For weeks now Maïa has been over-the-top excited about how she and her classmates were going to teach her school how to save the planet. This, of course, was in preparation for today: Earth Day. Maïa's role in all this was to tell everyone to print double-sided.
Solanne had the very important role of Wind in the play her class put on for the day. She wore blue and green. And she also informed me that trees make air.
I was also involved in Earth Day, helping with the logistics of a Green Fair at work. Our branch showcased what we've done over the year, including instituting double-sided printing, using recycled paper, running an awareness campaign about switching off lights and powering down computers. Oh, and I wore green too.
In all of this, I'm noticing that these actions the kids and I were highlighting were tiny. Minute, really, in the grand scheme of things. But somehow, the sum of all these things really does make a difference. And now I'm a little excited about it all, too.
For an interesting read on what a local lunch place is doing, visit the Green Rebel website.
Here's a fun site for all to explore: measure your carbon footprint, as well as your water, tree, and land usage. It's for kids, but it works just as well for grown ups: Zero Footprint Kids.
Bonne Journée de la Terre!
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Squirrels and their love affair with our family
On a warm Easter Monday afternoon, Derek was sweeping our deck when he discovered a nest inside our folded parasol. Now it serves us right to have the thing destroyed by creatures for having left it out all winter. In our defense, if you've been on our deck, you know we don't need a parasol: four large Manitoba maples take care of the shade for us.
Derek called the girls and me over. The nest was large–about a meter long and over 40cm in circumference. Derek looked inside and didn't see anything, so he started poking at it, and showing the girls how nests are made. At this point, we still thought it was a bird's nest, and an abandoned one at that. So soon, we pulled it down in order to dispose of it and get our parasol back. As the nest fell on the deck, we heard loud chirps. "Oh no! Shit!" was all Derek could get out, and the girls began to scream. I herded the girls into the house while Derek dealt with the fallout.
He managed a look inside and spotted three tiny little squirrels. The chirping stopped. So Derek called me out to help him get the nest back into the parasol. I thought the little rodents were done for and protested, but Derek and the kids were so distraught that I figured we had to at least try. So we frantically placed the nest back into the parasol, closed it up, leaned it against the house, and snuck back inside. And within half an hour, a grey squirrel made her way to the nest, crawling through the top of the parasol where she had chewed a hole.
And one by one, she carried those babies out and whisked them away to a new home. The nest had obviously taken a while to make, so I'm not sure what kind of makeshift home she found for her babies, but they all got out.
This is not the first time we have rescued squirrels: in fact, they seem to come to us for help.
When we first moved to Montreal, Maïa attended preschool at the local Y. One afternoon, on his way back from picking up Maïa, Derek spotted a squirrel on the ground. City crews had been out, trimming trees, and this little guy must have had his branch cut out from under him. Derek picked him up, wrapped him in his jacket, placed him in the back of the Chariot, and brought him home. That evening, Derek brought the squirrel to the SPCA, likely so it could be allowed to die peacefully.
As we were leaving Montreal, we held a garage sale on our front lawn (lawn sale??). Toward the end of the afternoon, we spotted two very young squirrels on the lawn. There was something strange about them: they weren't their usual nervous squirrel selves. In fact, they were rather relaxed, which just isn't right for a squirrel. So Derek picked them up, which didn't take much effort, put them in one of the boxes we had out, and brought them to a local animal hospital. The clinic wouldn't take them, but luckily someone there made it their business to rescue and rehabilitate wild urban creatures.
I'm not sure what the conjunction of these three stories says about us, so I'll leave it open, but they are interesting, so thought I'd share.
Derek called the girls and me over. The nest was large–about a meter long and over 40cm in circumference. Derek looked inside and didn't see anything, so he started poking at it, and showing the girls how nests are made. At this point, we still thought it was a bird's nest, and an abandoned one at that. So soon, we pulled it down in order to dispose of it and get our parasol back. As the nest fell on the deck, we heard loud chirps. "Oh no! Shit!" was all Derek could get out, and the girls began to scream. I herded the girls into the house while Derek dealt with the fallout.
He managed a look inside and spotted three tiny little squirrels. The chirping stopped. So Derek called me out to help him get the nest back into the parasol. I thought the little rodents were done for and protested, but Derek and the kids were so distraught that I figured we had to at least try. So we frantically placed the nest back into the parasol, closed it up, leaned it against the house, and snuck back inside. And within half an hour, a grey squirrel made her way to the nest, crawling through the top of the parasol where she had chewed a hole.
And one by one, she carried those babies out and whisked them away to a new home. The nest had obviously taken a while to make, so I'm not sure what kind of makeshift home she found for her babies, but they all got out.
This is not the first time we have rescued squirrels: in fact, they seem to come to us for help.
When we first moved to Montreal, Maïa attended preschool at the local Y. One afternoon, on his way back from picking up Maïa, Derek spotted a squirrel on the ground. City crews had been out, trimming trees, and this little guy must have had his branch cut out from under him. Derek picked him up, wrapped him in his jacket, placed him in the back of the Chariot, and brought him home. That evening, Derek brought the squirrel to the SPCA, likely so it could be allowed to die peacefully.
As we were leaving Montreal, we held a garage sale on our front lawn (lawn sale??). Toward the end of the afternoon, we spotted two very young squirrels on the lawn. There was something strange about them: they weren't their usual nervous squirrel selves. In fact, they were rather relaxed, which just isn't right for a squirrel. So Derek picked them up, which didn't take much effort, put them in one of the boxes we had out, and brought them to a local animal hospital. The clinic wouldn't take them, but luckily someone there made it their business to rescue and rehabilitate wild urban creatures.
I'm not sure what the conjunction of these three stories says about us, so I'll leave it open, but they are interesting, so thought I'd share.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
It was at Nana and Grampa's in the country – a mild, early spring day. Maïa came running into the house and pulled at my arm.
"Come outside Mama. I want to show you something I don't need you for anymore."
Those words, spoken with such exuberance and personal accomplishment.
Those words, air bursting out of lungs, pride leaping out of heart.
Those words, broadcast through air, sound waves dissipating in rivulets around us.
Those words, moving my curiosity to witness her great discovery.
Those words, tearing away, irreparably, a tiny piece of that cord binding me to her.
"Come outside Mama. I want to show you something I don't need you for anymore."
Those words, spoken with such exuberance and personal accomplishment.
Those words, air bursting out of lungs, pride leaping out of heart.
Those words, broadcast through air, sound waves dissipating in rivulets around us.
Those words, moving my curiosity to witness her great discovery.
Those words, tearing away, irreparably, a tiny piece of that cord binding me to her.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Home
I got in my inbox, a few weeks ago, a call for participants. A woman doing her PhD in sociology was looking for people to interview on the topic of home. I can never resist these kinds of appeals, so I responded. My assignment: send in a picture that depicts home for me, and make myself available for an interview on the topic.
The picture, above, is what I sent in. It was the first photo that came to mind, and it was the only one that fit.
It's a shot I got of Maïa last November, on an unseasonably warm day. It was the first time she rode her bike on her own. Here, she's gliding down our little lane, sure as the breeze that carries her.
The day after I sent the researcher my image, we spoke for about an hour. The details of our conversation are unimportant. As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words. So I offer up this one as my 1000 words to you this week.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Family Day
Ontario fêted its second Family Day yesterday. Stores were closed, provincial and municipal employees had the day off, kids stayed home from school. But federal employees had to punch their time card. So I took the day off to be with my girls.
As Derek toiled away at a book proposal, the girls helped me sort laundry. Then we played games and drew pictures. And we went to the movies.
Our local movie theatre, the Mayfair, is a landmark in our neighbourhood. For Family Day, they and a local real estate agent put on family day matinées. So Maïa and Solanne and I took in E.T. for free, complete with complimentary popcorn for all. The girls enjoyed the movie—scary parts and all.
After the movie, we visited Grandma and Poppy. We had dinner and played a round of Sorry!
I had a great day, and I hope the girls did, too. But I realise that I consider it to have been great because it brought me back to my childhood. I was about Maïa's age when I first saw E.T. with my own mother. And part of my childhood traditions was to visit my grandma and play board games. I know for Derek's family, the big ticket traditions are very important, like Christmas at Gramma's. But for me, whose big holiday events changed from year to year, it's the little things that tie me to my past: shopping with Mom and Grandma on Saturdays, playing board games at Grandma's house, watching the Smurfs on the weekend.
I try not to put too much emphasis on what we do together, but rather on the fact that we're doing it together. I hope they enjoy our family days, whether they're official holidays or not. The best I can hope for is that they remember the love and laughter we share.
As Derek toiled away at a book proposal, the girls helped me sort laundry. Then we played games and drew pictures. And we went to the movies.
Our local movie theatre, the Mayfair, is a landmark in our neighbourhood. For Family Day, they and a local real estate agent put on family day matinées. So Maïa and Solanne and I took in E.T. for free, complete with complimentary popcorn for all. The girls enjoyed the movie—scary parts and all.
After the movie, we visited Grandma and Poppy. We had dinner and played a round of Sorry!
I had a great day, and I hope the girls did, too. But I realise that I consider it to have been great because it brought me back to my childhood. I was about Maïa's age when I first saw E.T. with my own mother. And part of my childhood traditions was to visit my grandma and play board games. I know for Derek's family, the big ticket traditions are very important, like Christmas at Gramma's. But for me, whose big holiday events changed from year to year, it's the little things that tie me to my past: shopping with Mom and Grandma on Saturdays, playing board games at Grandma's house, watching the Smurfs on the weekend.
I try not to put too much emphasis on what we do together, but rather on the fact that we're doing it together. I hope they enjoy our family days, whether they're official holidays or not. The best I can hope for is that they remember the love and laughter we share.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Monday, November 03, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
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!
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!
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
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?
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?
Sunday, July 13, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, June 09, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
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!
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!
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
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:
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:
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
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."
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."
Saturday, March 29, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
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.
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.
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