And Now He Is Seven

Another year has passed, another twelve months where my little boy belongs that much less to me and that much more to the outside world. Time is a mother's thief. It's a funny conundrum, I relish watching my child grow, develop, learn, connect the dots, realize his potential. However, on the other hand, I desperately miss being his entire universe, his preference to my lap over entering a room full of strangers, rocking him to sleep, and reading "Good Night Moon". Time is a indeed this mother's thief.


However, enough introspection, this weekend was birthday party time for a bunch of seven-year olds at a local bowling alley. It was complete with girl drama and resulting tears, breaking-up of wrestling matches on the bowling pistes, and the unexpected doling out of a small fortune on the game machines. But it also included 'Happy Birthday' sung in 3 languages (French, English, and Italian - I love Europe), lots of laughter, a pretty fabulous homemade birthday cake, and one very happy seven-year old birthday boy.


Happily C2 couldn't come up with an excuse to miss the party this year so both he and my ever-obliging-game-for-anything mum were on hand to help with the fun. Of course, I've chosen to ignore C2's muttered comment about preferring to venture into Niger's Al-Queda controlled territory (a trip he is currently considering) over the party as he doused another small drama and placed another franc coin into another outstretched hand for yet another air hockey game.


As I gazed at my slumbering little wonder last night, one arm clutched tight around the genuine bowling pin party gift, his other around the same stuffed Labrador he has slept with since birth, I realized that while he sometimes provokes the worst in me; packed into his 130cm 18 kg body is the absolute best of me.

There Are Worse Ways To Spend My Birthday - thanks Kevin!

Nobody outside of Iceland can really pronounce 'Eyjafjallajoekull', so in a nod to Jon Stewart, I have taken to calling it 'Kevin'. Now Kevin the Volcano has been causing no end of trouble to people travelling within western Europe of late, so I was a little concerned in the days leading up to a planned trip to London last Wednesday, especially since my visiting mum and I were both flying to the U.K. but into different airports.

Thankfully, despite erupting a few days before our trip, the wind swept Kevin's ash south towards Spain allowing us to fly into the U.K. without incident. So began, a terrific week spent in the company of my oldest friend, Sheila, and her kids whom J desperately wishes were his brother and sister. We spent our days easily picking up where we left off in March. Like always, it was as if our sentence was interrupted, we paused for breath, and 2 months later resumed our conversation. Such is the gift of friendship.

Sheila, me and our kiddos during a walk in High Elms Park, Kent

My favorite things to do when I visit Sheila is to stock up on english language books at her local Waterstone's, indulge my addiction to Marks & Spencer's organic stem ginger biscuits, and go for a walk in the English countryside followed by a pub lunch with a pint of lime and lager. This visit, I even left J with Sheila for the day and travelled up to Hertfordshire to visit with some favorite cousins and my mum. We had a grand day together visiting stately Hatfield House and touring a bit around charming St. Albans.
Beautiful Hatfield House in Hertfordshire

A small part of Hatfield's gardens

It was a few days filled with laughter, love, food, friendship and family. I can't ask for much more from life than that. Well maybe for Kevin to behave, but I guess that was asking a bit much.

Pub lunch time

Sure enough by Saturday, Kevin's belching resulted in twin ash clouds headed directly toward the U.K. By the time we went to bed Sunday night, all predictions were that London airports would be closed the next morning. I rose at 4:30am and though Gatwick was indeed closed, it was expected to reopen by 7:00am, just in time for our 8:00am flight back to Geneva.
Sceptically, I roused J and we began our journey. One car and train ride later, we arrived at Gatwick just in time for Easyjet to cancel our flight. Back to Sheila's we headed, sigh.
Easyjet offered us a new flight two days later but I was fearful of missing that flight too since predictions indicated Kevin's continued grumpiness. So after discussion, J and I decided to traipse through Europe by train instead. The following day, which happened to be my forty-ahem-something birthday, J and I set out on our great European rail adventure.

We caught the 6:44am train at Penge East from Sheila's village into Victoria Station in central London. We then rolled our bags to the Victoria tube station and travelled directly to King's Cross/St. Pancras International Rail Station. From there, we stepped onto the elegant 8:02am Eurostar rapid rail service (through the Chunnel - very cool) to Paris's Gare du Nord. Now for those of you who don't already know, the Hendricks family LOVE LOVE LOVE Paris.


J and I wandered around a bit, breathing in as much of Paris as we briefly could before jumping into a cab to the Gare du Lyon. From there, we caught the 1:10pm TGV (Tres Grand Vitesse) directly to Geneva where C2 picked us up. Door to door about a 10 hour journey, really not too bad and actually more than a little fun. Of course, our European rail adventure cost about as much as my nearly full-fare Easyjet ticket but I'll take that up with Easyjet and Kevin later.

If I Can't Be A Soccer Mom, Can I Be A Marathon Mom?

You may recall from earlier postings such as "Where is Tim Horton's When You Need One", my lamenting of J's team sport playing abilities. To summarize again, he celebrates when his weekly football (soccer) practice is cancelled, flinches when the ball comes anywhere near him, and would rather blow the fluff off of dandelions than be caught chasing anything resembling a football. Apply the same analogies to hockey and baseball, and you get the general picture.

However, as I have also said, put the kid on skis, in water, or on a bike in the woods with logs, roots, and hills to climb, and I would challenge you to either catch him or match the volume of his 'woo hoos'.

He was equally impressive during his participation in the 1.7km Course de l'Escalade this past December. So, I was given to indulge his pleading to run in the kids race in the annual Geneva Marathon this weekend. Thanks to my friend Sher, I mentioned the race to him and the pleading ensued.

I gotta say, for a dandelion blower, he was darn impressive. Nerves of steel all day, cool as a cucumber at the start and smoked that girl in pink.


Receiving his medal

OK, so if the NHL and the 2022 World Cup are not in his future, maybe the Olympics or the Ironman, or the Boston Marathon, or the X-games...

A Rainy Sunday Afternoon

It's a quiet, rainy, cool Sunday afternoon in Geneva, I should be blogging about something meaningful, cleaning the cat barf off the upstairs carpet, recycling my mountain of recyclables, teaching my son to read, walking Murphy or feeding the fish. Instead this is me today...

Walking Into A Watercolour

The Grand Canal near the Accademia Bridge

Stepping into a painting is exactly how it felt visiting Venice during the Easter break this past week. Certainly this city is all about beauty, expressed time and again, around every corner, down every canal, and over every one of its' 400 bridges.
The Rialto Bridge

C2, J, and I spent 5 days together with my mum and Auntie Harriet in a gloriously charming flat around the corner from the Piazzo San Marco, near the Campo San Moise, facing a canal and where from our windows we watched gondolas drift by and listened to the gondoliers singing old Italian love songs. If one was cynical enough, one might teeter toward thinking it a tad schmaltzy, I, on the other hand thought it perfectly lovely.

A gondola along the Grand Canal

The best advice we discerned from our travel guides was to 'get lost' walking in this car-free city. So we did....again and again. Kinda hard not to. Every narrow road led to another bridge over another canal. It was the best lost I've ever been. As long as we followed the sign posts to either 'San Marco' or 'Rialto', we always had a fair idea of where we were.

A narrow canal and one of 400 bridges spanning them

J chased pigeons in the Piazzo San Marco in the shadow of the San Marco Basilica while my mum and Aunt had a glass of wine and sang along to the orchestral bands at Florians. We all toured the art-filled wonder that is the Doge's Palace. Ever intrepid J decided we must take a gondola ride (expensive but when in Rome...) down the Grand Canal and so we did admiring the fading but still noble beauty of the hundreds of 15th century palazzos including the Gritti Palace, the Palazzo Venier dei Leoni, and the Ca' d'Oro.

The pigeon chaser of Piazza San Marco

Another highlight was travelling by vaporetto (water bus) to the island of Murano where beautiful cut glass continues to be made by hand and fashioned into jewellery and objects d'art. We did so much 'mooching' (to use my mother's term) in and out of murano glass shops in Venice that we all felt blinded at the end of 5 days.

Our gondola ride

To best see authentic Venice, we ventured off of the principal touristy areas and wandered into the lesser known but more 'real' campos and neighbourhoods. In one small campo, though I have no idea where, we stopped at a little art shop and bought a lovely watercolour of a canal at dusk. Real art sold to us by a real artist with a real vision of Venice; it is perfectly lovely.

Tracing the Steps of Giants

My mum arrived a couple of weeks ago for her annual 3-month visit with us. My Auntie Harriet followed her last week to spend 2 weeks, including a planned 5-days in Venice with us next week. We've spent the first part of the week trying to occupy rainy-filled days with memorable outings. Last weekend, and still on an Olympic high, we had a great visit to the official Olympics Museum in Olympic capital Lausanne, about a 45 minute journey up the lake from Geneva.

The Olympics Museum in Lausanne, home of the International Olympic Committee

This week, we "profitez'ed" and devoted our efforts towards three things for which Geneva is most suitably proud. We took a guided tour of the United Nations and we spent a day at the Red Cross/Red Crescent Museum. It was interesting to realize that my new home continues to keep as a high priority the offering of succour to others less fortunate, and support to those most in need.

First World War Prisoners of War documentation archived in the Red Cross/Red Crescent Museum (Auntie Harriet)

Perhaps the ideals of modern Switzerland can cause one to raise a doubtful eyebrow but I was undeniably moved at the story of the founding of the Red Cross/Red Crescent and its' mission. The efforts of one man, Henry Dunant, have evolved into the modern images of an organization assisting in national disasters, and inserting itself into conflict zones; the red cross on white background emblem (the reverse of the Swiss flag) its' only defence.

Franklin D. Roosevelt, and Eleanor Roosevelt under whose chair(wo)manship, the U.N. Commission on Human Rights drafted the 'Universal Declaration of Human Rights'

I was equally moved to realize that the United Nations in Geneva focuses its' efforts on the United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR) and the United Nations High Commission for Human Rights (OHCHR). It was from the hard work of dedicated individuals working together for the promotion of others that such landmark conventions as the 'Universal Declaration of Human Rights' and 'The Convention on the Rights of the Child' were drafted and adopted here.

We followed up these serious endeavours with a trip to the Caillier-Nestle chocolate factory in Broc at the south end of Lac de la Gruyère in the green Alpen valleys of Switzerland's Fribourg region. If you can quantify a good time based upon amount of free all-you-can-eat chocolate at the end of a historical tour plus making your own chocolate Easter bunny in the Atelier de chocolat, then a good time was had by all of us!

Memories of Cantor's Bakery

Yesterday, J had his weekly speech therapy appointment. Afterwards, I took him for lunch at a little patisserie in Carouge. For dessert, he decided on a chocolate donut - not the transfats-laden varieties offered up by Tim Horton's or Dunkin Donuts but a real donut made from real ingredients. He lifted it to my nose to sniff and I was transported back, too many years to reveal, to Cantor's Bakery in Montreal.

When I was J's age, I would regularly visit my Nana at her apartment. It was an exciting adventure, and holding her hand, I loved exploring her N.D.G. neighbourhood. We grocery shopped at Steinberg's on Sherbrooke St., wandered the aisles of the Cumberland Drug on Somerled, and most vividly, ate chocolate donuts from Cantor's Bakery on Walkley.

Cantor's was a Montreal tradition. Walking inside, I took flight on a cornacopia of smells from the fresh baked challah bread and bagels, rugelach cookies, strudel, and gingerbread. But, it was never a competition; my 6-year old tongue always watered for Cantor's chocolate donuts. I can still taste the first bite of that donut handed to me in wax paper; the hardened dark chocolate topping had a slight snap before my teeth sank into the dense, thick sponge-like dough. I chewed it slowly, savouring every memorable morsel. Yesterday, J had the same look of epicurean ecstasy on his little face.

Not unexpectedly, Steinberg's, Cumberland's and Cantor's have long closed their doors, absorbed by big box one-stop shopping goliaths, and corner depanneurs. I still think of my Nana often but until yesterday, I hadn't thought of those chocolate donuts in years.

Skiing in the Rain AKA Ski Week 2010

I know, I know, I have been silent of late. As stated in my prior post, January and February are pretty quiet months for us without much worthy of mention. Add in my Olympics obsession, and it all adds up to little time to blog.

The Point Nyon, highest point at Les Gets looking down to the village of Morzine

We did just return from our annual ski week to Les Gets in the French Alps though. The past few years, we shared this holiday with our great friends, the Millers, however, they abandoned us to move stateside last year, sigh. Marc and Nat joined us for the first weekend, and we had a great time exploring Les Get's pretty village on Saturday while C2 and J hit the slopes. Les Gets is part of the larger Porte de Soleil group of 12 linked resorts in France and Switzerland. This year, we skiied both at Les Gets and at adjacent Morzine.

Point Nyon again, J's first time skiing the challenging Aigle Rouge run

J started ski school on Sunday morning and we had beautiful weather all the way until Monday - yep a whole 2 days! After that, we had a spectacular buffet of rain, freezing rain, sleet, snow, punctuated by the odd clear moment. But you know, in spite of the less than stellar weather, we had a wonderful time. We holed up in our cozy chalet by the fire, ate well, drank great wine, ventured out when we felt like it (the big advantage of a ski-in/ski-out chalet), read, played board games, and kept the TV permanently tuned to the Olympics.

J approaching a jump in Morzine's jump park

Our routine was for C2 and I to ski hard during the 2 hours of J's ski school, then pick him up and at his insistence, ski over to his favorite restaurant on the hill to indulge his passion for a crepe complete et chocolate chaud avec creme chantilly. To translate, a crepe stuffed with ham and cheese with a raw egg tossed in for good measure, and a hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream.

The ubiquitous chocolate chaud avec creme chantilly

After lunch, we would do our best to keep up with the little skiing dynamo, who would literally ski until the lifts closed every day when the weather permitted. It's a good thing C2 can keep up with him because the non-stop top to bottom skiing on the steep red runs was exhausting (for me, not him). Still, I cannot explain the joy it brought me to watch this joyful 6-year old skiing moguls singing the White Stripes' "Seven Nation Army" at the top of his lungs.

J earned his deuxieme etoile from the Ecole de Ski Francais

Every evening, following dinner, J, Murphy and I would bundle up, and walk down our little hill to explore the chair lift in the dark, then climb part way up the adjacent ski hill to admire the twinkling lights and pretty chalets of Les Gets. On our final evening, C2 joined us, and we climbed very high and then rocketed down the ski run on our toboggans, the quiet night cut by our peeling laughter.

J taking a jump at the Morzine jump park

January's Busy Blahs

If you look back at previous January blog entries, they are thin and not particularly interesting. January for me is anti-climactic after weeks of Christmas and Canada anticipation. It's grey, grey, grey, and damp, damp, damp. My hair is at its' flattest, and my skin it's driest - blech. In short, I'm not a fan of January. This year it's even been a challenge to run which usually cures me of any mental malaise. It's icy underfoot and did I mention the damp, damp, damp part?

To be honest, I am not really a big fan of winter. There I said it. Living in Geneva has cured me of most of winter's charms (skiing is really the only charm left). Here, it mostly only snows in the mountains where snow belongs. We open our doors and leave them open as early as March and often begin a 7-8 month season of eating outdoors shortly after. Spring flowers poke their first heads out of the ground in February and my roses usually bloom until November.

January is also the month when all of the insurance bills arrive en masse, and the Christmas present-laden VISA bills. My to-do list gets carried over from the previous January with almost all items still intact (booking a colonscopy has been on my list through 3 Januarys now). It all just makes me want to pull the covers over my head and go back to bed. Can't do that though, because life restarts frantically after the December lull. Book group, writing group (now if only I could get writing again), my feeble attempt at blogging and all of the weekly to'ing and fro'ing for J: speech therapy, English school, piano lessons, football, judo, french school homework, english school homework, piano practice, blah blah blah.

In spite of my January blahs, the optimist in me is slowly percolating up to the surface. Skiing started this month and has been great. Our annual ski holiday is less than a month away (minus the Millers this year, blah!), I am deep into planning our Easter (Venice), Spring (London) and summer (South of France and Levanto) holidays. Sheila is coming for a long weekend in 5 weeks, and my mum arrives for her 3-month long stay with us in 6 weeks. Several Canadian friends are also travelling to see us this year. There are lots of aperos and dinners with friends and neighbours on our agenda.

We're all healthy, J is doing fantastic in school, we're speaking french more fluidly than ever, and there is a delicious aroma of Boeuf Bourgignon coming from my kitchen; can't eat that in July! It's January 27, only 3 more days and it's February. Time to perk up and banish the blahs.

Another Year Over

We returned a few days ago from our 3 week Christmas break to Canada. Thankfully unlike last year, our journeys on both ends were uneventful. Well, uneventful except for the fact that my fear of flying phobia which had pretty much resolved about 12 years ago is back with a vengeance.

I'm chalking it up to our 'turn-around from nearly landing in Victoria last year and hightailing back to Calgary before we run out of fuel' flight last year. Stupid really, I am generally a glass half-full kind of person but in the case of air travel, not so much. You know how some people like to live their lives on the edge by parachuting or climbing frozen icefalls? I literally feel like that getting on an airplane, sigh....a necessary means to an end.

The Tawtel women and our famous Crantinis

Anyway, on to the good stuff. We were all healthy and arrived in Victoria via Vancouver via Frankfurt, 9 hours jet lagged and a mere 2 hours late but otherwise in great form. The next 2 weeks passed in a blur of wonderful family meals, lots of games (Au Mille and Balderdash being our favorites), movies, girls nights, boys nights, swimming, beach walking and generally revelling in the mild west coast island air and each other.

One particular highlight was a family hike we did through an old growth forest on Mount Douglas. We were a little ways up the trail when a friendly Golden Retriever assaulted us with affection. His owner arrived shortly thereafter, whereupon I coolly sputtered, gasped, fell over my words, and finally spat out memorably "I know you, you're Silken Laumann". OK, well you have to be an Olympics fanatic and a proud Canadian to understand the significance of the moment but trust me, it was significant!

You also have to be a pretty tight family to live 9 people in a house (a pretty big house but still....9 people!), still love each other 14 days later, and cry upon bidding our farewells. J became particularly attached to the clan this year and was loathe to leave. He kept begging us to stay a little longer "but I'm not going to see my cousins for suuuuuuch a long time" he moaned. This is one kid who really gets the value of family and good friends, and who blossoms under the attention and love of his teenage cousins.

We flew on to Calgary to spend the weekend with our great friends Jen and Jeff and their 2 kids. J and Nate have been pals since birth. We spent a quintessential Alberta weekend; tobagganing under the brilliant blue western sky, dining on Alberta beef, driving on notoriously icy Calgary roads but most importantly - reconnecting with dear friends.

Some good old Canadian tobagganing

Hanging with Jeff and Jen

C2 flew back to Geneva at the end of the weekend and J and I drove our rental car to my mum's apartment to spend the remainder of the week with her and my clutch of Calgary girlfriends. J and their boys have been friends since they were babies. We spent several intense days together and then it was done. The night prior to returning home, J was inconsolable about leaving his Grandma, his 'fabily', his friends, and Tim Horton's (in that order). I love his loyalty and the breadth of his love; really he is such a unique individual for a 6-year old.

The guys have been friends since they were babies

...and us almost as long

A foot of snow greeted us upon arrival in Geneva which thrilled J. It's great returning to Canada as often as we do but it's good to come home too. We have many things to look forward to this year. J starting piano lessons, my wonderful bi-monthly writers group 'The Birks', spending time with the really terrific band of international wanderers we are honoured to call friends, and "profitez'ing" from every chance to explore this place we are blessed to call home.

La Fête de l'Escalade 2009

Geneva during la fete de l'escalade

One of my favorite times of the year in Geneva is the celebration-filled week of the Fete de l'Escalade, the annual festival comemmorating with joy, pride, solemnity and song, the victory of the Genevois over the invading army of the Duke de Savoie (les Savoyards).

On December 12 1602 the forces of the Duke de Savoie, launched an attack on the city-state of Geneva. The troops marched along the Arve River at night and assembled at Plainpalais, just outside the walls of Geneva, at 2 o'clock in the morning. The original plan was to send in a group of commandos to open the gate door and let the other troops in. The Geneva citizens defeated the men by preventing them from scaling the wall (a climb in French is an escalade). The night guard Isaac Mercier raised the alarm, church bells were rung, and the Genevois were alerted. The populace fought alongside their town militia. The duke's 2000-plus mercenaries were beaten.

According to Genevois legend, Catherine Cheynel, the wife of Pierre Royaume, ("Mère Royaume"), a mother of 14 children, seized a large cauldron (marmite) of hot vegetable soup and poured it on the attackers. The Royaume family lived just above the La Monnaie town gate. The commotion that this caused also helped rouse the townsfolk to defend the city.

The story of L'Escalade is told in a song called Cé qu'è l'ainô, written in a Franco-Provençal dialect around 1603 and has become the "national" anthem of Geneva.1

1 Wikipedia

Friday night was spent escorting J and his schoolmates on a torch-lit cortege through our village and back to his school steps where the children gathered next to a piano and serenaded us with the anthems Cé qu'è l'ainô and Ah! La Belle Escalade. My little citoyen Genevois sang his heart out; makes me cry everytime. The evening ended with a dinner of traditional vegetable soup made by the kids during the day, raclette, saucisses, frites, wine, and the ubiquitous smashing of the chocolate marmite and distribution to we Genevois of chunks of chocolate and marzipan vegetables

We spent the rest of the weekend at Marc and Nat's apartment in the Vieille Ville where the celebration is centered. For these 2 days, the old town is majestically turned back in time 400 years and populated by chevaliers, townsfolk, blacksmiths, fusiliers, and steeds living as they did and where they did at the time of the attack.

The blacksmiths hard at work in the Place de Bourg du Four

A secret passage through the old town is opened during these 2 days of the year below the old La Monnaie town gate. J loved going through it, especially at night, in the dark, when it was lit by torches.

Inside the secret passageway through the old town

Marc and Nat don't spoil this kid much...

The previous weekend, both J and I ran in the annual Course de l'Escalade, a running race through the twists and turns of the old town. I twice ran through the elegant Place de Bourg du Four and past la cathedrale St. Pierre with its' clanging bells. About 20,000 people participate every year in various races throughout the day. The smaller kids ran 1.7 km, while I ran 4.7. It's a short race but remarkably memorable with spectators lining the sides of the historic route cheering us on as we grunted up the steep but picturesque hills.

Here is J running in his first Course de l'Escalade. About 10 seconds into the video, you will see him in the middle of the screen, green fleece, black pants. You might have to hit the PLAY arrow a couple of times.

Things you Definitely Don't See in Canada in December

I took Murphy for a walk this evening after dinner. She needed to stretch her legs I told C2 and J, and I fancied enjoying the Christmas decorations adorning our Swiss village on a quiet, warm early December night.

We wandered through our village's square, past the giant Christmas tree decorated by the little kids from our village jardin d'enfants (pre-school), and through the orchard of trees dripping with icicle lights and shooting stars. We ambled down the main street, and paused in front of the Auberge Cheval Blanc (aka 'the lovely place to eat' as J has dubbed it) to admire the candles softly glowing through the windows and the pretty tree shining on the terrace.

Then I realized that I wasn't alone. Less than a foot away from me, Mario the chef, was quietly plucking olives from the tree growing in the restaurant's garden behind a low stone wall separating the Auberge from the street. We exchanged polite "bonsoirs", he offered me an olive which I accepted with thanks, and then I carried on as if this was something a Canadian girl experienced regularly. He didn't hear me chuckle in amazement.

Culture Clash

For us North American expats, lunchtime is an interesting anthropological study. For example, lunch during the school week is pretty laid back, a tuna sandwich, some fruit, a yogurt are standard fare. On the weekends, we might upgrade the sliced bread to a baguette, and add some cheese and olives. The emphasis on all of the aforementioned is 'cold lunch'. As in most Canadian households, dinner is the hot meal.

Not so in Geneva! Lunch is the big meal of the day and it's usually multiple courses. Salad and bread, followed by soup, a hot meal, and dessert. And never never never is milk offered as a drink, no it's always l'eau de robinet (tap water) and if you're really lucky sirop, which is a sickly sweet substance added to sweeten the l'eau de robinet.

Consequently, J has learned never to spontaneously invite anyone home for lunch from school. I need at least a day to ensure adequate groceries and time to prepare a large meal. I will never forget when J's copine (girl friend) Olivia looked at the sandwich plunked down in front of her 2 years ago, looked at me and moaned 'mais je ne mange pas des sandwiches pour diner!' (but I don't eat sandwiches for lunch). I was mortified.

So yesterday morning while getting dressed for school, this conversation occured with J:

J: Can I invite a friend for lunch?

Me: Oh sorry bud, I'm going grocery shopping this afternoon, I don't have any food in the house to make a hot meal.

J: Oh, okay. Can Adam come then?

We Canadians gotta stick together eh Cindy?

Detoxing Diary

I am now in the middle of a 5-day detox. My life is absent of some of its' small joys: morning toast, nespresso coffee, cookies, evening glass of wine. I'm not sure exactly what prompted me to initiate this and to corral 11 of my friends from around the world to join me. In general, I eat healthy and largely organic, and am pretty fit thanks to regular running and weight training. I try not to indulge too plentifully in the inexpensive and fantastic wines available when living adjacent to vineyards.

Maybe it's living in the time of swine flu where kids are dropping like flies in J's class. I am working hard to strengthen all of our immune systems. We are taking vitamins C, D, multivitamins, omega 3, sirop du pere michel (a particularly vile concoction of essential oils and trace minerals) in addition to lots of fresh organic fruit and vegetables. Maybe it's my suspicion of the negative impact of cow milk and gluten on my family; we've moved to goat and soy milk. And lastly, maybe it's the knowledge of the coming assault of food and drink in the lead-up to the Christmas holidays.

So I thought I'd see how I felt after 5 days of eliminating specifically wheat, dairy, sugar, alcohol, caffeine, red meat, and fats while consuming lots of healthy lean proteins, legumes, nuts, oats, rice, fruit, vegetables, water, and green tea; and continuing to exercise. And since misery loves company, I managed to convince a group of friends that it would be good for them too.

It's halfway through Day 3 and most of us previously caffeine-addicted souls seem to share the same common complaint thus far. We all have headaches which we are chalking up to acute caffeine-withdrawal. Everything else has gone pretty well, cravings are largely in check, aside from a cookie craving that naughtily beckoned me most of yesterday evening. I find that I have good energy during the day especially in the mid afternoon when it normally wanes. Or it may be that I'm keeping busy so that I don't gravitate toward my usual tea and biscuit. I'm also sleeping great which is a bonus.

In any case, it's an interesting experience and can't be anything but positive health-wise. Maybe now I won't feel so guilty indulging in my mum's Christmas shortbread or my sista-in-law's peppermint chocolate chip cookies in a few weeks.

My Brother, the Superhero

Today's posting is in honour of my big brother who celebrated his 40-ahem-something birthday this week. He is one of my heros, having served honourably for 25 years with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in addition to leading Calgary's ERT force for many years. He's also just an all-round wonderful person who has managed to stay happily married for 27 years, raise 3 terrific children into near adulthood and is always there whenever I need him.

It's nice to see that J feels the same way. Today while walking to school:

J: You know Uncle Phil is like a superhero!

Me: Yes, he's a pretty great guy, why do you think so?

J: He made his hair invisible.

Love you bro!

Where Is Tim Horton's When You Need One?

I spent 2 cold, soggy hours sipping tiny, tepid cups of espresso standing in icy rain watching J play in his first tournoi de foot (soccer) yesterday. It could have been the same as watching my eldest nephew Justin, currently competing for the national university football (soccer) title in Toronto but it wasn't. It could have been the same as watching my niece Renee, a former elite national level Ringuette player, but it wasn't. Or it could have been the same as watching my 15-year nephew Jordan play football (soccer) with fire in his belly, but again it wasn't.

You see J is something of a sports mystery to me. From infancy, he was climbing like a orangutan up anything scalable. "Oh what an athlete he's going to be" everyone proclaimed. He could cross monkeybars with ease by age 2, and was riding a 2-wheeler by 3. He loves mountain-biking, mountain-climbing, and skiing, and is really good at all of them. He dislikes baseball, detests hockey school, and spends the last hour of football training yelling at me from across the field "Is it over yet?" When I told him at the beginning of the year to pick a team sport for the winter, he suggested tennis. See the pattern??? A team player clearly he is not.

I wasn't much of a team player myself, even now I prefer running with my iPod than a friend. Neither was C2, he ignores friends at the gym, so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. But still, when I look at the brotherhood of friends Justin has built from his early days playing with his Foothills soccer club in Calgary, I lament that J may not have that. Even much of the strong and loyal social network that my brother and sister-in-law enjoy was birthed from the shared experience of watching their children compete in team sports. Not that I lack friends or social networking, far from it but you get my point.

I will encourage J to find his passions in life and will enthusiastically support them no matter what they are. Still, is it wrong to secretly want J to have a tattoo over his heart pledging brotherhood forever like Jus's?

So, yesterday's tournoi was comprised of 6 teams playing 4 mini matches. J was fully engaged for the first two. By the fourth, he was picking up leaves and playing pretend sword fights. Sigh.

My life as a Tim Horton's commercial isn't looking promising.