We’ve crossed over.

Into August with the feel of summer and the gravitational pull of September.

Twenty-five, twenty-four hour days stretch in front of us, waiting to sizzle our skin, show off the planets, and wrap our fingers in marshmallows, but my eyes scan the horizon.

I can hear the hooves echoing on the brown grass. Wisps of dust are sucked skyward. The vibrations begin to buzz my toes.

Sleepy mornings are slipping.

The empty calendar is filling.

Freedom is falling.

And yet, there are twenty-five days between us, and the hot breath of the beast.

So we waste the minutes with cartoon mornings. We agree to attend birthday parties. We attempt to live in the moment with glue guns and sparkles.

We ignore September’s pokes and prods.

The emails about soccer tryouts. The ads about school supplies. The questions about start times, end times and how it will all be accomplished.

There are still ice cream cones to be licked.

Seaweed to slip on.

Ghostly walks to take.

Play on summer, you’re not over yet.

sky cm

sea CM

July’s Sky to Sea Adventure.  We hiked up and down Mount Tolmie and then played at Gyro Park.




Good-Bye Grade 5

I’m sure schools in the 90210 zip code provide their parents with free botox before emotional assemblies. Jackie Taylor would never be caught dead sobbing into a hankie while watching Kelly level up in the world. While Mrs. Walsh, being from Minnesota, would have declined, at least for the first few years, but eventually the pressure from Brenda for her mum to stop being embarrassing and conform would’ve sent her right to the beauty doctor.

Yesterday morning was an exercise in crying pretty. Botox in my tear ducts would’ve helped. Same with Kleenex. My husband and I were the only ones around us without a hankie to hide the dam as it broke.

Why do we have to celebrate our children? Why do they fill us with so much pride that it leaks and runs down our faces? Why do their teachers care so much that they too get verklempt when wishing our children well on their travels?

Why world, why?

Because we’ve been there for them. All of us. We might not live in remote huts in the middle of the rainforest, but it still takes a village to raise a child, yes, even for those of us who are checked in to our children’s lives.

Miss Q’s been at her elementary school for six years: kindergarten to grade five.

It was a leap of faith for my husband and I to send her to the neighbourhood school, instead of following friends to the preschool’s elementary school, but we had one goal for our child: consistency.

We wanted Miss Q to stay at one school from start to finish, to make friends, and to find a community. We wanted her to feel stable and be as confident as the Pink Ladies in Grease and “rule the school.”

Six years later, ironically, few staff members have seen Miss Q through her elementary school career, but the building and her friends have remained the same, so like Hannibal from ‘A-Team’, not ‘Silence of the Lambs’, says, “I love it when a plan comes together.”

Over the years, Miss Q’s had teachers who sparked her creativity, and teachers who nurtured her artistic side. She had a teacher who fostered her budding interest in botany, and ghost hunting, and a teacher who believed in her sprinting skills long before I did.

She had a teacher who told us that there were no more books left to challenge Miss Q, so she spent her middle elementary school years drawing.

We found out belatedly, that there was a teacher who plied six-year-old Miss Q with up to 15 jellybeans a day for the entire school year just for behaving in class.

A teacher who told us Miss Q would be bullied in middle school because she didn’t speak up in class and wouldn’t look the teacher in the eye.

Teachers who refused to let us in, and teachers who welcomed us with open arms.

Teachers who taught Miss Q, and teachers who taught us, her parents.

Teachers who instantly ‘got’ Miss Q, and teachers who took longer to figure her out.

It’s no surprise, Miss Q has rolled with it all, and she hates jellybeans.

She is the kid who buries her nose in a book to avoid the crazy whirling around her classroom. She is the kid who’d rather shine the light on someone else than have it shine on her. She secretly enjoys it when the grade ones find her on the playground and when the kindies whisper to their parents, “That’s my lunch monitor” when we’re in Starbucks.

She is kind. She is mischievous. She is athletic and smart.

She is the reason I needed botox yesterday.

Hair down for the first time in her life at school (she’d better not get lice), wearing a t-shirt dress and comfortable shoes, she looked every bit a tween on her way to grapple with a combination lock, art classes, and sports where, maybe, hopefully, everyone doesn’t have to win?

She’s worked hard. She’s given back. She pauses at the garbage and asks what parts she can recycle.

My husband and I have worked hard too. We’ve made lunches. We’ve kept tabs on library books. We’ve signed contracts not to sell our minivan so we can continue to drive half the class on field trips.

These grade fives are the kids of tomorrow. Our future, and they’re completely oblivious of their place in society. There is an easy-breezy spirit about them. They still do cannonballs into swimming pools, and shriek across their desks at each other. They get paranoid when playing ‘Cheat’. They eat pizza and drink soda pop. They look after each other.

They care.

We care. So much it pours down our faces at assemblies.

But even if they contain ‘then and now’ slideshows, year end assemblies are necessary life markers. They’re the payout: six years of good citizenship, six years of getting up in the morning, homework done, ready for the day. Six years of playing the game. They did it.

Their teachers did it.

We did it.

Let the village rejoice as the eleven year olds march down the dusty road to find their next adventure.


One day, using your dad’s Hawaiian shirts for decoration will be embarrassing.

A Month Of Lasts

June 1st marked the start of the last month of Miss Q’s elementary school career and now the lasts are beginning to build: last whole-school concert, last track meet and, perhaps the most important last, at least to this mama, the last time the sisters will ever be at the same school as a trio.

The ends of the school year are always tinged in bittersweet and wrapped in hope as our girls level up in their lives. This year, I want to press pause, and hold the final notes of the year in the palm of my hand a little while longer.

Come June 29th, my girls will navigate the education system as individuals or in pairs: Miss S and Miss C first, then Miss Q and Miss S, Miss S and Miss C, Miss Q and Miss S, Miss S and Miss C, but never Miss Q and Miss C. It’s a tag game that will last a decade.

How are they feeling about it? Oh, just fine, thank you very much. Last week they piled out of school complaining about each other.

Miss Q: We had to go outside and cheer on (the middle school) on their 5km walk and Miss S wouldn’t stop staring at me.

Miss S: Miss C dumped my snack at recess.

Me: I’m sure it was an accident.

Miss C: It was!

Me: Did you share your snack with Miss S?

Miss C: Only because she came up to me and said I had to.

When I was in grades five, six and seven, all three of my brothers and I attended elementary school together. I don’t remember being sad when I started high school without them.

Oldest child to oldest child, I know Miss Q will be the same. This is her time. Her excitement is building about going to school with an art room, strings orchestra, and sports.

I have a short video from the afternoon Miss Q came home from her first day of kindergarten. She’s wearing a paper raccoon hat and her sisters, who clearly missed her, are clamoring for her affection.

The ten-month-old baby throwing herself at Miss Q, is now six and lost one of her top front teeth last week. She has a gap the size of Canada in her tiny mouth. Like any self-respecting mother, I’m encouraging her to wiggle the other top tooth harder.

This is my last chance to have a child who’s missing her two front teeth. My last chance to annoy one of my children by singing that famous Christmas song. My last chance at childhood firsts with a child who is rapidly leaving her early primary years in the dust.

The three-year-old in the video is now eight. She’s determined to be in the lead when we’re riding bikes, and satisfyingly spacey when it comes to the bad behaviour and words flying around her grade three classroom. “Miss A (her best friend) told me the f-word was in the music video (her lunch monitor) put on for us, and I don’t even know what the f-word is.”

How long will she hold onto this golden innocence? Should I lock her in a tower now?  What about Miss C? It’s probably not too late for Miss Q to head on up there either.

For the record, the school dealt with the f-word issue lickety-split.

Sigh.  Lasts. I should be more embracing of them. Change my thinking. Retrain my brain not to see them as misty-water-coloured memories, but rather exciting milestones. Whoo-hoo.

After all, like the tide, as the lasts run themselves out, the firsts start to build: first day of summer vacation, first day of middle school, first day of being the oldest sister in the school…

Don’t sell your stocks in Kleenex just yet. Whether they’re lasts or firsts, this mama’s eyes are equal opportunity leakers.

So bring on the hotdog days, the field trips, the assemblies and the rituals of saying good-bye. We’ll finish the year strong, and see you on a beach in July.


41 Candles

The morning of my birthday, I burned all twelve slices of double smoked bacon that cost $8.99 a pound. The girls needed rugby forms signed and hotdog money paid. I only had a loonie in my wallet, so I broke into Miss C’s piggybank and wrote her an I.O.U. for the remainder.

Window-shopping in Oak Bay Village turned into new shoes for my husband and a quiet whisper for me, “Sometimes when our feet are hot, they swell,” the saleswoman hissed.

“No, my feet are naturally wide,” I said, using my regular voice.

foreAfter school, we took the girls golfing for the first time. In the middle of the third hole a drunk man walked up and said it was his turn to play. Proper golfing etiquette states you can’t use your iron to flatten fellow golfers, so we left our balls on the green and let the wannabe human and his gal pal play through.

Some days you have to wonder.

But through the wonder, there’s always good.

Sweet to salty.

Kind to crappy.

Turns out, potential carcinogens don’t bother my husband. Robbing a piggy bank meant three less lunches to make this Wednesday. My mum met us for birthday lunch and the waitress presented me with the tastiest key lime cheesecake I never would have ordered.

The girls want to return to the links.

We had both sweet and sour pork and pepperoni pizza for dinner.

tulipsI found a gorgeous bouquet of tulips tucked inside my front door, along with a scratch ‘n win that won $10.

There were well wishes, exclamation marks and heart emojies.

It was a day where the small gestures meant the most. Where a song on my answering machine from my niece and nephew made me laugh. Where my children’s handmade cards and presents shone. Where plans of birthday bingo, birthday happy hour and a birthday barbecue gave promise to a weekend of new discoveries, nostalgic laughter and parents who gave up their symphony tickets to cook me food.

As the day that marked my 41st loop around the sun came to the end, I sat, squashed on our couch surrounded by my four favourite people, watching Lemony Snicket’s Series of Unfortunate Events.

Belly full.

Heart content.

Focused on the peace of the here and now.



The letters arrived by the hundreds. Falling down the sooty walls of our chimney. Sticking to the glass doors on our fireplace. Pouring out across the hearth. Spilling onto the living room floor.

“Dear Miss Q, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts…” the mysterious letters, addressed to our house in green ink began.

cakeSausage sizzled, hot tea steeped. A sticky chocolate cake was produced – though it looked as though it had been carried in the pocket of a giant someone while they rode a motorcycle through the sky. ‘Happy Birthday Q’ was written in green icing across the top.

Though her parents were prepared for this day, having shopped in Diagon Alley for all the necessary first year books before hand, it turns out our Hermione had read everything we bought, even though her wish list said otherwise. So after a quick game of quidditch soccer, we found ourselves back in the bookshop.


Wandering the aisles and aisles of books stacked floor to ceiling, Miss Q was in her happy place. Fantasy, magic, warrior kittens, worlds of adventure, friendship; quest after quest filled her arms.

As she was now eleven, Miss Q was granted her wish of a sleepover birthday party. Two weeks later, four friends huddled under our porch light with their parents, three came with sleeping bags and pillows in hand, one smartly decided to abstain from the night of no slumber.

A visit to Honeydukes and then potion’s class before bed? It wouldn’t be a proper party without tempting fate.  Besides, they did have a class on the care of magical creatures and a movie (Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone) to break up the sugar rush.Junk food

In between eleven and seven were shrieks, giggles, yelps and the occasional shuddering of walls.

You never know what kind of sleepover mother you’ll be until you find yourself sitting in the living room listening to restless tweens at midnight. First, there’s the unspoken pressure of the other children’s parents… what would they think if their daughter didn’t get forty winks? Would they silently judge you or worse, ban their kid from your house? The flip-side is the girls are contained, in a room, safe and free to be themselves.

In my day sleepovers were a rite of passage. If my friends actually slept over (you know who you are) they were filled of immaturity, hilarity and good times all around. Having a parent open the door and say ‘go to sleep’ just made things funnier.

I chose to let it ride. No expectations of sleep. No expectations of what Sunday would look like. Livin’ la Vida Loca. Around two o’clock I came down to tell them to keep the shrieks to a minimum before tucking myself into bed. I believe it was about 3am when I heard the last round of laughter.

magical creaturesIn the morning, during divination class, they had to decipher the shape of their pancakes while I told their fortunes. “The next car that drives by will be your future car.” Cue the police SUV. Will that girl end up becoming a police officer, or wind up in jail? Time will tell if Professor Trelawney’s prediction comes true.

Last year, JK Rowling tweeted, “All these people saying they never got their Hogwarts letter: you got the letter. You went to Hogwarts. We were all there together.”

Rowling, of course, is correct. Miss Q was pleased to read, in a follow up to her acceptance letter, that if she couldn’t make it to Kings Cross by September 1st, she could find a portkey to Hogwarts by opening any Harry Potter book and having a read.

However, all the imagination in the world couldn’t have predicted what we found in our real mailbox on Miss Q’s real birthday.  There lay a real acceptance letter addressed to Miss Q from the real school board.

“Miss Q is registered at (insert name) Middle School in the English program for the 2018/2019 school year.”

Not as flowery as Minerva McGonagall’s letter. Not hand delivered to a stormy island by Hagrid. Not from Miss Q’s first choice of wizarding schools.

But it’s good to know magic still exists.


Miss Q donated half of her birthday money to saving the spotted owls with the Canadian Wildlife Federation.

Just Like Jane

I once thought I would never take my children out of school.

Then we went to Osoyoos for Easter and catching the Thursday ferry was easier than fighting the crowds at the terminal on Good Friday.

I once thought I would only take my children out of school to catch the Thursday before Easter ferry.

Then there was Disneyland. Then there was my brother’s wedding. Then there was an offer to test drive a car in Hawaii.

I once thought I would only take my children out of school for a once in a lifetime event, and the Thursday before Easter ferry.

Then there was a movie. A sure it may pop up on Netflix in a year, movie, or we might find it in Victoria’s last video store, movie, but what happens if it doesn’t or we don’t movie.

The movie was about Jane Goodall and her early years in Gombe simply titled Jane’ but it could very well have been titled ‘Miss S’s Calling’.

Yes, at eight, our middle daughter is still smitten with primates. She is still certain that when she’s older she will move to Africa and study them alongside Jane.

When I gently pointed out that Jane might not be alive by the time she finishes school, without skipping a beat, Miss S said, “I’ll have to find someone who knew her to teach me then.”

Her sisters have helpfully pointed out there are snakes and spiders in the jungle, but that has never worried Miss S. Like Jane, it turns out, she believes they won’t bother her. Guess that leaves her dear old mum wearing that worrying bag.

“If I don’t work in Africa, then I’m going to work at Monkey World in England. If I don’t get to work at Monkey World in England, then I’ll probably work at Tim Hortons. And if I don’t work at Tim Hortons, I guess I’ll work at your pool,” Miss S outlined in January.

It should be noted that the reason she wants to work at Tim Hortons is so she can eat as many toasted bagels with cream cheese as she wants. Yes, we’ve all told her she won’t be able to find bagels in the middle of the jungle.

One guess on her reply.

A house in the jungle.

Chimpanzees peaking through the windows.

Being alone.

Just like Jane.


This is why I pulled Miss S out of school at lunch one Friday and took her to the movies.

“I think I’m the youngest one here,” she whispered rather loudly as we sat in the dimly lit theater.

She was also the only one on the edge of her seat as the house lights faded to dark.

Miss S was captivated. Everything she’s ever read about Jane was confirmed and everything she didn’t know about Jane was like a firework exploding in her brain.

“Jane washed her hair in a river in the middle of the jungle.”

“Jane didn’t even go to university.”

“Jane said she would work with chimpanzees until the day she dies, so I will probably get to learn from her.”

Swept up in the romanticism of my middle child’s delight, I forgot that chimpanzees have needs. I toyed with clamping my hand over Miss S’s eyes as we watched what seemed like hours of footage, but was probably only two minutes, of male chimp after male chimp having s-e-x with Flo, their matriarch. while present day Jane narrated, “It was here we realized chimpanzees had more than one mate.”

It was all very scientific – Miss S didn’t even flinch. By contrast, in December she was horrified (as was I) when she looked over my shoulder and saw a post from TMZ. “Why would someone post a picture of their naked butt?” she exclaimed. Thanks for both our #lifelessons Twitter.

When Jane was first sent to Gombe she needed a companion to go with her so she took her mother, Margaret. Later, Margaret helped raise Grub, Jane’s son in England while she, Jane, continued her work.

Tanzanian jungles, movies, traveling, Thursday before Easter ferries… Maybe the real lesson in all this is as a parent you never know what you’ll end up saying ‘yes’ to, or where in the world your children will take you.

The 29th Tooth

ToothMiss C lost her first tooth!

On January 7th.

Siiiiigh. Such is life when you’re the third child, and the biggest thing to happen to you since being allowed to stay up to ring in the new year has taken your mum fourteen days to announce.

This tooth, Miss C’s first, is the 29th tooth to be lost in our house. Miss Q has been sporting her full set of adult chompers for the better part of the last two years, while Miss S is holding strong with eight permanents and no wigglies in sight.

Let me be the first to tell you, the 29th Tooth Fairy visit is JUST as stressful as her previous stopovers.

First of all, there’s the expectation that the loss of a tooth will coincide with exact change. Heaven forbid the Tooth Fairy slips a twenty under the pillow when the other sisters have faithfully collected quarters.

Don’t even get me started on the power of suggestion as the excited child prepares the perfect tooth collecting spot. “It’s pretty dark in that corner. Do you think the Tooth Fairy will be scared to fly across your unicorns?  They could snatch her out of the air and gobble her up.”  “What’s wrong with placing the tooth under my pillow?”

Then there’s timing. Sure, Miss C’s usually in a deep slumber by 8:30, but her sisters’ full moons still shine back at you long into the evening.

Never mind the moves one has to make to grab the tooth, make the exchange, and fling glitter. I feel like a Cirque du Soleil ninja acrobat. Would it be too obvious to add ‘clean your floor’ to the tooth fairy legend?

princess_and_the_frog_mama_odie-t2Also never mind, that I feel like Mama Odie in the Frog Princess with my tooth collection. It’s been asked before, but what the heck do you do with the lost teeth? Hot glue them into a puppet’s mouth? Send the teeth to a mad-scientist for cloning? Is there any way to make my money back on these puppies?

The reward, of course, is the joy on Miss C’s face as she runs into the kitchen holding her shiny coin. She made it! It only took her a month of wiggling the stubborn incisor to gain membership into the club.

By my calculations, we have 31 Tooth Fairy visits waiting in the wings. Thirty-one more times to experience the myclonic jerk. You know the one: you’re under the covers of your bed, the day’s events are slipping from your consciousness, your eyes have just closed, and suddenly two words blast into your brain: TOOTH FAIRY.


Thankfully for Miss C she won’t have to wait very long for her next fairy visit. She bit into a chocolate lolly this afternoon and felt a seismic shift in her second, bottom, front, baby tooth.

Here we go again!


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