Archive for the ‘Motherhood’ Category

In Like A Lion

20170729_204654_resizedIt’s August. Ack. This feels like the shortest summer on record. What began as a slow, relieved climb out of school on June 29th has me now teetering on the tippy top of a summer mountain that’s threatening to slide me straight through the next four weeks to September without so much as a ‘watch your step’.

What have we done this summer? If you ask me: lots. If you ask the kids: Daddy still owes them Dairy Queen.

In July, I gathered the girls around the kitchen table and got them to write out their summer wish list. No surprise, it mostly consisted of ‘eat s’mores’ and watch Mum and Dad play Mario.

Every kid in our house knows this will parlay into them playing Mario with Mum as she loves those famous plumbers more than Daddy.  Hmmm… I mean, Mum loves PLAYING with those famous plumbers more than Daddy.  Er, um, Mum loves – oh, never mind: Mario is more fun for Mum than it is Dad.

In July, I made a decision: the girls were going to resume swimming lessons. It had been a year since they’d last been in, and with the threat of a big earthquake triggering a tsunami off our coast in the next 50 years; it was probably time to brush up on this life skill.

We started with two-week every day lessons: Monday to Friday at 10am. This way the littles and I could leisurely pad our way through morning routines with little impact to our cicada rhythms.

I have to say it was a well crafted two weeks. Home, pool, home, then back to pool in the afternoon for paid work. The downside?  No time to visit friends, beaches, water parks, or to laze around all day. That was what the rest of the summer was for right? Wrong.

Apparently this mama got a teensy-tiny over zealous when her youngest declared, “I love swimming,” on her second day of her 30-minute lesson.

Let’s be clear: Miss C has NEVER said, “I love” to any sport. So, naturally, this mother needed to strike while the iron was hot. Love you say? Love? Done. Two more weeks of swimming for you. Whatever baby wants baby gets.

So in a couple of weeks, we’re heading back to the pool for happy daughters, a new book for Mama, and no life outside of the recreation centre.

Take note, friends.  This is what good parenting is all about: killing the fun with way too much of a good thing. Stay tuned.

As for you, August? You’ve come in like a true Leo: hot and smoky from the forest fires around our province, and a little intimidating. My cells are playing whack-a-mole with the ‘s’ word as it stealthily creeps.  I grimace at the thought of dimes rushing out of my sailboat fund, like air in a punctured lung, thanks to haircuts, pencil crayons and running shoes times three…

But all is not lost, August.  By my count you have 27 days left, plus 4.  We have thirty-one days to squeeze every last grain of sand, and UV ray out of this summer.  I think we’ll start… NOW.

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We left for Osoyoos on the 8am ferry on July 16th. Our mission was to surprise my husband’s mum (Grandma) for her birthday.

At 6pm that night, Miss S burst into her house with a can of silly string and unloaded the entire contents in the foyer.

Check! Mission accomplished.

We spent four nights and three days in Osoyoos swimming in the lake, visiting The Dominion Radio Astrophysical Observatory and playing on the WIBIT in Penticton.

Yes, my friends, this is the closest to a working vacation that I’ll probably ever have.


The WIBIT manufacturer’s guide clearly states: no under sixes, however, Miss C (5) was given the green light provided an adult accompanied her. Miss S (7) also needed an adult companion. This meant that we only – ha – paid $75 for the three girls to play all day. Adult companions were, thankfully, free.

It was windy and the water was rough in Lake Okanagan. I’d like to think the Ogopogo was angry, or just swimming laps, but I kept those thoughts internal as the five of us swam out.

Once on the inflatable, the trick was to keep your balance. The whitecaps rolling down the lake towards Penticton had a knack for lifting the pieces, twisting them, and making the adults in our party seasick.

Miss C, because of the jolting movement, and the number of big kids scrambling around, wanted nothing to do with the obstacle course the moment she stepped on the ramp.

After a tense swim back to shore with Miss C on my back, threatening to cut off my air supply, we found Grandma. Miss C instantly snuggled her way back to happiness on the beach for the rest of the day.

Miss S and Miss Q, on the other hand, didn’t want to leave. They loved the challenge of the WIBIT pieces. They climbed, slid, were bounced (on purpose) and swung across the obstacle course like monkeys. The rough water and kids didn’t faze them.

The only anchor in their lives was their dear ol’ mum who wasn’t dexterous enough to pull herself up and onto some of the pieces when she fell off… It’s hard with a lifejacket on… oh, who am I kidding? Upper body strength fail.

Also, old age notice number 999: I have learned I’m no longer into running with wild abandon along things that will most likely make me fall. So as Miss Q and Miss S played with wild abandon, I followed behind and perched on the green plastic like Cleopatra would have if she had a seven-year-old she had to keep within arms reach.

There were two lifeguards out on the WIBIT, but they were only helping people out of tight spots, not enforcing any rules. I would say this would be the pit of our visit as watching your seven-year-old being smoked in the chest by a older boy’s feet as he slides purposefully down the on-ramp isn’t wonderful. Nor is watching a teenaged girl jump into the water without looking and land on a younger teenaged boy’s head, sending him and his lifejacket under the water for a prolonged period of time.

Both appeared to be none the worse for wear, but former lifeguards bring your blinders.

Aside from the Wild West feeling, the WIBIT was a fun stop on our trip. I would like to return when the water is flat, the wind non-existent and test it out then. Though at $25 per person is we might wait a couple of years… unless my husband surprises me with a childless lake date next time we’re in the Okanagan.

The flipside of the $25 is I know how expensive the pieces are and how time consuming upkeep is, so if you have kids over the age of seven who can last over three hours on this watery obstacle course, it’s completely worth it.


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You know you’re a parent when you drive an hour up the highway, in the opposite direction from where you want to be, to get a stuffed dragon. Or is your child just the luckiest child on earth?

Miss Q fell in love with a dragon at Tickleberrys, an ice cream shop located in Okanagan Falls (OK Falls to the locals in the crowd). The day we went to Penticton to play on the WIBIT we stopped for ice cream and fudge at 11am and toured the store.

Miss Q and her grandma share a love for all things stuffed. I don’t think they’ve ever met a stuffie they don’t like, and going into novelty stores is always a dangerous endeavor when they’re together.

On the day of the WIBIT Miss Q’s grandma asked her which dragon she liked. Miss Q shrugged and said she didn’t know. Thinking she didn’t want it, we left for the lake.

The problem was Miss Q did want that dragon. She just didn’t realize it until we were driving away. The dragon haunted her until the next morning, but she didn’t say anything until she and I were alone.

There were multiple ways for that dragon to find itself into our home. But since we didn’t have to be at our next destination, Squamish, until after six, it was an easy decision to drive up Highway 97 so our oldest princess could rescue the dragon from its prison.

Of course on our way up the valley, my husband and I had to stop in on a few wineries to rescue the grapes from their prisons.


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The takeaway from our weeklong road trip was the kindness of family. Seeing a minivan with five to seven people (depending on what day it was) pile out is an intimidating sight, more so when you didn’t know the guests were coming.

Yet time and time again, we were greeted with warmth and an ease that can only come from people who were just as happy to see us, as we were them.

Now if you’re reading this and you weren’t happy to see us, your acting deserves an Oscar.

This warmth was felt from Langley, where we stopped to snoop on a friend’s new house. To Osoyoos, where we were treated to an impromptu swim in a backyard pool at one house, and then, at another, relatives took us through an orchard to the border marker separating Canada from the United States. No wall, just a wire fence, for now…  In Penticton we were greeted on the beach by relatives who heard we were in town, and in Squamish, our last leg of the trip, my brother and his fiancée (who knew we were coming) didn’t bat an eye at the Victoria invasion.

We spent three more nights and two days in Squamish.

On our first full day we went to Whistler where my brother had scored us day passes for exploring Blackcomb and Whistler Mountains.

Neither Miss C nor Miss S was thrilled about the chairlift, so we split up: Miss S, myself and Miss Q on one; my husband, Miss C and my brother on the other. This split felt suspiciously like the airline trip of May 2016, but thankfully Miss S was 100 times better in a chairlift.

All nervous nellying was forgotten when we spotted a medium sized black bear eating in the tall grass below. We wished there was an emergency stop button to push so we could watch him or her longer. B1

Of course it was raining at the top of Blackcomb. Rain gear was the only thing we’d neglected to pack.

Feeling hearty, we said, “No thank you,” to the clear plastic tanktop-esq ponchos guest services was handing out, and continued our trek.

Miss C said she liked the gondola ride down Whistler Mountain the best. We didn’t see any bears, but the girls enjoyed watching the mountain bikers. Next time bikes will have to be packed.


How could we not stop by the bakery in Whistler?  The brown bag doesn’t do it justice, but shown here: Miss Q’s head-sized meringue

On our second day, we toured Squamish. We went to a market that had a climbing fair where I signed the girls’ lives away so they could test out the seven climbing challenges. Gratefully, Uncle and soon to be Aunt A-Team, gave them tips and helped them navigate the course.

We left downtown Squamish and hiked to a beach across railway tracks, went to Shannon Falls and waded in the Squamish and Mamquam Rivers.

Sadly on Sunday, July 23, we had to say farewell to this beautiful slice of Canada and return to reality, read: Ikea.

Ikea is where everyone who owns a house on the island stops before taking the ferry.  We don’t have one, so it’s a quirky pit-stop that satisfies all our allen key needs.

I’m not sure what ferry we would have caught if we hadn’t stopped for a bookcase, but by the time we had sampled the lingonberry juice, found the boxes, and drove to the ferry terminal, it was 3:50pm, there was a two-sailing wait.  We were possibly on the six o’clock boat.

Say what you will about the vessels, but I love them. Sitting in the sunshine, breathing salt air is the perfect way to return home.

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“Is Santa a myth?” Miss C asked.

The pencil crayon Miss Q held dangled over the birthday card.

The sleeves of the shirt Miss S rolled flopped towards the carpet.

Three pairs of eyes bore holes through my skull.

My brain jolted from nostalgia (Miss S was packing for Brownie camp) to stress-level midnight.

“Why do you ask?” I replied nonchalantly, frantically trying to recall what other mums had done or said. There were stories on the internet, good stories of ways to transition believers to helpers without crushing the magic. Do you think I could remember any of those stories at 8:30 in the morning in the middle of June?

I should have just said, yes, he’s a myth, like Bigfoot and fairies, but my mouth wouldn’t form the words; couldn’t form the words.

“Well, I know the mall Santas aren’t real,” Miss C continued.

“Why do you think that?” I asked. Maybe I could keep deflecting her questions with questions.

“They’re Santa’s helpers,” Miss Q said. “Santa’s too busy to be in the malls.”

“Yeah, they’re elves that help Santa,” Miss S chimed in.

Miss S was clearly a believer, but Miss Q was harder to read. At ten, I got the sense she was trying to help me out, but I didn’t want to assume.

“The Santas at the mall are creepy,” Miss C said. “They don’t look old, and Santa’s supposed to be old. And they all look different. I don’t want to sit on their laps.”

Had she been chewing on that for the past 24 weeks? She’s always flat out refused to go near anyone dressed up, so we never press the issue. Her closest encounter with a mall Santa was when one hung a candy cane from her pigtail.

“You don’t ever have to sit on Santa’s lap, you know that, right?”


Had she just rolled her eyes?

“Well the reindeers aren’t real either,” she stated.

“Them too?” I exclaimed. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to Miss C that wouldn’t destroy the magic for Miss S and, possibly, Miss Q. How could my five-year-old be leading this charge?

“The reindeers eat the carrots we leave out and there’s no mess,” Miss C explained.

“Have you ever seen a horse eat?” I rebutted, unsure where my brain was going.

“Yes. If you put food in your hand: no mess. If you leave food on the ground: mess.” Miss C shrugged.

“What about Mrs. Claus?” Miss Q asked. “Do you think she’s real?”

“Well I don’t know,” Miss C said. “If Santa’s real, then she is. If he’s not, she’s not.”

“Do you believe in magic?” Miss Q asked.

“No,” Miss C replied.

“You don’t believe in magic?” Miss S asked incredulously.

“What about fairies?” Miss Q pressed. “Do you believe in them?”

“Yes,” Miss C said.

The adult should say something. Or maybe the adult shouldn’t. Maybe the adult should slink out of the room and wait out the eight hours till her husband comes home…

According to Miss C: Santa is large with no wings, therefore he can’t possibly fly like the fairies, and there is fault with his sleigh design. In her opinion, Santa would need reindeer at the front and the back to keep it from tipping… or add an engine like in a space ship.

…Have you ever found yourself tumbling down a rabbit hole?

“I think Santa’s Daddy,” Miss C concluded.

This suggestion ignited the room. Plans were made to tie my husband to the bed on Christmas Eve. As the last one up on Christmas morning, I am not a suspect.

“Maybe you should write Santa a letter,” I suggested. Letters are the civilized answer to every problem… at least this one.

An hour later, Miss C spoke to her grandma in Osoyoos:

Grandma: What are you doing?

Miss C: Writing a letter to Santa.

Grandma: What are you asking for?

Miss C: Nothing. I’m asking him if he’s real.

Yes, Miss C, there is a Santa Claus, I wanted to say when we were alone in the car eleven hours after our conversation had begun. Instead, I told her about the love and happiness Santa brings at Christmas, and how people want to share that love with others.

Predictably, Miss C wrinkled her nose. “I don’t feel like that at Christmas.”

“Oh? How do you feel?”

“Regular. Like I do right now in the summer. Just, you know, normal.”

My suggestion that she might change her mind as she gets older, was met with an exasperated, “Can we mail my letter now?”

“What happens if he writes back saying he’s a myth?” I asked.

“Then I’ll know. And if he never replies, I’ll know he was either too busy, didn’t get my letter, or dead.”

“Sounds about right,” I said.

It’s been a week since this conversation first happened. Miss C asks me almost daily if we can mail her letter that sits on our kitchen table. I always say, “Sure.”  But in a very Canadian twist, I feel a pang of guilt for passing the buck to the Canada Post employee tasked with answering Santa letters.

Would it have been so wrong to decisively blurt: No there isn’t a Santa. Deal with it? Probably not. Alas, I’m a selfish parent who enjoys this magical tale, so now I must reap what I sow.


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At Field Hockey

Today I sit across the field. For the first time, watching from the steel bleachers and soaking in the sun usually reserved for other parents. Parents who have brought lawn chairs and coffee mugs. Parents who casually check their phones and discuss world-views while their daughters breezily follow the directions of the coach.

I’ve brought a lawn chair too. For two seasons, it has waited patiently; hopeful one day I’ll take comfort in its canvass.

Today I watch my youngest step away. For the first time, she steps from the safety of the net. Goalies, she says, don’t have to run. Yet today, she suddenly has confidence to join her teammates at midfield. She walks shoulder-to-shoulder with them. Watches the multi-colour ball slide past their sticks. Fishes the multi-coloured ball out of the net. Starts anew.

She’s growing. Last year, her stick was as long as my forearm. Her shin pads would have protected my big toe. This year her yellow shirt hangs just above her knees. Her stick is as long as half my leg. Her mouthguard doesn’t consume her entire face.

She is learning. My youngest. Last year, she refused to participate in anything unless I was on the field with her.  At 4.5 years old, she was not ready for concepts of ‘team’ and ‘sport’.

This year, she still refuses to play tag, but likes drills and tolerates games as long as, excluding today, I stay within arms reach.

For the past eight weeks, I’ve questioned my desire for her to try sport VS. her desire to watch her sisters’ practices and games from the sidelines while snuggled in my lap.

When is she old enough to decide for herself what she does and doesn’t do? How will she learn what she likes and doesn’t like if she doesn’t try? What happens if she hates everything?

Then she ran. For the first time today, she had wind in her hair. Her legs rose to 90 degrees, and stretched to the edges of her balance.

My five-year-old has wheels.

Her hat flew off her head.

She stopped running.

“Maybe I didn’t feel like running anymore,” she says when I offer to hold her hat. And I kick myself for giving it to her, because if it wasn’t there to distract her she may have continued her sprints, but you can’t second guess a five-year-old.

Time is a funny fella. With the addition of 365 days, here I am: watching instead of running. Silently cheering instead of cajoling. But what I did this week to inspire her fingers to let go and legs to churn is mystifying.

Maybe it wasn’t me.

Maybe it was her.

Maybe this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship between my youngest and sport.

Maybe… maybe!

After practice, my youngest looks up. Her legs crossed, shin pads off, pink socks slouched. Instead of talking to me about field hockey, she states, “I’m going to need a feather and some ink so I can write properly,” then opens her notebook.

Maybe… maybe.

Maybe I should wait and see what happens next week before taking the bag off the lawn chair and brushing up on my world views.


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Life has stepped up its game.

This morning we had to get three bikes, three helmets, twelve lemon raspberry muffins, six quarters separated into three equal piles, two permission forms – one with a Twoonie attached, and one ‘my favourite fruit’ show ‘n tell to school.

All this on top of the usual, wake, feed, dress, hair and lunch making times three. Oh and Miss Q had track practice at eight, which is a full forty-six minutes earlier than Miss S and Miss C needed to be at school.

Thankfully the earth to my wind and fire baked the muffins, packed the car and took Miss Q to school so our other two moons and I could accomplish the rest.

Back on the kitchen table, two school projects hang above my head like mini guillotines. Though they’re 100% Miss Q and Miss S’ responsibilities, I know when they’re due, and can’t stop my internal clock from ticking.

Miss S has a diorama to make of an ecosystem.  She’s chosen, wait for it: the jungle.

Miss Q is still working on a journal of her four-day trip to Hawaii that she took two weeks ago.

When Miss Q’s teacher sent home the empty workbook, she probably figured Miss Q would tape in some memorabilia and write a few sentences on how amazing Hawaii was.


My detailed, artsy-fartsy daughter is currently on track to fill all 68 pages. (Look away. She’s not my mini-me.)

The plus side is it will look fabulous when it’s done, and will be a beautiful keepsake. The negative is Miss Q’s teacher has probably labeled us: slacker parents. You know, those parents who didn’t enforce the homework the teacher took time out of her life to get ready? Those parents.

In a world hungry for blame, we could blame this upturn in my household’s activity on the fact we have three school-aged children, or on the teachers.

I mean, really? Bike Rodeo? Bake Sale? Track Meet? Field Trip? Fun?  Parents are tired. How dare my daughters’ teachers continue to assign projects? How dare they expect my darlings to read daily when the sun’s out and the backyard’s calling? Don’t they know summer is five weeks away?

Oh, I’m sure they do.

But here’s the thing, with 24 days left, if our children’s teachers weren’t instructing, there would be pandemonium in the streets. Pandemonium and its trendy cousin: Internet troll.

So, if in May, Miss S’s teacher has her grade twos researching the challenges facing their chosen eco system, good. Great, even.

The end of the school year is just as important as the beginning. Like any race, you want to find your second wind, and finish strong.

Come June 29th at 2:44pm, this mama will gratefully slow her orbit. Until then, it’s onwards and upwards to Special Food Day, Bell Choir, Spring Fair, Beach Day…



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