the street where we live

On Westwood Ave, just off Main street and tucked behind a deep red maple is our home. It's a five unit apartment building, built in the early 20th century.

The basement is everything that an old basement should be: cobwebby, low ceiling-ed, and old furniture to be brought upstairs, painted and given a new home. 

The third floor is half living quarters and half attic. Ten years ago, I would have carved out a little nook by the paned glass window to read and dream. Now, I watch my girls as they scurry under the eaves and investigate all the forgotten  treasures.

It's mostly just the girls and I at home during the day. Everyone else is out and about, except for our neighbor access the hall. The gentleman has lived here for a long time and is the sweetest grandfatherly type man. He offers to help with any information about the building we may need, apologizing that he can't help in a more practical way. He's 95, still writing books and walking downtown for his groceries.

There hasn't ever been children or musicians living in this house but the others don't seem to mind. The French couple who lives upstairs always smile at our girls and love listening to the hours of practice.

There is a dog in residence, we hear his feet skittering across the hardwood floor and the little yelps when his owners come home. She looks like Kate right down to her nude pumps and dark wavy hair. He looks nothing like Will though, we exchange hellos when we go for walks and little tidbits about the neighborhood.

There's a fifth resident, one of those brilliant writers or night shift workers, I'm convinced of it. Not exactly the type to host a building party at Christmas but friendly enough to say hello.

And then us. The family with the little girls, recently transplanted from Alberta. Musician, artists and owners of the double BoB.

It's a lovely place, clotheslines out the back and a formal front entry with a beautiful tile floor. The bushes are all flaming red now, the grass still full and lush.

It's the first place that we've loved this much and that I've let myself get so attached too. It calls out the beauty, the parties we could host, the conversations to be had, the neighbors to bake for, and the memories to be made.

It's home. 

Transitions, Popcorn, and Making Memories

I lay with you tonight, until you stopped talking and your breathing slowed. You were in my bed, Daddy had to go back to Alberta to shoot a wedding and so it's just us girls hanging out for the weekend. 

You were wearing your 'workout jammies', a pair of sweats that you wear when you work out with me. You took your long sleeved pink tee off because you were just too hot. 

You flipped and flopped all over the bed. It's been a big day. It's been a big month and a half, so many changes and I forget sometimes that you're only two. 

We took Daddy to the airport and you wanted to go to. So badly. There were tears in the car. Yours, mine and Khaira's. 

I think somehow you see the airport as a magic portal. Like, if we just all step through the revolving doors life will resume normalcy again. 

It's hard, baby girl. I know, I understand. It's hard for me too. 

It's why we relax a little bit on some things, and why we maintain our family traditions. Reading the same books at bedtime, having special foods, and singing songs that we like and have always liked. 

We shared a bowl of popcorn tonight, actually it was a cake pan because we don't have our bowls with us yet. We watched a little movie, you, me and Khaira. We munched on carrot sticks and snuggled through the scenes of the screen. Khaira fell asleep quickly. You needed a little more time to unwind, you take in so much of what goes on around you. We talk about baby horses and jammies, about coloring and the swings at the park. You stroke my hair and share your blanket with me. You ask me if I'm cozy, I memorize this moment with you. 

It takes all evening for you to fall asleep and that's okay. 

Your breathing slows and you barely stir when I move back to your own bed. My own breathing slows and I feel peace. 

Picking the Perfect Pumpkin

It's the pumpkin patch dilemma. Everyone is dressed in their sweaters and plaids and boots, parents are following their children around asking them to "just please look at the camera!" "Just smile nicely!"

The children run from pumpkin to pumpkin declaring each one to be the best. They see the glory of the big orange balls, the autumn light glinting off the pumpkins, the corn maze holds mystery to their imagination.

The adults check their watches or their phones, getting caught up in a text conversation.

"Hurry, hurry, haven't you picked one out yet?"

They drag the pumpkins to get weighed and then load the children in the car to cries of 'but we weren't finished yet.'

The pumpkin sits on the front porch steps, maybe with a carved face or not. The pictures are liked and commented on, 'oh my goodness, your kids are SO cute!'

And everyone moves on. 

Pie is made with canned filling from the store or a ready-made pie is picked out from the bakery section. And it's eaten and for the most part enjoyed. I'm not judging here, this was the way we danced on Thanksgiving weekend. And it was good. 

It struck me this weekend when we were out at the pumpkin patch, the great extent we go to make memories and to capture everything and then to share it, as if the capturing and sharing make it more real. Parents chasing their children around, bribing their children for pictures when all the children want to do is run and delight in the pumpkins. Minus the bribing part, that was me. It wasn't the perfect pumpkin picking that I wanted, and it wasn't just the children who were being fussy and grumpy.

Sometimes, its better to just let the littles set the pace, to follow them around the pumpkin patch, marveling at how they walk, noticing what they notice. Sometimes it's better to not care so much about capturing the perfect picture but to make the perfect memory. Sometimes it means picking out a knobby pumpkin and hefting into the stroller for the ride home. Sometimes it means not being perfect and not being all cutesy and not having any of those pictures to share. Sometimes the only pictures are of everyone being distracted and looking the other way but sometimes there's the one magical picture of sunlight and autumn and life. Real life just like you live it everyday, captured just how you are right then. 

And that's really okay. And that's really real. And that's really beautiful. 

Colors of Nova Scotia

It's a bit of a grey day today, the sun is bravely peeking through the clouds promising that it won't always be grey. There is so much colour here in Nova Scotia, the houses, the front doors, and the bus benches. They mirror the rainbow of colors found on the trees and the wildflowers and the undergrowth. The color is vibrant and life-giving. 

The sky is expressive, dark and brooding one minute and the next moment the sun peeks through the clouds. 

I love it here. 

And today I want to share a little bit of my new home with you. 

"Don't ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and go and do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."

H. Thurman

Wishing you a day filled with color and life and sunshine peeking through the clouds!

Enjoy Now

Enjoy Now. 

There's dozen of pithy quotes with this concept, I probably have half a dozen on my "good words" pinboard. 

I need them pinned on my head, on my walls, and on my girls' walls. 

I have these daydreams sometimes when I go for walks that both girls will fall asleep in the stroller, at the same time. They will stay asleep while I navigate the coffee shop, order my drink, enjoy it (while it's hot), and read for several hours. At the end of which time, they will wake up happy and I will be a content better person. 

(If I just crushed any of your ideas about me, I'm not sorry. Real life is so much better and messier)

But if those dreams were to come true, I would miss out on so much. So much life. 

I realized this the other day as I navigated the coffee shop with the stroller and two wide awake girls. I smiled at the other customers, no doubt breathing a sigh of relief that my coffee was to go. I pushed the stroller towards the water and onto the dyke, Kilmeny got out of the stroller and started running. Khaira was running with her in spirit, she is so close to walking everywhere and can't wait to keep up with Kilmeny that way. 

I breathed the rich sea air into my lungs and felt life taking hold again. 

We reached the corner, just where the rocks are piled perfectly to sit and the path is wide enough for two little girls to play on without getting in the way of other runners. I drank my coffee, and watched the waves beat against the rocks. I marveled (again) at the builders of the dyke and their determination to guard their farmland from the ocean. Khaira toddled from rock to rock, Kilmeny kept pace with every runner who passed us. 

It took the smiles of a passerby to make me realize the wealth I had, she shared a delighted 'oh, look at them go!' smile with me and I felt instantly validated for all those hours of being mom. 

We walked and walked along the cornfields. The girls did fall asleep and I did read. I sat on the farmland side of the dyke, the sun warming my face, and just read. My phone was off and away, I listened to the birds sing and said hello to the cyclists. 

I enjoyed it. 

I didn't know how long they would sleep for or how long I would be able to read in complete quiet. So I soaked it up and 100 pages later, when they started waking up, I felt refreshed. 

And I had a new motto, a new mantra. 

Enjoy Now. 

The toddles of my one year old, the snuggles, the fits, the stories, the questions, the crying, the raw reality of being here in this season. 

Tomorrow will be hard and beautiful and memorable too. 

Hennigar's Farm: An excursion

It's beautiful. Quiet with the occasional maa from the goats and conversation from the ducks in one of the ponds. 

There's wild grapes growing over by the chicken coop. And we spied a frog in the rushes from the shelter of the covered bridge. There's a longer nature walk that we'll do next time and during the summer we can get fish and chips at the little cookhouse festooned with more grapes. 

It was one of those just-so-happened-to-stumble-upon places. The farm lies in a hollow just a couple kilometers out of Wolfville. Its a normal farm market, filled with seasonal produce from their farm and other farms throughout the Valley as well as baking and garden decor. But just a hop, skip and a jump from the store is the loveliest of little places. 

There's a boat dry-docked in a bed of sand, complete with an assortment of toys. The girls loved it. I loved it. We stayed there for a couple hours. And I knew we would come back. 

We paid fifty cents for a cone of goat food and paid a visit. Past the pond with it's fountain, past the picnic tables inviting you to stop and sit, and onto the goats. I'm not sure who was more eager, the goats at the anticipation of a treat or my girls.

We hung out with the goats for awhile, I thought they were quite cute and so full of personality. Kilmeny wasn't so sure about the goats eating the corn straight from her hand so she watched while the goats nibbled the corn from my hand. 

Then it was onto Bunnyville where we watched the furry little (and not so little) rabbits play and fed them grass. 

It's the loveliest of places, perfect for soothing one's spirit and keeping little people very well occupied. 

What new discoveries have you been making?

Sometimes. You Make Soup.

Sometimes you set out to make soup and realize that you don't have an immersion blender and you don't have your regular blender and you make it anyway. Sometimes you add and you make do and you stir and you taste and it's a beautiful thing.

Sometimes it doesn't all work out. Sometimes your plans of taking in a local music festival that everyone has been telling you about don't work out. Sometimes it rains all day. And the four walls seem very close. Sometimes only the littlest one naps and everyone needs you. Right now. 

Sometimes you get in a funk and it's hard to shake it. Sometimes you can play the Pollyanna game really well and sometimes, you just can't. 

Sometimes you decide to make soup. 

It's a longer process because the kitchen is outfitted with the barest of tools. 

Chop, peel, chop, peel. Roast. Stir. Taste. Stir. Simmer. Taste. 

The familiar routine is soothing. The smells fill the house with warmth and texture like no furniture or pictures ever could. 

Smiles and hellos are exchanged with a neighbor. Autumn rain becomes a friend, pressing the four of you together and you realize the gift you have been given. 

 Accompanied with piles of crusty bread, this soup is a perfect antidote to any day. Good or bad. 

Butternut Squash, Apple and Bacon Soup 
(inspired by this recipe)
Serves 2 adults, and 2 little girls with leftovers for another rainy day. 

Ingredients:
 1/3 lb bacon (more if you like bacon), chopped
1/2 onion, chopped fine
1 medium butternut squash, peeled and cut into cubes
2 apples, peeled and cubed (I used a Gravenstein and a lonely Macintosh that was kicking around the fridge, for best results use a cooking apple)
1/2 c apple juice
Salt, pepper and nutmeg to taste

Method:

Peel and cube squash and apples. Toss with olive oil, sprinkle with salt and roast in a 400 degree oven until very tender. 

Meanwhile, in large soup pot, fry chopped bacon. Once bacon is nearly done, add the onions. Fry until they are translucent. 

Once squash and apples are tender, mash them with a spoon (or blender, if you have one), and add to the bacon and onion mixture. 

Stir in apple juice and enough water to make a thick soup, about 4 cups.

Let simmer with the lid off for about half an hour, stirring every once and while. Season with salt, pepper and nutmeg. 

Serve hot with a spoonful of greek yoghurt and lots of crusty bread. Rain and fog, optional. 

What do you do when nothing seems to be going well?