Moving on... An open letter to the new owners of our former home

I sat at this island on my wedding day as one of my best friends did my make up. 

Then I walked up those stairs to my bedroom, where my Mom helped me into the wedding dress that she wore - and that my grandmother sewed - 35 years earlier when she married my Dad. 

Then we walked out that front door as our neighbour stood by giddily to tell me that I was a beautiful bride, and to wish me luck on my wedding day. 

This house - and this neighborhood - have been at the centre of my life for the past 12 years. And if walls could talk, they would tell you stories. 

They would tell you that this very house saved our relationship. Before finding it, my husband and I were living in a tiny 1-bedroom apartment - MY apartment that he moved into. We were driving each other crazy. I'm not sure we would have lasted very much longer without divine intervention in the form of real estate. 

They would tell you that it is a bad idea to build a deck together. That day, we fought and fought and fought and fought and then fought some more. I was so mad that I didn't talk to my husband for the entire length of the deck building process. But 12 years later, that deck is still standing. And so are we. (It is also a great place to catch a few rays with a friend).

The walls would tell you that there ain't no party like a kitchen party. Countless gatherings have been had in this kitchen, at this island. 11 New Years Day Levees, Friday night tapas parties, casual potlucks, formal family dinners, birthday parties, and even the occasional dance party. Always we congregate in the kitchen. It's a good thing we tore down the hideous wall that was there before. 

These walls would tell you about how we grew our family. How we adopted one outrageously neurotic dog named Fergus, who barks at and herds all the neighborhood kids. And one fiercely independent and bossy cat, Sadie, who spends her days plotting how to catch every squirrel that dares to run through her yard. Within these walls, these two rescues became the very best of friends, and found their "forever homes".

These walls would tell you how much we love this neighborhood. How it has everything we need. Coffee shops, restaurants (you must, must, must try DiVino Wine Studio, and tell them we sent you), access to the Ottawa River, the canal and the Arboretum for running and snowshoeing, a yoga studio to recuperate from running. And it's only the shortest of walks to the neighboring 'hood of Hintonburg, where I get my nails done (look for Forbes Beauty Company on Fairmont) and where I get the best almond milk latte in town (Ministry of Coffee on Wellington). In the other direction, Parliament Hill is only a 25 minute walk. But on Canada Day, you don't even need to walk that far to have a perfect view of the fireworks. Just walk up to Lebreton Flats. It's one of the best views in town. 

Most of all, these walls would tell you about love. Because they were filled to brimming with love. This is where Hubby and I truly started our life adventure together. Every trip we've ever taken has been planned from a spot on the couch in front of that fireplace. Every life decision - from whether or not to take a new job to when to get a dog to when to get married - has been debated in this space. We have laughed here. We have cried here. We have fought and made up here. We made a life for ourselves here. It is where we truly became life partners. 

These walls provided the perfect setting for a pair of eager young professionals starting out in life. Leaving them behind is not easy. We love this house. It is a part of us forever. 

And now, we hope, that it will forever be a part of you. That you will love this house as much as we did. That you will put your stamp on it and make it your very own. That you will grow together here as partners. And that these walls will continue to have good stories to tell. 

Congratulations, and we wish you all the best. 

What's in a name?

On June 12, I told this story on a new podcast called One New Message. One New Message is inspired by those calls that we have all made because we had something really important to say to someone, but for some reason, we couldn't say it. It's a great show, and you should definitely check it out. Especially episode 105, which you can find by clicking here.

If you are more inclined to read than to listen, here you go...

**********

It seems weird leaving you this message... I mean, we've never even met.

How could we have. You passed away 28 days before I was born.

Did you know that your son, my father, was planning to name me Dawn? I'm sure you did. Dad was always so close to you. How is it even possible that he wouldn't have shared absolutely everything with you, his mother, about his soon-to-be first born child. All his fears. All his hopes and dreams. And all the various names they went through before they settled on Dawn if I was a girl, and I'm honestly not even sure what if I was a boy.

But then you passed away in early November, 1976, after a long battle with cancer, before you had the chance to meet, or hold, your fifth grandchild. And when you passed away, an incredible sadness must have descended upon my father, who loved you so very much. How difficult it must have been for him to think about the happiness that a baby would bring to his life when he had to deal with the crushing sadness of losing you, his mother and closest confidant.

He tells me that he prayed very hard that I, sex unknown, would be a girl. So that he could give me your name. So that your soul that had just departed this earth could somehow breathe life into my own soul just as it was about to enter. So that he would have a daily reminder of you each and every time that he called out to me.

And so my name is not Dawn. It is Jeannine. It is your name.

I have to tell you that I hated my name growing up. No one can pronounce it. How could you even stand always being called Janine? Like the nerdy, shrill-voiced secretary on Ghostbusters? Which of course, you never saw. But still, you must know the irritation that comes with constantly having to correct the pronunciation and the spelling of your own name.

And then there was the fact that it was an old-person's name. At least I thought it was when I was a tween trying to find myself, wondering why I didn't have a young, hip name like Lianne, which was so de rigeur at the time.

But mostly, it was the pressure of having your name. Of hearing all the stories about your kind heart and your never-ending generosity. How you constantly sacrificed for your family. How you guided all eight of your children to know right from wrong, to become good, strong people like you. Aunts, uncles, my grandfather, Dad - they all told me how lucky I was to have your name, and what big shoes I had to fill. Shoes I never asked for or wanted. Shoes I wasn't sure could ever possibly fit me, since you were such a giant in everyone's minds and hearts.

And so I hated my name. And secretly wished that I was someone else.

Until sometime around my 12th or 13th year.

I had long since given up saying the nightly prayers that my parents made us recite before bed. But on this night, as I was feeling a particularly deep pang of teenage angst, I knelt alongside my bed, bowed my head, and recited a prayer. Not to God, but to my guardian angel, a prayer taught to me by my Mom when I was just a little girl: "Angel of God, my guardian dear. To whom God's love entrusts me here. Ever this day, be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide."

And it struck me that I did not have some randomly-chosen-by-God angel fluttering around heaven on wings charged by God to take care of me and watch over me.

No. I had you.

And so began our life-long relationship. From that moment on, when there was no one here on earth who would understand what I was feeling or what I was going through, I had you. When Dad and I fought, and I howled at him that he did not understand me, I had you. When I was excited about a special event in my life or a success that I had, I had you. When I made mistakes, when I cried, when I laughed, when I celebrated, I had you. I talked to you about it all. You saw it all from wherever it is that you are. And I felt you beside me at every step.

So no. We've never met. But you are one of the most important people in my life. And my name is one of the greatest gifts ever given to me. Through it, you and I share something that has allowed us to cement a spiritual bond, although it was impossible to form a physical one. You have helped me through my darkest times. I have felt you smile upon me through my greatest achievements. Dawn may be a perfectly lovely name. After all, it was given to my younger sister. But were it mine, it would not have brought me close to you. I would not feel your love and guidance ever present in my life. And I would not be who I am today.

So I guess I just really wanted to say... I love you.

"We said we'd walk together..."

It's true that Valentine's Day is NOT my favourite holiday. Hubby and I don't exchange gifts. We don't go out for dinner anywhere. There are no grand, romantic gifts of flowers at the office.

But that doesn't mean that we are not romantic in our own little way. He is the king of bringing home "just because" gifts, like a piece of jewelry from one of my favourite local boutiques. And I once hand wrote him a journal of my memories from our entire first year together. So yeah, we've been known to make people groan at our sappiness.

Which is why when CBC Ottawa Morning had a little give away for the couple who shared the best story about "their song", I just had to flex my romantic muscles and tell ours. I mean, the prize was a good one - cooking lessons for two at the Cordon Bleu School. But I also just knew that we could win this, because the story of our song is just that good!

And so, on Thursday morning, I dropped Hubby off at work, pulled over into a visitor's parking spot somewhere on Tunney's Pasture (what a bureaucratic image this is), called the CBC Ottawa Morning voicemail box, and told a little story. The next day, I listened nervously to find out if we were the winners. And just before 8 o'clock, there was Robyn Bresnahan, announcing the winning clip. And then I heard MY voice, telling Ottawa about our song. Hubby seemed genuinely touched that I had submitted the story in the first place. We both got a little misty eyed at our memories as we did a little happy dance in our kitchen to celebrate winning such a great prize.

Ottawa is a small town, and tonnes of messages on Twitter and Facebook and email started streaming into Hubby and I, including from people who had heard about the contest but missed hearing us on the radio. Unfortunately, there is no link to share with you. But I can use this blog to tell you the story of our love song. With a little more embellishment since I don't have to squeeze it all into one minute. And with some pictures. Cause everyone likes pictures.

So here goes...

When my husband and I got married a few years ago, I knew that I wanted to surprise him by singing a song to him during the ceremony. And since my love of the Boss is legendary, it is probably not a shock to anyone that I chose a Bruce Springsteen song, in this case, "Should I Fall Behind."

I have always loved this song. It is about sticking together regardless of the obstacles that life might throw your way, and drawing on one another's strengths to pull you through. But now, on the eve of my wedding, this song took on a whole new meaning. It was the perfect message for kicking off our lives together as husband and wife.

And so on our wedding day, to Hubby's great surprise (and everyone else's too), I stepped forward to sing to my soon-to-be-husband. Who, it must be said, got just a little bit teary-eyed.

A few shots of me and Hubby as I surprised him with a song on our wedding day.

But when this song was really solidified as our own was not until 10 months later, when we went on a late honeymoon to Peru. For most of my adult life, I have wanted to hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, and in May of 2010, we joined a group of Canadian and British tourists to do just that. 

The Inca Trail is a 4-day, 43 km hike at elevations significantly higher than those to which I am used. To put it into perspective, Ottawa sits at a lowly 70m above sea-level. Cusco, the beginning of the Inca Trail, sits at 3,400m. Machu Picchu itself is slightly lower at 2,400m. But during the hike, you climb to the highest point of 4,200m, known as Dead Woman's Pass. This is a long, windy, up-and-down kind of trek, and even though it does not require technical skills or specialized training to complete it, all who undertake it are warned of the possibility of altitude sickness. The locals implore you to chew coca leaves and drink coca tea to ward off its symptoms, but the real trick is to go slow and steady to give yourself time to adjust to the thinness of air at these heights.

But I am not your everyday Jane. I am a former bodybuilder. I am a runner. I have a resting heart rate of 60 bpm. I am one of the fittest people that I know. And I am also one of the most competitive. And although I have had a low-grade headache since landing in Cusco, I have armed myself with pocketfuls of coca leaves, a couple of litres of water, and am ready to hit the trail. Day 1 is a piece of cake. So on Day 2, as we begin to climb the infamous Dead Woman's Pass, I make up my mind that I will be first of our group to the top.

I was not the first. I was the 3rd, hot on the heels of another couple in our group (but I am okay with being behind them because they have more experience than me, having just done Everest base camp a few months earlier). Hubby was 4th, just one step behind me. The view was spectacular. We stared out along that pass, proud of ourselves for our accomplishment and in awe of the view at 4,200m above sea level.

A little tired, but mostly ecstatic to be at the top of Dead Woman's Pass, 4,200m above sea level.

And then we started our descent. My low-grade headache turned into a pounding drum in my head. Despite sweating from a day of hard labouring, I started to feel cold. My heart started to rise up into my throat. And by the time we made it to camp half an hour later, I could barely stand upright. The head guide brought me straight to our tent and ordered me to lie down. He went for the first aid kit and started administering some kind of traditional remedy. To this day, I have no idea what it was. But I know that it did not work. Because within an hour, I was violently ill.

Altitude sickness.

There was nothing to do for me but to rest. And so I curled up in a ball inside of my sleeping bag - with a bucket strategically placed right outside the flap of my tent - and I tried my best to sleep. Nausea and the headache prevented me from getting more than an hour or so, and I'm sure I kept the whole camp awake with me that night as I paid the price for climbing Dead Woman's Pass too quickly.

The next morning, I skipped breakfast to stay in bed a little longer. The head guide came to me with a bowl of quinoa porridge and implored me to eat. "We have a 17km hike ahead of us today. You will need your energy." I could not muster any more than 4 or 5 bites. But I knew that there was only one way off of this trail, and that was to make it all the way to Machu Picchu. So I crawled out of the tent, stiffened my resolve, and concentrated on simply putting one foot in front of the other until we arrived at the next camp.

We spent that day above the clouds, exploring Inca ruins along the trail. The views were so gorgeous and so inspiring, that I somehow found the strength to keep moving forward, despite being able to hold down no more than a half of a bun and a few sips of soup at lunch time.

A day in the clouds, exploring Inca ruins on the Inca Trail.

And then, with about 3 or 4 km left to go until we reached the camp, I began to run out of steam, as nausea overtook me yet again. One by one, the members of our group passed me by, even the slowest of the slow pokes from the previous day's ascent to Dead Woman's Pass. By the time the last person had passed us, I was practically crawling along, willing myself not to throw up. I looked up at Hubby and said, "You go ahead without me. Go and catch up to the group. The guides will take care of me and make sure I get back to camp. I'll be okay."

Hubby told me not to be ridiculous, that he would stay with me until we got into camp together, and that it didn't matter to him how long it took. We argued back and forth for a few minutes, and then he put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Jay, what song did you sing to me on our wedding day?"

And there it was. The first line of "Should I Fall Behind" loud and clear in my mind.

"We said we'd walk together, baby come what may..."

And I just...

started...

to cry.

Hubby put his arms around me, as I cried not-so-softly into his shoulder. I felt ashamed of myself for being so stupid as to climb up 4,200m so quickly. I was upset at myself for ruining our honeymoon. I was still so damn sick that I could barely stand up straight were it not for him holding onto me. But mostly, I cried because I knew in that moment that we were absolutely meant to be together. That our song was more than just a song. It was a vow for how the two of us would spend the rest of our lives together. In moments of weakness, one of us would be the other's strength.

After a few minutes like that, I noticed the guide kind of awkwardly waiting for us to get going. So I gently pushed Hubby away, and teasingly called him a jerk for making me cry. Then he took my hand and we slowly walked the final few kilometres into camp.

I woke up the next morning feeling well enough to finally eat something. And while not my normally energetic self, I was able to keep up with our group for the final push into Machu Picchu itself. Which was incredible. So incredible that it made being sick for most of the hike entirely worth it.

Finally standing at Machu Picchu.

But mostly incredible because I did it with Hubby. Who never once let me fall behind.

Happy Valentine's Day. 

All grown up

Dear M,

I remember the first day that I met you. You were 3 weeks old. You had these really long, skinny legs and long, skinny arms. Your hair was so blond that you looked bald. You either slept or cried. Frankly, you weren't that much to look at.

But my god, did I ever fall in love with you. From the very first moment that your mother laid you in my arms, I knew that I would love you fiercely.

I loved you when you made me watch Teletubbies a thousand times, and then made me dance around the living room while you sang, "Tubbies, auntie! Tubbies!"

I loved you when we had our very first sleepover, and you told me that we had to sleep in your mom and dad's bed because "Your butt is too big for my bed, auntie."

I loved you when you were so excited to be a flower girl in your parent's wedding.

I loved you when you yelled at me for cutting off my hair.

I loved you when your little brother came into this world, and I watched as you enthusiastically embraced the role of big sister.

I loved you when, before you met Hubby for the first time, you asked if he was as tall as your dad, and when I said, "No," you asked if he was a midget. Because everybody shorter than your 6'3" father was tiny in your daddy's-little-girl eyes.

I loved you as I watched you goaltend in hockey, goalkeep in soccer, and tear it up on the basketball court. (That was me squealing when you got Female Athlete of the Year at your graduation, by the way.)

I loved you so much when you stood beside me as one of my bridesmaid's on my wedding day, when I got to see for the first time what you would look like when you became a woman. You took my breath away.

And now, you are a woman. Eighteen years old, graduated from high school, and about to embark on the adventure that is university. Over the past 18 years I have watched you grow from a kind, generous, intelligent, curious, and strong girl to a kind, generous, intelligent, curious and strong woman. When did it happen?

In the blink of an eye. A very teary eye...

M, being an aunt - being your aunt - has been one of the best roles that I have had in this life. And not just because I got to give you back to your parents when you were screaming for a diaper change. Or when you were throwing a tantrum. Or when you and your brother were fighting. But because there is a truly special relationship that develops between a niece and an aunt, especially from this point forward. I am no longer just another adult looking over your shoulder. I hope to be your friend, your confidant, someone that you can just have a drink with and talk about life. This is what I now have with my aunties. And it is a special bond unlike any other.

And so, from one friend to another, let me leave you with a few tips as you begin to write the next chapter in your life:

- Wear sunscreen on your face and your hands every day. Even in the winter. You don't think about it now because you are young and beautiful. But I promise you that when you are knocking on 40s door, and counting the spots on the back of your hands and the wrinkles around your eyes, you are going to wish like hell that you had bathed in SPF every single day.

- President's Choice white cheddar macaroni and cheese kicks Kraft Dinner's ass every time.

- It's okay if you skip a class every now and then. Just don't skip so many that you end up with an "incomplete" on your transcript, which will dog you for the rest of your undergrad.

- Make new friends. In university, you will meet people from so many diverse and unique backgrounds. They will enrich your life in ways that you never knew were possible.

- Keep old friends. They remind you of who you are and where you come from.

- Sometimes, after your heart has been broken or you bombed an assignment, you just need a really good cry.

- Create a playlist of breakup songs. Because when you break up with someone, I promise you that you will want nothing more than to listen to breakup songs on repeat. Bonnie Raitt's I Can't Make You Love Me got me through more than one broken heart.

- Surround yourself with people who make you laugh until your cheeks hurt and until you have tears streaming down your cheeks.

- If you ever use a friend's I.D. to get into a bar (in a province where you aren't of legal drinking age), make sure that said friend doesn't work at said bar... THAT will get you into a lot of trouble.

- Form and voice your own opinions. Engage in debate. Exchange ideas. Defend your point of view. Be passionate about all of the things that you believe in. Even if you're wrong.

- Learn new things outside of the classroom. Like how to play euchre and pool.

- Learn to like beer, because it is always the cheapest drink in the campus bar. And at the liquor store. Which will start to matter when money runs low. It's an acquired taste, but you will learn to love it if you practice enough.

- Find balance. Take a study break to grab a drink with a friend, or to go for a run, or to read a silly novel.

- All-nighters are always better with coffee, snacks, and a good friend to share your procrastination pain.

- Love fiercely, even if it hurts. There truly is no other way to love.

I love you to all the way to Ottawa and back.

Auntie Jay.

The Ultimate Sacrifice

The Sargent-at-Arms receives a 4 minute standing ovation when he enters the House of Commons. As Members of Parliament sing O Canada, a single tear falls down his cheek. 

"You are so loved", the words repeated over and over to Corporal Nathan Cirillo by civilian Barbara Winters, who rushed to his aid once shots were fired so that she could administer CPR alongside other like-minded civilians, as he clung to life. 

Corporal Cirillo's dogs peeking under his fence, which has become a makeshift memorial, waiting for their master to come home. 

These are the words and the images that are stuck in my mind on this day. The day after.

The day after the young, strong, beautiful Corporal Nathan Cirillo, reservist of the Argyle Sutherland Highlanders, was killed in cold blood. He has performing an act so sacred that it is enshrined in our National Anthem - "stand[ing] on guard" for our national treasure - and the memory of the brave men and women who have served in our country's name - that is the National War Memorial. 

Mere seconds later, the gunman rushed to Parliament Hill, where Members of Parliament were gathered in their respective caucus meetings. They heard shouting and gunfire in the Hall of Honour. They took cover under tables and chairs and in closets. They had no idea who or what was waiting outside those doors. They were scared. Some of them prayed. 

It finally ended moments later when Kevin Vickers, the very brave Sargent-at-Arms of the House of Commons, shot the gunman. Just outside the doors of the Library of Parliament. 

My Library of Parliament. Your Library of Parliament. Our Library of Parliament. 

Our Hall of Honour. 

Our Parliament Hill. 

Our National War Memorial. 

Our Ottawa, and our Canada. That in less than 2 minutes, someone tried very hard to take away from us. 

The view outside my office window
from Langevin block

Parliament Hill means something different to everyone. Many of us see it for the first time as tourists, and are excited by the chance to see the city from atop the Peace Tower. Some of us think of it as merely a place where politicians scream at each other from across the way. Many of us view it as a symbol of our democracy. 

Here's what it means to me. 

I love Parliament Hill. I burst with pride when I tell people that this beautiful place was my "office" for four years. First as a page in the Senate, where I had the privilege of standing in the Hall of Honour to greet Nelson Mandela during his state visit in 1998. Then as an MPs assistant, in a tiny office tucked away just below the House of Commons. Even once I became a public servant, my office in Langevin building had a clear view of Parliament Hill. Once every week, my colleagues and I would walk across Wellington, up the Hill, into Centre Block and into the Cabinet room just outside the Prime Minister's Office. I can't describe that feeling of privilege that comes from serving your country. Even now, years removed from working on the Hill, the Peace Tower takes my breath away. Every time I run along the Quebec side of the river and catch a glimpse of the sun rising over the Library of Parliament, my heart skips a beat. 

The Peace Tower pokes through the fog
on an early morning run

And just off to the East of Parliament Hill stands the National War Memorial. With that beautiful guardian angel watching over our fallen soldiers. With the tomb of the unknown soldier at her feet. A place where thousands of Ottawans gather every November 11th to honour the sacrifices made by men and women in uniform throughout this last century. A list to which Corporal Cirillo's name is now added. As well as Warrant Officer Patrice Vincent's, struck and killed in a hit-and-run attack in St-Jean-sur-Richelieu a mere two days previous. 

These places are so much more to me than monuments. They are so much more than representations of democracy and freedom. They are democracy and freedom. They are my country. They are my city. They are me. 

The National War Memorial to the right as I stand with my
fellow citizens on Remembrance Day to honour the fallen

As the capital went on lockdown yesterday, I was about 3km removed from the sheer terror of that 2 minutes. But I felt it deep within me. I felt it as I thought of all of the many friends of mine who still work on the Hill or in offices that overlook the War Memorial - close enough to see and hear the tragedy. I felt it as I thought of the childcare workers in the Parliament Hill daycare, who worked to keep the children calm during a 10+hour lockdown. I felt it as initial reports indicated that there may be a second and even a third shooter running free.

But I also felt love. As my 17-year-old niece texted me to ask "Auntie, are you guys okay?" followed by an onslaught of texts and Facebook messages from other friends and family. As one of my colleagues at work shared her lunch with me because I had not brought my own and could not leave our building in lock-down. As reports of the various acts of heroism began to trickle in. Like those civilians who did not know whether or not there was another shooter but who ran to Corporal Cirillo's side nonetheless to revive him. And the Sargent-at-Arms who, while wearing his ceremonial uniform, retrieved his weapon and led the charge of RCMP officers to contain the shooter. As the Pittsburg Penguins lit up the ice with a red maple leaf and sang our national anthem, even though they were not playing a Canadian team. 

The National War Memorial on Remembrance Day

These acts - some small and some indescribably big - are those moments of humanity that are hidden within the darkest of terrors. And they are what I want to remember the most about the past hours.

In the aftermath of an event like this, many will say, "I never thought it could happen here." I am not one of those people. After 9/11, after subway bombings in various European cities, after the death of the London soldier by machete, we know that this can happen. Even here. Even in sleepy Ottawa. And we as a nation have made the conscious choice - and I believe with all of my being that it is the right and only choice - not to lock up our national treasures. Because they belong to us. Because they can hardly be symbols of democracy and freedom if we can't access them. But in making that decision, we must also accept that it can happen here. Indeed, now we know that it can.

Thankfully, the Corporal Cirillo's, the Warrant Officer Vincent's and the Kevin Vickers of this world have agreed, through the jobs that they do day in and day out, to protect our national treasures. And in so doing, they protect and serve us. They sacrifice themselves so that Fergus and I can run by the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier or up Parliament Hill. So that thousands can gather in front of the War Memorial every November 11. So that Moms and Dads can visit Ottawa and bring their children to the top of the Peace Tower. So that Members of Parliament can debate the issues of our times. 

God bless the men and women who dedicate their lives to making sure that we are free to enjoy all that it means to be Canadian. Including our national monuments. May we never take for granted the burdens that you carry so that we do not have to live in fear. 

My heart overflows with love. 

It's a girl!

Many couples that we know had the "Honey, I think it's time for us to have kids" conversation. We never did. We knew from the beginning that we weren't the parenting kind. That does not mean, however, that we have not had plenty of conversations about bringing life into our home. Only that we talk about bringing furry life into our home.

The issue, however, is that Hubby is a cat person, and I am a dog person. [Insert gasp here] So there was an awful lot of talking, but not a whole lot of agreeing. Here are a couple of sample conversations:

Me: "I grew up with a dog. It sure would be nice if I had one again."

Hubby: "No"

Me: "But you work long hours and I'm here all by myself. I need company!"

Hubby: "You work long hours too."

Me: "Not as long as you!"

Hubby: "That's not really true, is it?"

Me: "But I'll take care of it! You don't even have to do a thing! I'll walk it, and feed it, and pick up after it, and train it!!!"

Hubby: "No."

Me: "My friend just got a wiener dog and he's sooooo cute! Come on! Can we get a wiener dog?"

Hubby: "No."

Me: "Can we get a wiener dog? Can we get a wiener dog? Can we get a wiener dog?"

Hubby: "No. No. No."

Me: "Don't you even love me?"

[long awkward pause]

Hubby [furrowing his brow in deep concentration]: "Yes. But we're not getting a dog."

*****************

Hubby: "Let's get a cat. I grew up with them and I miss having one around."

Me: "Over my dead body."

Hubby: "They're not a lot of work, Jay. Not like that dog idea you are always going on about."

Me: "I hate cats. They're aloof. They lick themselves and then cough up fur balls everywhere. And they track their kitty-litter-soaked paws all over the house. Gross! I'm not having one here."

Hubby: "They're not that bad, Jay."

Me: "Yes. They are. They are assholes. They are just waiting for you to die so that they can eat your organs for breakfast."

Hubby: "What happened to you when you were a kid?"

Me: "Nothing. Why?"

Hubby: "You seem a little aggressive about cats. Why are you okay with the ones that we pet-sit for our friends?"

Me: "Because I know those little assholes are eventually going home."

Hubby: "You're cold, Jay."

Me: "Shhhhh..... I'm trying to watch the football game!"

*************

... and so on, and so on, and so on...

I thought I'd won the conversations would end when I finally convinced Hubby to get a dog, thanks in no small part to the crazy man running around our 'hood hitting women over the head with hammers. And as I watched the ever-deepening bond between Hubby and Fergus, I was sure we both felt that our family was complete. No more conversations about cats! Yay!

Our very first family outing, and the very first picture of Hubby and Fergus together.

Watching t.v. together

Best friends hanging out and playing in the Arboretum

But as it turns out, Mr. Fergus is also a cat person. After pet-sitting a friend's cat for a week (affectionately nicknamed Princess Kitty, but known as Sadie), we discovered that he absolutely loves having a cat around. Particularly this cat. When Sadie left, he pined over her for days and days and days on end, running up and down the stairs as he futilely searched every corner of the house for her, whining and barking the whole time. Which of course, Hubby used against me. Leading to this conversation...

Hubby: "Huh. Will you look at that. It looks like Fergus wants us to get a cat!"

Me: "Shut up."

Hubby: "Are you really going to say no to Fergus? Look at him! He's miserable and lonely. He needs a little friend around."

Me: "Shut up."

Hubby: "Really, Jay. What happened to you?"

Me: "I'm going to punch you in the face."

***********

Things only got worse for me when Sadie came to live with us for a year after her human got an excellent career opportunity in California. The deal was that she would take Sadie back when she returned to Canada. But with each passing day, Hubby became more and more used to having a cat around. And Fergus was more and more thrilled to have a constant companion and playmate (by playmate, I mean something that he could herd up and down the stairs). Even Sadie started to relax into her new setting, getting particularly attached to the F-Bomb, mewling and howling whenever he wasn't around for her to torture.

Soon, we were a mere month away from our friend's return. As the time drew nearer and nearer to sending Sadie home, I started to dread having to give her back. I worried that her departure would lead to a renewed debate about whether or not to get a cat. I worried that Fergus and Hubby would mope around the house for weeks on end. I even worried that Sadie would be a little sad without her big, dumb, high-strung friend around to mercilessly taunt.

Damn it!

And so it was that, over the Christmas holidays, Hubby and I had one more conversation about growing our family.

Me: "I don't know who will be more depressed when she is gone. You or Fergus."

Hubby: "Ahem.... Definitely Fergus."

Me: "I'm not so sure about that. You want to keep her, don't you?"

Hubby: "Ahem... ahem... Well, Fergus wants to keep her. That's for sure."

Me: "And you?"

Hubby: cough, cough, sputter, sputter "Yes."

*********

The next day, Hubby sent our dear friend a note that went something like this:

You love Sadie. And Jay and I love Fergus. I know that we all want to do what is right for our pets. They have become best friends, and I worry that separating them may not be the best thing for them. If you agree, Jay and Fergus and I have a loving home waiting for Sadie.

....

And so now, we have a cat.

I am still firmly in the dog-person camp. And I still get grossed out by her kitty-litter soaked paws. And I make Hubby clean the kitty litter because I refuse to touch it. But even I have to admit that she has weasled her way into a tiny little corner of my heart. The way she comes running to the door alongside Fergus to greet us when we come home. The way she cuddles up to me as I am doing my post-run stretching routine. The way she curls up in my lap when I'm watching t.v. or reading a book.

Fine! I admit it. I like her. And I'm glad that we adopted her into our home. She makes our little family complete.

She may be an asshole. But now she is my asshole.

Welcome home, Sadie. And thanks, JJ, for making it all possible.

Sadie has become the real boss. She gets the dog bed, the dog hides under the table.

Unless she is in a good mood. Then she will share.

I run with Fergus. But I do my post-run stretching with Sadie

A family moment - Sadie cuddled on my lap and Fergus at my feet

Hubby and his herd hanging out watching t.v.

A rare quiet moment - Sadie hunkered down for a nap. She is actually pretty cute when she sleeps.

Taking a break from chasing and swatting at each other. 

Yah, Mon!

This morning, I was here:

Winter in the Arboretum

One week ago, I was here:

Winter in paradise

Oh what a difference one week and a four hour plane ride makes.

Welcome to the Oasis at Sunset Resort in Montego Bay Jamaica. (Admit it, you have that Bobby Bloom song in your head, don't you. You're welcome).

This is where Hubby and I recently spent seven days and seven nights, basking in glory of +30C weather. Our wee getaway from this year's polar vortex. A chance to kick back, relax, and rejuvenate.

With my entire family.

Yes, that's right. We went to Montego Bay with my entire family. Mom, Dad, sister, brother-in-law, niece, nephew, brother, sister-in-law, and us. All ten of us.

Romantic, n'est-ce pas?

Well, the truth is that Hubby and I would likely never have chosen a resort vacation if it were just the two of us anyway. Lounging around is not really our thing. Specifically, lounging around is not really Hubby's thing. I have no trouble doing as little as humanly possible for a few days. Hubby, on the other hand, goes squirrly after a couple of hours. Which is why we tend towards more active vacations.

But this particular trip was not about the two of us. It was about my Dad. And his 60th birthday. Which was actually last year. All he wanted to do was bring the whole family together for a vacation. But we failed to make it happen in 2013. So we were all bound and determined to make it happen this year. And make it happen we did.

Here are some highlights:

Running along the beach

Everywhere that I go, I bring my running shoes with me. Because there is no better way to get to know a new city than by running through it.

Except not every city has a travel advisory out stating that you should exercise a high degree of caution due to the high level of violent crime.

Gulp....

Okay. So no leaving the resort for me. No problem. Because there's a beautiful beach and a beautiful ocean right outside my cabana door.

The view of the beach from my balcony

With a view like this, who needs to leave the resort!

Well, the thing is that the resort is small. Like really small. Like really really really small. To run from one end of it to the other is less than 1km. And since I don't really consider it a workout if I get any less than 5km under my belt, it meant that I had to run back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth again across the beach and through the resort. My route looked like this:

Screen shot from my RunKeeper app

I have to tell you, it's pretty boring to run the same route over and over and over and over again. Every single day. It's almost as monotonous as running on a treadmill, something that I hate so much that I run outside during Canadian winters, even when the temperature hits -40C. The only thing that kept me going day in and day out was the knowledge that I was burning off all those sugary calories from all those pina coladas I was sucking back.

Then again, I was running along a beach instead of through slush and snow. And I did have the beach all to myself on those early morning runs. Well, almost to myself...

Goats on the beach. Of course!

There was that family of goats frolicking along the shore. But no other humans, which was kind of nice, I guess. And I did get to hop right into the ocean to cool off after each of my sunrise runs, which is a pretty spectacular way to start the day. So I guess running the same loop over and over again wasn't all bad.

Snorkelling

I don't snorkel. Something about putting a tight fitting mask over my face makes the claustrophobe inside of me get a little anxious. Plus, I'm not smart enough to figure out how to put the darn mask on in the first place...

That's me... Trying to figure out a snorkel mask. Genius.

Then again, I don't get to hang out with my eleven-year-old nephew - who I am convinced is part fish - every day. So I agreed to give snorkelling a try just for him.

I lasted all of 15 minutes. I'm not a strong swimmer, and couldn't really keep up all that well anyway. And both my mask and my snorkel kept filling up with water, making it difficult to appreciate the bounty of the sea swimming below me. So I gave up, and left the snorkelling to the pros, like my Dad. Who spent hours out there looking at the coral reef, and who never hesitated for even a second when my nephew asked, "Who wants to go snorkelling?" Thanks for saving me from having to go back out there, Dad!

As for me, well, I took up this position with Hubby:

And from our poolside perch, we could watch Dad and nephew snorkel through the bay - 2 little dots on the horizon, bobbing up and down, coming up for air every few minutes to excitedly rave about all the different types of fish they found. They were best buddies out there, and it pulled at my heart strings to see them having so much fun.

The pool

Having no children of my own, I don't usually hang out at water parks. Plus Hubby hates water. So I didn't really expect to spend all that much time on the resort's water slides.

But then that pesky nephew of mine begged me to go down the water slides with him. "Just once, Auntie!" And so off I went with him to the top of this monstrosity:

I thought I could sneak away after one or two slides. But I didn't really want to. I'd forgotten just how much fun water slides can be. Especially when you are hanging out with an eleven-year-old whose eyes are shining with excitement. And so up and down we went, over and over and over again, racing each other to the bottom of the slides and then hurrying back up the stairs for another go. He even taught me how to go super fast, by lying on my back with my arms by my side and lifting up my bum so that only my shoulders and feet were touching the slide. Less resistance equals more speed. And a bigger splash when you enter the water!

Waiting for my brother-in-law at the bottom of the slides

When we weren't tearing up and down the slides together, we were hanging out in the pool. Where my favourite thing to do was to lounge around on a tire tube.

That's me, gracefully trying to get into the tube

But my nephew's favourite game was to sneak up to me while I was lounging on said tire tube and to flip me over. So I was particularly happy to watch him get a taste of his own medicine when he and his grandpa were hanging out in the pool:

Ooops!

While I spent my fair share of time in the pool with the nephew, there is no doubt that I much preferred being outside of the pool, with my niece. Lounging on a chair, reading a book, sipping a pina colada, and taking the occasional selfie:

Now that is more like it!

A stranger, my sister, me, and Dad

Private beach

The Oasis is part of the larger Sunset Resort, and it's a bit of an upgrade to stay there. You get an a la carte restaurant for all three meals instead of a buffet. You get to stay in a cabana instead of in an apartment tower. And best of all, you get a private beach, away from the hustle and bustle of the larger resort. And away from all those people fighting over beach chairs.

We spent most of our mornings and a few of our afternoons on the private beach. And for the most part, we had it to ourselves. It was fantastic. Peace and quiet, a nice cool breeze coming off the water, and the sound of those bleating goats. The perfect place to catch up on the many books downloaded onto my Kobo.

Riveting!

Incidentally, I tried all week long to get Hubby to get into the water with me. The Bay isn't very deep and it was nice and warm. So I thought for sure I could convince him to come for a dip. But alas, this is as far as he went:

Wouldn't even take his shirt off. Have I mentioned that he hates water?

At least I got him to pose for a couple of pictures with me, even if I couldn't get him to take off that shirt:

The local craft market

One of my favourite things to do when travelling to a new place is to check out the local market. Markets are so vibrant, the heart of many a city. Whether on the streets of Lima or the cobblestone squares of Bratislava, I have spent many an hour wandering from stall to stall to stall, checking out local wares and soaking in the aromas of local foods. And so Hubby and I were thrilled to learn that we could hire a taxi to take us into town to check out the local markets. We rallied the troops and set off for a couple of hours of shopping and people watching.

What 16-year-old girl doesn't want to go shopping?

Hubby and Mom gearing up for some good deals

My brother and sister-in-law ready to spend some dough!

Now like with any market, I expected that there would be lots of vendors trying to dupe tourists into buying junk. And this one was no different. Each and every stall carried an array of identical stuff - carved wooden snappers and turtles, woven bracelets, messenger bags, photos of Bob Marley, all of which looked to have been mass produced in China. But I was not prepared for just how aggressive things got at the market. The minute the taxi pulled up and the doors opened, vendor after vendor after vendor jumped all over our group, pulling all of us in separate directions to go and see their stalls first. "My lady, my lady! Please let me show you what I have." "Sir, bring your wife over here when you are done. You promise, okay?" "I have better prices over here. You come to my stall." It was overwhelming. And I quickly learned that the preferred tactic of every vendor was to practically push you into their stall and block your exit until you bought something. A few of the ladies even offered me "free" gifts if I would buy something from them. One went as far as to tie a bracelet on my arm, despite my protestations, which I had to forcefully remove as I muscled my way out of her stall. I just didn't like it at all. By the time the taxi driver came back to pick us up, I could have hugged him, I was so happy to be taken away from there.

Hubby, on the other hand, was in his element. He's a lawyer, after all, and so arguing and negotiating are two of his favourite things. While the rest of us were getting visibly more and more frustrated, Hubby played it cool and let vendor after vendor lead him from stall to stall, looking over piles of stuff before calmly making an offer for something that caught his eye, and then even more calmly walking away when the vendor wouldn't accept his price. He had vendors chasing him across the entire market, practically throwing their wares at him for a fraction of their original prices. "Sir, sir, I can give it to you for 10$. But you can't tell anyone else that I gave you this deal. Promise me that you won't tell anyone else!"

Watching the market from the safety of my taxi

Swimming with Dolphins

Ever since she was a little girl, my niece wanted to go swimming with dolphins. So when my sister and her family booked a trip to Dolphin's Cove in Ocho Rios, I decided to tag along for some quality time with the kids.

You had the option to swim with either one or two dolphins. Sis and I chose one while my brother-in-law, the kids and Dad chose to swim with two. The big difference is that when you swim with two, you lie face down in the water and the two dolphins swim towards you, plant their noses on the balls of your feet, and push you forward and up until you "walk on the water like Jesus Christ", in the words of the dolphin trainer. We watched as my Dad and nephew took turns giving it a try, but neither one of them was lifted straight up. More like they were propelled forward until they nose-dived back into the water. But then when it was my niece's turn, up she went, like a freaking pro, arms out over her head like she'd been doing this her whole life. I screamed out loud as soon as I saw it, I was so impressed. But what really got me wasn't her acrobatic, aquamarine grace. It was her smile. Her face lit up in the biggest smile that I have ever seen. I've never seen her look quite so happy. I wish I had a picture, but there are no cameras allowed in close range, and you have to saw off your right arm to pay for those taken by the staff. So the memory of that smile will have to do.

As for my sister and I, we got paired up with dolphin Mitch, the alpha male of the herd. Mitch is the sire of five baby dolphins in the cove, all of which have five different "baby-mamas". Bit of a Casanova, is Mitch! Our swim with him consisted of treading in place and tapping the surface of the water to call him over, at which point he swims up right between your arms, you grab onto his pectoral fins, and he drags you a few metres. Belly to belly with a dolphin for a few metres. Not something I ever really expected to do in this lifetime, and probably not something I would have done were it not for those kids. So thanks, niece and nephew, for this one of a kind memory!

Can't see a thing, but this is the cove where people swim with the dolphins

SuperBowl

Who goes and books a family vacation during SuperBowl?!? Well, we do. Which had a few of us football fans worried that we would miss the big game.

Not to worry. As soon as we checked in, Hubby and I asked the resort staff if they would be showing the SuperBowl anywhere, and they assured us that there would be a big beach party, complete with traditional SuperBowl fare. But then they went a step further, and set up a private room just for our family. Two t.v.'s, our very own chili, nachos, and chicken wings, and a bartender coming in to check up on us. Talk about service!

Nice set up - just for us!

Bringing in the food!

Perfect SuperBowl food!

Now if only the game would have been a little more entertaining.

Sistas!

I always knew that there was a strong family resemblance between my sister and I. But I didn't realize just how strong it was until I was walking alongside the pool with my nephew and a lifeguard screamed out, "Hey! Where's your sista?" About five minutes later, my sister and I walked by the same lifeguard, and he started exclaiming to his colleagues, "Hey! There they are! The sistas!" "They ain't sistas! They twins!" the other lifeguard hollered.

And so it was that for the rest of the week, my sister and I were known by staff and guests alike as "The Sistas". Everywhere we went, we were asked if we were twins, and had to explain that we were in fact separated by two years. On more than one occasion, my sister was even mistaken for me or vice verse.

So you be the judge. Do we really look that much alike?

Family

Our last night together

Let's be honest. The idea of spending an entire week with one's family can be a little daunting. Especially for the in-laws. In the lead up to our vacation, I may have overheard Hubby once (or ten times) say, "Yeah. We're going to Jamaica. With her whole family." Followed by him mouthing the words "Help me!"

And who can blame him. We're a crazy bunch. Like all families, we get on each other's nerves. In such close quarters, how could we not drive each other nuts?

But the thing about my family is that we are pretty tight. My sister is my best friend, and she married a great guy. Their kids are two of the most special people in my whole life, the closest thing I will ever have to children of my own. Being their auntie is probably one of my most satisfying roles. Then there is my brother and his partner, who go out of their way to help us out when we need it. And it's nice to have them in the same city as Hubby and I when everyone else is so far away; it makes me feel a little less isolated. Then there's my parents. It wasn't always easy back in the teenage days of living at home under their rules. But once I got over those awkward pubescent years, my parents and I genuinely became friends. Really good friends. And they love Hubby.

So being together, even on such a small resort where we couldn't easily get away from one another, wasn't really such a chore. It was actually a lot of fun. So fun, in fact, that my cheeks still hurt from laughing so much for seven days.

So here's to my crazy, loud, water-logged, wonderful family.

Selfie time for uncle and nephew

Selfie time with Auntie

A sight not often seen - Mom relaxing with a beer

My brother-in-law and niece hamming it up for the camera

Hubby and I

That nephew of mine is such a clown

Grandpa and grand-daugther

Playing cards with my sis

Auntie and niece cuddling up

Chilling with Mom

Going for a dip in the waterfall with Dad

I guess resort vacations aren't that bad after all. Especially if you surround yourself with those you love the most in the whole wide world.