By the time you read this, we will be about to leave, already in the plane or maybe even landing. It doesn’t get more vague than that, I know.
Yearly Archives: 2014
March was the month when the blog was most visited (165,708 visits… what the hell did I write about that month?!), followed by January (138,070 visits, must have been our trip to Mexico) and April (137,746 visits).
Here are three winter skills every Canadian should master, inspired by a banana, gloves and a walk in the cold.
“Boxing Day” had nothing to do with sports, unless you consider putting products in a basket, waiting in line and swiping your credit card is an activity involving physical exertion and skill. No, Boxing Day is about the other national sport—shopping.
I am writing to you on behalf of Mark, our two-year-and-two-month-old toddler dragon. You may remember him from the mall—he is the kid who is fascinated by Christmas lights and decorations but claims he is afraid of you. Yes, well, this is Mark.
My poor dry hands are a constant reminder that winter is here, and that the season is tough on the body and the mind. I can’t do much for my spirits but eating Lindt chocolates and taking long walks when there is still light out (i.e. before 4 p.m.) and when it’s not too cold. For my body, I can buy “fixes”. Sort of.
The holiday season is in full swing, and even though I am the self-described “mother who sucked at Christmas”, I’m trying to get in the mood. Sort of. So here are our holiday season wins and fails so far.
We called more daycare centres—all with interchangeable cutesy names involving “love”, “children”, “wee” or “bear” —booking tours if they didn’t hang up on us. We drove to places well outside our neighborhood, filling up endless forms—“what do you want from a daycare?”, “list the three main ways you want your child to grow”, etc.
Mark doesn’t care about the Santa book I’m holding and the great speech I had prepared. Hopefully I will have more success with the heart-to-heart mother-to-son conversation we will have one day about where babies come from.
This isn’t a blog time machine, you haven’t jumped into the future and lost twelve years, Mark isn’t a moody teenager yet—just a toddler who entered the “no phase.”
At the tender age of two, Mark just lost his first job. A victim of capitalism—one more.
Just a few years ago, on the first snowfall of the season, I would have taken dozens of pictures. I briefly considered snapping shots of yellow leaves on snow and bare trees in black and white but I couldn’t bring myself to, mostly because the article I had in mind would have contained way too many expletives to describe my feelings about early winter.
Mark loves “machines”. “Machines” can be, well, any machine—air con units, vacuum cleaners, washing machines… anything with a loud engine that roars, bonus if something spins and he can see it.
On October 30, Feng and I were scrambling to find a Halloween costume for Mark. I had been sick all week and I didn’t have the chance to plan ahead. So while I was looking for last year’s pirate hat in the closet, Feng drove to Dollarama to buy a few accessories.
I’m not sure how many words there are in English, but after having a quick meeting with myself, we decided that whatever the magic number was, it was not enough. We need more words in our vocabulary. I said so.
I should invest and buy Starbucks shares. Or apply for a barista position. Either way, it’s time to get something out of my coffee shop addiction.
One of the first things I noticed in Canada is that North Americans seem to be much more sensitive to smell than Europeans. For instance, many workplaces have adopted a “scent-free policy” for environmental sensitivity and health reasons—apparently, people reported scents were causing issues such as headaches, dizziness or skin irritation.
So why are the Conservatives stalling the implementation of a proper daycare system? Because it’s easier to play the guilt card: it’s not right when “parents are forced to have other people raise their children”. Someone, please, explain the Conservatives that daycare services are not a fucking alien abduction.
The woman looks at Mark and me as if we were crazy. Yes, I have a kid who craves apples. The very same apples we have at home, the very same wedges he ate in the car when we picked him up from school an hour ago.
With Mark at school, I should be able to resume a normal 9-5 routine. Except I don’t have one.
If Chinese are overly polite, North Americans tend to be overly cheerful and easily excited. I grew up as a cynical French, so it felt very strange at first to be swaddled by so much eagerness and earnest niceness.
I’ve known my in-laws for 12 years now. It’s not a secret that I don’t like fruits. It’s not a big deal, really. And yet, every few weeks or so, depending how often I see them, they offer me fruits.
At home, we have two ways of dealing with sickness. Feng is ultra-careful and takes drugs whenever something hurts or something doesn’t feel right. If he could quarantine himself from the world, he would. On the other side, I pretend it doesn’t exist. No, I’m not coughing. No, I don’t have a fever. No, I’m not passed out in bed.
Filling out daycare application forms is a tough exercise. You’d think you’re applying for Harvard—although I strongly suspect the main admission factor is the cheque you have to write every month.
Yes, Mark is going to daycare. It’s about bloody time.