a space for being rejected or for knowing that our mistakes have been revealed. Yet it is in this revelation, this kind of relational nakedness, that we can begin to heal. More likely than not, the hurt party will both admit they've been hurt and
acknowledge our contrition. Instead of grudges taking hold and growing disproportionately, we can make amends and begin walk together with the other on the road to healing.

Maïa could have chosen not to tell me what she'd done. She could have pulled at the brush, tangling it worse. Then she would have had to rip or cut her hair out of the situation. She might have then tied it into a lopsided pony tail, hoping that I wouldn't notice the brokenness. Instead, she came to me. Not to Grandma or to Daddy, who didn't know she had been warned, but to me.

Every day, I understand a little more the phrase from Isaiah, "and a child will lead them."

Great expectations

I have discovered, slowly, experientially, that expectations tend to rule our experience of joy.

As a child, I had never imagined or dreamed about a wedding day and the "necessities" attached to that day. My expectations were limited to wanting to have a big party to celebrate with my family and friends. I had the advantage of being the first of my friends to be married, so I had no model to which I should hold myself to—or against. The result: I loved our big day and have no regrets.

A family home, on the other hand, was something I have dreamed about for a very long time. Even as a kid, I loved looking at floor plans of new homes. The real estate section of the Saturday paper enrapted me with their pictures and plans like the comics held other children. I knew I liked Victorian houses. I knew I liked big rooms with lots of windows and light pouring in from all sides. I knew I liked trees and big back yards. Gardens and attics framed my homey expectations.

As I grew, a whole world—beyond suburbia—opened up to me, and I had the to opportunity to experience the urban side of life: both my high school and university were right downtown. My first apartment was in the Byward Market because by then I had already fallen in love with the busyness and attractions of urban areas. I loved walking to class in minutes, getting groceries at little shops along the way, frequenting countless restaurants that were within sight of my tiny apartment, visiting the local arthouse cinema weekly without having to worry about parking or bus schedules.

Derek and I decided, early on, that we're city people, at least for right now. We have built our lives around being close to where we work and play. So when we started shopping for a house in Ottawa, the options for us were clear. The main geographic criterion was outlined by our chosen school's boundaries. The main criterion in terms of options was, clearly, our budget.

Very quickly, my expectations were colliding. On the one hand, I didn't want to give up our almost car-free life, and on the other, I wanted to big house with the big yard. But without lottery funds, there was no way I could reconcile the two. We had to choose. And for Derek, I would wager, it was a no-brainer. But I must admit that for me, there were hesitations, vascillations. I would look up the downtown houses on mls and compare them to suburban houses of the same price, and I would bemoan the obvious difference in both house and land size.

My expectations, the assumptions I had made years ago, on what I should have, struggled to rule my heart. I realised, with frustration, that these expectations were built not on reality, but on suppositions, on a sense of entitlement. So I'm still working through the slight disappointment at not having a backyard (though we do have a huge deck). I have rationalisations at the ready, so I am well armed. But what it really comes down to is working through my expectations to get to the other side intact, and being more than happy with our new home.

A very, very, very fine house

After weeks and weeks of closely watching the unbelievably sloooow yet red-hot housing market in Ottawa, we've bought a house! There were moments of self-doubt, of panic, of worry, but in the end, we've found something that not only meets our needs but that we like a lot.

The girls were staying over at their Nana & Grampa's for the week for an unrelated reason, but it turned out to be good timing. We saw the house on the Tuesday and put an offer on it that very evening. The next morning, we got a counter offer and took it. We were signing the papers at noon and on a date to celebrate it over my lunch hour. Thursday and Friday were eaten up with mortgage brokers and lawyers and house inspectors (oh my!). We signed the final papers on Wednesday, and the house is officially ours.

Mind you, we'll have to wait until June 2 to call it ours and to start making it ours. The whole process is long and rather surreal. Have we really promised to spend that much money? Over 25 years? Good lord, how do people do this?

But then I remember that we'll be close to a big park and to the river, and I understand how we do this. It's a tiny corner of the world that is just ours, for our kids to grow up in. To make memories in. To stay safe in. It's home.

And here's a little taste of what you'll see when you come to visit us. Any time after mid-June, you're all welcome to come see.

I love teenagers

Seriously.

On Thursday evening, I went to SPAF (spectable pour aider les finissant(e)s), a fundraiser talent show that showcases the artistic abilities of the students at my alma mater, De La Salle. DLS, we were always proud to note, is the only French-language arts school in all of Ontario. I hadn't been to SPAF since my last year of high school, but a dear friend of mine—from high school—is now teaching there, so we thought it would be fun to attend. Five of my six best girlfriends from highschool, along with our token male friend, met at our old high school for the big event.

The old clichés still hold true: the place felt familiar yet smaller. It felt foreign but oddly comforting.

Kids were running around, flushed and busy with the execution of the big night they'd been planning for months. Kids in funky hats. Kids with piercings. Kids with normal clothes. Kids that looked like the kids from 1996.

The show itself was fun. The numbers were rather uneven, but it didn't seem to matter to them. The very talented stage band kept it all together: they played everything from hard rock to blues to funk to ballads. And then there were the various dance numbers, some strong, others less memorable. And the various bands and à capella singers. And visual artists showed their stuff in fun and innovative ways. There was even a young woman, whom I assumed is in the writing program, who recited a strange yet heartfelt ballad accompanied by a guitarist.

The evening had been about homecoming, but the feeling of coming home struck me in an entirely different way than I had expected.

As I watched these young people perform, I felt their energy and I remembered, more through my gut than in my mind, how it felt to be that age. Teenagers have this amazing exuberance, this verve that overflows from their lanky bodies and out into the audience of whoever is willing to sit down and listen for a few minutes. They are visibly trying to figure it all out, physically and emotionally, and so they create, create, create. Their world is small but it is expanding at an alarming rate, and so, too, are their minds.

I not only witnessed their aliveness, but I caught a bit of it myself. I was lucky to be a witness to what those kids had to share, even the painfully bad stuff. Their enthusiasm and even their angst seeped into me, and I brought just a little bit of that home to inspire me in my own art—of writing, of living, of being.

Necessity is the mother of invention

Twins are said to possess a language of their own. From a very early age, they communicate with body language and strange sounds and make themselves understood to one another. There are reported extreme cases of twins who make up an actual language, or shorthand, that no one can decipher—not even their poor parents!

Though my girls are not twins, they are close enough in age—and friendship-wise— to have mannerisms that are unique to the two of them.

Witness the verb tense they have made up. I call it Sayour Tense. In fact, I think it's its own mode. It's not conditional, it's not subjunctive. It's something else altogether.

I'm not sure of its origins and when exactly they started using it, but I am very familiar with its usage (I've even been known to use it with them). The Sayour Mode is constructed exactly like the past tense: you were, I was, I ate, I walked, I loved, etc. But it is used to describe events that are about to unfold, in the imaginary realm.

When Maïa and Solanne are coming up with an imaginary situation that they will act out, a pre-game game that is becoming more and more elaborate, they describe what they will play out. It goes something like this:

Maïa: Okay, Sol. Say you're the prince and I'm the princess. And we were going to the ball. And then a dragon came to get us and we ran away.

Solanne: But then I did not see it and the dragon getted you and then I had to catch it.

It's an interesting and elaborate scheme they've developed to describe this whole world that they've made up. And the tense is reserved only for this activity. They don't use the past tense to describe, say, what they are about to draw or colour.

I like watching their little minds work and innovate to fix a problem. After all, if we had a verbal mode to express the imagined, they wouldn't have had to invent it, would they?

200

According to my Blogger account, this is my 200th blog post.

Coincidentally, 200 is also the number of kilometers (almost exactly) between here—my mom's house—and my family—my house.

When the prospect of my having to commute back and forth between Montreal and Ottawa first came up, I actually thought that it might be a little difficult, but in the end, I wouldn't mind it so much. It was since last summer that I was feeling a little cramped, a little lonely being at home and not in a formal workplace. It was time, I had decided, to set out and go back to work.

So when I was offered a job in Ottawa, I happily, and excitedly, accepted. My supervisors were more than willing to be flexible with my work hours, which allow me to work my 37.5 hours in four days, leaving me the opportunity of having three-day weekends in Montreal.

I pictured me travelling along on the Voyageur bus, back and forth between Ottawa and Montreal—a trip I know well— reading a good novel, perhaps writing my musings on life and the meaning of it all. And weekends spent with Derek and the girls, living out our last months in Montreal, visiting our favourite places and discovering new ones before we leave. Dinners with friends. Leisurely packing up our belongings. And in Ottawa? I figured that since I didn't have the children to look after in the evenings, I would be free to do all kinds of activities. I might sign up for a pilates class. I would definitely see my friends... at least once a week. I would visit houses with our real estate agent. I would get some writing done. I would manage, through all these activities, to talk to my girls before bed every night.

The 200 or so kilometers separating me from them would be a kind of blessing, a time to settle into my new job, a time to find our new home and slowly begin to transplant our roots back here. It would be a time of reflection, of breathing life into an old Cristina that has been hanging quietly in a closet for some time.

But those 200 kilometers have my soul stretched taught over two provinces, over geographies I know so well that they have become a part of my self. I am pulled to a job I know is the best thing, at least financially and stability-wise, for my family. I am pulled to caring for my children in the most basic way, to holding them, to laughing with them, to waking with them before the earliest signs of morning. I am pulled to my home town, to the place that is green and lush, surrounded by water and bikepaths, to my family, both blood and acquired. I am pulled to my greatest love, to my Derek, who is unwavering in his support, who is fighting his own battles, who loves our girls as fiercely as I do.

I will travel those 200 kilometers tomorrow, relieving for a moment the tightness in my chest. I will hold my children and tell them I love them. I will kiss Derek, feel his beard against my cheek, and know I've arrived home.

Knock-knock jokes

Maïa is into knock-knock jokes, but I don't think she's quite understood them. We taught her this one:

Maïa: Knock, knock.
me: Who's there?
Maïa: Banana.
me: Banana who?
Maïa: Knock, knock.
me: Who's there?
Maïa: Banana.
me: Banana who?
Maïa: Knock, knock.
me: Who's there?
Maïa: Banana.
me: Banana who?
Maïa: Knock, knock.
me: Who's there?
Maïa: Orange.
me: Orange who?
Maïa: Orange you glad I didn't say banana?

Then she made up this one:
Maïa: Knock, knock.
me: Who's there?
Maïa: Princess.
me: Princess who?
Maïa: Knock, knock.
me: Who's there?
Maïa: Princess.
me: Princess who?
Maïa: Knock, knock.
me: Who's there?
Maïa: Princess.
me: Princess who?
Maïa: Knock, knock.
me: Who's there?
Maïa: Prince.
me: Prince who?
Maïa: Prince you glad I didn't say princess?

I guess making up jokes takes time to learn...

New year

A new year has just begun, and this year, more than any other in my memory, I feel the changes coming; I feel them almost overwhelmingly. Usually, our lives revolve around the school year, and so changes occur in the late summer and early fall. Other times, changes come unexpectedly, at various points in the year. But 2008 will be different.

2008 will see me beginning not only a new job, but a new career path. I will be starting work in the federal public service, in the communications sector, in the coming weeks.

2008 will see us leave our beloved Montreal, leaving the friends and neighbours who have become so dear, leaving the city that has come to feel like home in so many ways.

2008 will see us return home to Ottawa, to the bosom of our parents, our oldest friends, and our home church at Ascension.

2008 will see us jump headlong into home-ownership, for the very first time.

2008 will see me spend long periods of time away from my girls (and my dear husband) as I work in Ottawa and commute back to Montreal on the weekends.

2008 will see Derek finish his PhD as he moves on to new challenged in the hallowed halls of academia.

2008 already feels like a great tidal wave, rising on the horizon, waiting to sweep us into the torrent of life, of change.

So my readers will forgive me if I'm a little absent and write a little less; they will forgive me, too, if when I do post I seem especially melancholic—or ecstatic.

Grab your surfboards, my friends, it's gonna be a helluva ride.