A Banquet *And* A Dance? O, It's Too Much Happiness.

Yesterday was one of those dizzying days when all of the good things that they say come in threes came all at once. It was a veritable feast of wonders.

The appetizer: a car repair that came in under budget. Waaaay under budget. It also brought with it the removal of a very loud noise from my car and the discovery of "The Volkswagen Man" (our new car repair shop of choice). Which, given my propensity towards all accidents vehicular, is a very good thing.

The main course: gainful employment. Yes, after sending in my formal acceptance of a letter of offer, I am once again a working stiff, a puncher of clocks, a bringer home of (veggie) bacon. I actually had a successful first and second interview a few weeks ago, but there was some delay while they conducted a background check to ensure I had no skeletons rattling in my closets, so I've been on pins and needles for awhile.

I am really excited about this job for so many reasons. I spent a fair amount of time there during my interviews and the office is in a great location and the people seem friendly and warm. From what I can tell, it brings together all the things about my previous job that I loved: collaboration, meticulousness and style guides.

The plan is that I will start in a week and a half; we just need to work through the immigration issue and I need to put all the appropriate childcare into place. The Boy will start at the same school The Girl attends on Monday and we'll ease them into the before school program hopefully next Thursday. So today my day will be filled with purchasing new school uniforms, arranging before-school care and making appointments for immunizations. After the last time, I think the victims-to-be will be told about the upcoming event when we pull into the clinic parking lot and I think I'll bring The Husband along for emotional and physical support.

Finally, the dessert: a call from the theatre company saying that the free draw slip I had idly filled out a number of weeks ago was pulled and I am the winner of four free tickets to an upcoming production of A Christmas Carol.

All told, quite a day. I totally should've bought a Powerball ticket.

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Those Darn Canadian Microbes

*GROAN*

We brought more than cheer and goodwill home with us this past weekend. Some nasty flu bugs discovered with glee our poorly-defended-against-Canadian-germs immune systems and hitched a ride in order to fly south for the winter.

The Girl was pretty much right as rain after staying home on Monday and The Boy has thus far emerged unscathed; his temperature seems to run higher than the rest of us (at least, he's always removing items of clothing and complaining of being hot), so perhaps he is an unwelcoming host. It seems that The Husband and I have borne the brunt of it, spending much of the past two days in bed.

I'm feeling mostly better today and so can embark on the post-sick clean-up (aka washing all the bedding).

In other news, it was cooooold here yesterday! By which I mean it was warmer than you Northerners had but colder than we're used to. We didn't see it coming, as is the case every year when I somehow forget that winter will eventually arrive at some point, so last night there was a quick stop at REI for some nice warm boots for the chill'uns. Fortunately last year's parkas were bought big, so I think we're good to go now.

Not that it matters much. Yesterday, the Girl got bundled up in parka, snow pants (a misnomer for us as there is currently no snow), boots from two seasons ago, toque, scarf and her brother's mittens (we could only find one of hers) only to go to school to find that recess was cancelled. Yes, cancelled. It was -15 degrees C and it was deemed too cold for the little ones.

Now, I'll give them the benefit of the doubt and assume that it was cancelled not for the weather's extremity but for the fact that many of the children's parents were also likely caught unaware and their munchkins may have been less than properly dressed. At least, this is what we're hoping. It will be a looooong winter if recess is cancelled whenever the temperature dips below -10.

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Sometimes You Want To Go Where Everybody Knows Your Name...And They're Always Glad You Came

First off: we arrived home yesterday at about 8:30 (pause for collective sigh of relief from two mother/grandmothers who still worry about our safety). The snowy roads ended about 45 minutes outside the city, so we had quite clear sailing most of the way home. Winterpeg indeed.

The typical "blech-it's-Monday" feelings, which are always more pronounced after a long weekend, were combined with some niggling stomach instability that a few of us started feeling while driving yesterday, so The Girl was kept home from school today. When there's no word of protest against the "no-TV-if-you're-sick" rule and a sigh of relief when flopping into bed, it's a sure sign of legitimacy.

(A quick apology to all those I hugged and breathed on yesterday - I'm feeling fairly fine, so hopefully I wasn't a carrier of some real nastiness.)

Ah, yesterday. Coming back to Canada is always a bit bittersweet, and nowhere have I felt that as strongly as at church. It was *so* nice to see all those friendly faces and to feel so much goodwill simply radiating at us when we walked in.

I read somewhere (Donald Miller, I think) that deep down, all people really want is to be known for who they are and loved anyway. In our world of Oil of Olay, The Gap and IKEA, it's tempting and relatively easy to put together a polished and attractive front. Yet when we engage people purely on a surface level, we will always wonder whether we would be as likable if we were suddenly as stinky and selfish as we know we really are when we look in the mirror.

I know that I'm frequently stinky and selfish around the people I purport to love best in this world, and because of that I always marvel that they seem to know me and love me anyway. I walk into church and am continually amazed to find people who have seen some pretty awful sides of me yet love me in spite of it. Or, perhaps, it is possible they love me because of it, in the same way that I find myself loving those who trust me enough to reveal their less-than-perfect sides to me.

I'm quite convinced that when I do get to Heaven, it will be like my arrival at church yesterday. (Possibly not exactly - one wonders whether there will be snow to shovel off of the front steps there.)

I'll walk in after things have started and I'll hear some whispered "Nice to see you!"s from fellow stragglers. The usher will smile as he finds me a seat and every time I look away from the front stage I'll catch someone's eye, who will then grin broadly with the promise of later catching-up. There'll be some fabulous singing interspersed with people sharing about how they show their love to God by loving others. After the show, I'll be surrounded by friends I haven't seen in ages:

"How was the trip up? Any trouble?"

"Nah, there was that cancer nuisance and I got searched at the border, but it wasn't so bad."

I'll grab a cup of Heaven's equivalent of fair trade/organic coffee and feel my heart's cup fill and overflow with a deep joy knowing that we all belong here and are loved.

And over and over I'll hear, "We've missed you so much; welcome back."

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The Blame Game

So Minneapolitans are obsessed with death and weather. At least, watching the first fifteen minutes of any of the four local newscasts suggests a particular fascination with all things morbid or climatic. The juiciest stories seem to be those that combine death *and* weather, so any trailer park decimated by a hurricane gets top billing.

One thing we have noticed during the full quarter of each newscast devoted to the weather is that any unsavoury weather patterns must be identified in terms of source for proper attribution of blame. Blizzards? From Colorado. Rain? A pipeline coming up from the Gulf of Mexico. Bitterly cold northerly winds? Canada.

The animosity with which they refer to Canada is quite pronounced. Canada - land of igloos and snowdogs. Canada - land of polite but frigid folks. Canada - source of curse-eliciting discomfort and grumbling parka-hunting.

Having returned to my fair country of citizenship for American Thanksgiving, I find myself tempted to agree. It's FREEZING up here! -18 degrees?! Quite a shock to the old system. I actually had to break out the parkas and toques ("winter hats" as they are known down south) in anticipation of our heading back to the North Country.

That said, there's always warmth from family and friends when we come back, so that keeps us pretty toasty. Right now the kids are busily decorating Christmas boxes for the cats to sleep in. The Husband is taking advantage of the local mechanic's shop (i.e. my in-laws' garage) to change the oil in the car. And I'm still basking in the afterglow of yesterday's book club - I loves me some book talk!

It's also lovely to be back on Canadian soil. Particularly on Black Friday. I got tired last week just watching the commercials announcing that Kohl's was starting its post-Thanksgiving sale at 4 AM. 4 AM?! Crazy consumerism. We may be shivering, but at least we've avoided the economic/foreign policy of "Buy. Buy! BUY!!" embraced by so many for the low monthly payment of "in credit card debt for the rest of your life." For now, anyway. We've still got to get through the next month of pre-Christmas pressure to purchase.

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"I Know You Are But What Am I, Infinity" (or, A Trip Down Memory Lane)

As a parent, I have found that one of the most nerve-wracking experiences I have had is sharing a prized memory from my childhood with my own children. It could go so, so wrong: they might gaze with derision at my humble offering of Cabbage Patch Kids or Thundercats and roll their eyes as they turn back to whatever cartoonish tripe is being offered that day. (I mean, really - "Horseland"?!)

Or, potentially even worse, I might return to the scene of childhood bliss and find that the event in question has not stood the test of time. Grape kool-aid drunk from the plastic Thermos that came with my Smurfette lunchbox tasted of liberation and independence, consumed as it was by the backstop in our back park with NO ADULT IN SIGHT. But I would be foolish to think that I could recreate that experience by handing my children a Lunch Box Punch and sending them out to the backyard.

Yet the potential payoff for such cross-generational sharing is huge. One of my best weekends in recent memory was the discovery of hours' worth of "Jem and the Holograms" on YouTube, with which I impressed my brood mightily with my intricate knowledge of plotlines, characters and songs.

And so it was with both trepidation and anticipation that I revealed this week's family movie night choice to them:

Yes, Pee-Wee's Big Adventure. This movie made up a good number of the rentals on our Adi's Video card; my brothers and I spent many happy hours watching the grey-suited boy/man search for his missing bicycle. We would stop the VCR at the *exact* moment that Large Marge revealed herself to be a monster and laugh uproariously.

The next generation responded fairly well to this piece of cinematic gold. (I was actually pleasantly surprised to see how well the film has aged - gotta love early Tim Burton.) My favourite part was their debate as to whether Pee-Wee was a boy or a man. The jury would still be out if it weren't for The Husband's resigned sigh, "He's a man, you guys."

In related news, we have finally finished the Narnia books. The Girl and I have been slogging through them for bedtime reading for more than six months now. Not that I don't love me some C.S. Lewis; I still get weepy-eyed in The Last Battle when everyone gets tossed into the Stable and finds... well, you'll just have to read it. But this run-through of Narnia was different than those of my childhood. I'd never noticed the jingoism, the misogyny-disguised-as-chivalry, the blatant racism before. So I'll admit to a definite sigh of relief at reaching the final page.

Now we're on to Laura Ingalls Wilder and Little House in the Big Woods. The Girl has turned into a history buff and particularly enjoys 19th century life and World War II documentaries. There's been a similar jolt for me as I've returned to the pioneer world with an older perspective. I identify less with Laura and her corn-cob-doll-pig's-bladder-balloon fun and more with Ma, working her starched and ironed bustle off to keep her household together while trying not to be resentful of her husband's wanderlust (really, Charles, yet another move?!).

Ah well. At least I have no desire to try making headcheese. Gracious, those pioneers ate a lot of meat!

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The Price of Readin', Writin', and 'Rithmetic

Fresh off the heels of a Friday morning school controversy (there was a miscommunication about whether The Girl's class was participating in the school-wide Pajama Day, resulting in most of the class wearing uniforms and some other little ones sporting Thomas the Train jammies), I find myself mindful yet again of the choice we have made concerning our daughter's education.

Since making the choice to enroll her in an immersion school in Canada, we have become huge advocates of second-language immersion. In fact, our decision to move here hinged entirely on the availability of continuing instruction in a second language; when it looked like the two public immersion schools would not have space for us, we had to face the realization that, although The Husband's job opportunity was amazing, we might have to say "no" because we could not continue our children's education in our chosen fashion. So the discovery of this school, with one space left in the first grade, seemed like an absolute God-send, particularly given that discovery only two days before we had to decide whether or not we would accept the job offer.

For the most part, we love the school. It has an international feel that we suspect would be lacking in public and/or English schools. The language that the teachers (imported directly from the mother country) speak is beautiful - The Girl's "rrrr's" already roll far better than her parents'. The standards are high - she visited a Picasso exhibit in her first week, has spent a few weeks learning about "les microbes," and is learning how to write in cursive. There is a healthy balance between physical education and mental education, her teacher is wonderfully dedicated, and the class size is small.

(Given the horror stories we keep hearing about the public school system down here, we feel as though we have dodged the "No Child Left Behind" bullet that faces so many other parents who have different and fewer options than we.)

The one thing that gives us pause is the cost. The tuition is high, particularly when we consider that we would like to enroll The Boy whenever I do go back to work. I would never have dreamed that I would be paying more for one child's annual (pre-Kindergarten!) tuition than I did for my own annual university tuition. And while we are fortunate enough to have finances that allow this school to even be an option for us, it is not an option that makes only a slight impact on our bank account. Our children may be our future, but does that future merit funds that could (should?) be put towards retirement?

A secondary - but noticeable - effect of the tuition costs is that many other students in this school come from, shall we say, privileged families. I am glad that my l'il Jetta has a high sense of her own self worth; otherwise, she might feel insecure each day as she parks beside Audis, Mercedes, Volvos and Hummers. My own background of simplicity and frugality is (usually) enough to arm me with the knowledge that most things of real value cannot be purchased.

But will that knowledge filter down to my children if they are surrounded by others who brag about new toys, chatter excitedly about their latest costly activity or sneer at my daughter that $1 from the tooth fairy isn't worth very much? (Huh - my blood *still* boils just thinking about that incident and it happened over two weeks ago.) Not that it would be better if we could get into the public school, something that we are trying to do, but could take years. It would probably be worse, actually, given the school's location in a pretty posh district and its lack of uniforms which possess such a tremendous leveling capability.

There will *always* be others who have more, I know that. My children, like children everywhere, need to learn about the futility of keeping up with the Joneses and about valuing qualities like kindness and graciousness in their friends, regardless of their friends' socioeconomic level. And there are certainly lots of families who have to sacrifice financially to have their kids in this school and have incomes/abilities similar to ours, so it's not like all of them come bearing lunchboxes containing a silver spoon.

Sigh. It was *so* much easier in Canada, where immersion schools were a dime a dozen and cost nothing. What our local school lacked in academic rigour it made up for in warmth, informality and liberal-granola-like-mindedness.

But so far we are glad that we found this school and look forward to watching our child/ren's continued academic successes. Even if the last month has been spent on Christopher Columbus and we have been the at-home-audiences for re-enactments (bilingual, mind you) about the "Indians." Nothing like a front-row seat for the early days of imperialism!

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Happy Winds-day!

To borrow from that pantless Pooh, it is definitely a blustery day out there! My little weather icon told me yesterday that you Northerners had actual wind warnings, so you got yours a little early.

(Yes, I keep the temperature for both Winnipeg and Minneapolis on my computer. Just so I can shout "go! go! go!" whenever they're neck in neck and then gloat when our temperature tops yours. Of course, I also hang my head in dismay on days like yesterday when you get to a glorious 16 degrees and we're stuck in the lower teens.)

It feels a bit as though the blog is going to be changing a bit as time passes. When we were in the thick of moving, there was something major to report every day. Each day had earth-shaking headlines:

"PASSPORTS OBTAINED: ONE WOMAN'S RED TAPE BATTLE"

"GIRL SHELVES TEDDY, GAINS BFF"

"MOVING VAN ARRIVES TO TEARS OF JOY"

Now that things are settling down (see previous post on predictable routine - aka "a rut"), it feels as though we are moving off of the sensational front page and towards Section B. Or perhaps even Section C, given that this morning's post started with the weather. With that in mind, today's post will be an op-ed piece.

Someone asked me the other day to choose: truth or comfort.

I paused for the briefest of seconds. Was this a trick question? The answer was so obvious - why would anyone choose anything but?

Truth, I answered.

Since then, I've been thinking of why that would be my knee-jerk reaction. I'll definitely be the first to say that I've got an active (some might accuse me of "overactive") sense of integrity. I'm the girl who contacted service reps when I'd printed their booklets wrong, even if the mistake would likely have gone unnoticed. I'm the girl who returned to Superstore after realizing I'd forgotten to put my butter on the conveyor belt to be scanned in order to model "truthiness" to my daughter. Even if she was only 8 months old at the time. I'm the girl who left a note on the car whose hood may or may not have been dinged by my son's over-zealous door-opening practices, even though I wasn't sure if the damage was our fault.

Now all of these things cost me fairly little in the grand scheme of things. But when the two are mutually exclusive - when truth comes at the cost of comfort - I'll still choose truth. Back when we were struggling maritally, it would have been far easier to avoid knowing the truth in order to save what seemed to be a comfortable life. But I chose truth then and would choose it now too - no comfort is worth it when built on a lie.

Don't get me wrong; I'm still prone to choosing comfort now and again, particularly when I can convince myself the truth is not at issue. But unless I'm able to perform some fairly nimble mental gymnastics and truly believe that I'm not compromising my integrity, I'll frame the issue in a "truth or comfort" dichotomy and will agonize until I choose truth.

(This makes me an absolute nightmare for students who think that plagiarizing is no big deal. I take it quite personally and the barest whiff of sloppy citing of secondary sources turns me into one of those drug dogs who will not rest until the smuggler of others' ideas is found, wrestled to the ground, and appropriately brought to justice.)

It gets me to wondering. Is it just me? (Probably not.) Are there people who would knowingly choose comfort over truth? (Probably.) Are there compelling reasons for doing so? (Hmmm...)

So, what would you choose - truth or comfort?

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Ack! Bad Blogger!

Yet *another* "oh-i'm-so-sorry-i-haven't-had-time-to-update" for you. Last week's swift descent into chaos, which tends to happen when The Husband travels for longer than two days, was immediately followed by some more weekend company so there was just enough time in between the two to press the reset button on the house and that's about it.

We had another great weekend showing our out-of-town guests around "our" city. (Wonder how long I'll need those quotation marks?) That those guests happened to be Grandma and Grandpa was extra-special as The Girl and The Boy definitely miss all their grandparents. There was shopping and fort-building and lots of earnest lectures about all the different kinds of Pokemon (The Boy's latest obsession). My in-laws were even kind enough to offer to stay with our munchkins one night so The Husband and I could go out for a grown-up supper.

Weekends such as this underscore how quickly we've become accustomed to this place. Well, it seems relatively quick to me. I consider myself directionally challenged at the best of times and it was quite a triumph to be able to chauffeur everyone around. Pointing out the sights and coming up with the odd bit of local lore felt good, too.

Today felt like a return to routine, which we all know is my nirvana. Consistency, predicability, repetition - that's what keeps me feeling grounded. And as much as it's not my ideal routine, it's a rhythm nonetheless and I'm grateful for it. Getting everyone out of the house, dropping The Girl off at school, coming home to scour the Internet for jobs, a bit of Curious George over lunchtime followed by a little outing with The Boy before picking up The Girl fills up my weekdays quite nicely. Well, enough for now, I guess.

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Older and Hopefully At Least a Teensy Bit Wiser

Happy birthday to me! Yesterday I officially became "thirtysomething." Yes, I know I hit the big 3-0 last year at about this time, but that's not quite the same as being firmly established in a particular decade. 30 is like a layover between the twenties and the thirties - you disembark from Flight 2029 and take the tram over to Terminal 30 and wait around, checking out the magazines, drinking coffee and trying to decide which trail mix to buy. It's a kind of transition year where you're forgiven for forgetting that you're not in the "I don't have to decide quite yet what I want to be when I grow up" stage of life anymore.

(Of course, most of my friends who are already in their 30s seem to still be in that stage. Perhaps old age pension is the new "when I grow up.")

But now I'm buckled in with my seat back upright and my tray locked and we're taxiing down the runway towards the real land of the grownups.

Although, come to think of it, my first official day in my thirties was a bit of a bust in the whole "grownup" department. I gave myself permission to do nothing constructive where housekeeping is concerned. Which is different from every other day, of course, when I pretty much do the same thing except beg forgiveness after the fact instead of give permission before. Now my livingroom looks as though the local chapter of Phi Delta Epsilon had a rousing frat party here last night. We ordered in pizza and the kids and I sat around and watched The Biggest Loser.

(I will point out that there was educational value to this particular program as The Girl was quite busy adding up the number of shed pounds each team required in order to avoid elimination.)

Then I had the opportunity to go to bed with a teenage vampire. My dear sweet husband, in an act which is all the more cherished given the amount of head-shaking he no doubt performed while doing it, purchased for my birthday present the third book in a series of adolescent literature about teenage vampires. It's kind of like Sweet Valley High meets Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It's adolescent literature at its "finest" - if I were 13, I would be head over heels in love with mortality-challenged Edward Cullen.

So let's see - my room is a pigsty, I had pizza and Coke for supper, I watched a few hours of inane television and my current drug of choice is Edward the vegetarian vampire (he doesn't eat people, you see - just mountain lions).

I have this curious feeling that I am just about to have my travel visa revoked.

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The First Few Flakes

Hello all - sorry I've been so absent lately! I have an excellent excuse; I was happily hostessing our first visitors to our new home this past weekend (and no, the title of this post does not refer to them). Some dear Canadian friends came to pick up the packages they've been sending here to save international shipping costs and were sweet enough to stay for a few days. I suspect they just needed to increase their duty-free limit, but they promise that they came to see us, too.

We had a lovely weekend with lots of kid-friendly activities. It was rewarding to be able to show people around "our" city and even have some favourites already to share with them. The menfolk went on a loooong bike ride (42 km!) to test out The Husband's new bike. (Not on the same bike - they rode separate ones. Although that's a pretty funny mental picture.) We also hit the kids' bookstore, the park, the trolley, Legoland and a fabulous Italian restaurant.

And today, with a wistful wave at their departing van, I returned back to reality. The Boy and I pretty much vegged all day, particularly given that there isn't a whole lot of incentive to keep the house firing on all cylinders. The Husband left this morning as well for a business trip that will keep him away - and unfairly warm as he's in Texas - until Thursday. We all know what *that* means: bare minimum in the cleanup and parenting department and lots of "macaroni and cheese from the box."

Today I also saw the first teensy-weensy flakes of snow fall. Nothing much - certainly nothing warranting the barrage of Christmas commercials on TV. I saw my first WalMart Christmas commercial at 9:23 pm on October 31. They didn't even have the decency to wait until Halloween was over - funeral meat at the wedding indeed. I always thought that Americans didn't get quite so much of that pre-pre-pre-Christmas pressure since they had a later Thanksgiving to keep the marketers at bay. Alas, Target is full of blinky lights, the greenery is appearing on the storefronts and the mysteriously absent occupants of the showroom livingrooms at IKEA have all put up the Christmas trees. I even saw one pseudo-kitchen that was displaying some Christmas cards.

Now really. Who is sending Christmas cards in November?! Those Swedes - masters of organization.

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The One Day of the Year It's Okay to Take Candy from Strangers

As much as there are elements of Halloween that I don't like, I'll admit that I find it kind of heartwarming that one day of the year, even the most curmudgeonly of neighbours buys a bag of candy, turns on the porchlight, and allows - nay, rewards - children to knock on his door and beg.

Our munchkins got fully into the spirit of things. Behold, the Snow Princess and the "Mutant Ninja Turtle":

His costume came with a mask, but he didn't want to wear it. So everyone thought he was a knight.

Trick or treating was lots of fun. We had to have a few etiquette lessons: at the first houses, The Boy announced that he does not like peanut butter or chocolate, which led to some people apologizing that it's all they had. He blithely said, "that's okay" before coming back to his mortified parents who instructed him to simply smile and say thank you.

This being Minnesota, 8 out of 10 houses count a dog as one of the occupants. There were a few occasions where The Girl would run up to a door, ready to hold open her bag and then scream and run even faster back to where we were waiting on the sidewalk. Never fear, her TMNT brother was there to save the day, and he would yell at the owner of the carnivorous canine "is he friendly?! Is he FRIENDLY?!" until he could turn around and assure his quaking sister that all was well.

We only did a few blocks, but managed to come up with a fair amount of loot:

The requisite check for razor blades and needles

The spoils of victory

The Boy also had his very first Pixie Stick yesterday. His response: "Now *that's* good."

Of course, all the excitement and pixie-stick-action (bollocks on all those studies who say that sugar does not cause hyperactivity) led to a late bedtime and a verrrrry cranky morning. The kids were a bit grouchy, too.

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