Dance Like No One's Watching

There are many, many reasons I married my Nicolas; 

his prowess on the dance floor, however, is not among them.

But he should dance anyway. 

Everyone should dance!

And laugh

and sing...

Sounds like Home

(Flashback to sometime in the 1970s:)

"It's working! Wake up! Can you hear that?!"

My mother was running from room to room, gathering us out of our beds and herding us into the family room and it was true: the whole house was filled with music. For three years my father had spent his free evenings soldering tiny resistors, transistors, capacitors and other tiny gizmos onto green circuit boards, and when her skirt hems weren't being tugged by one of us five kids, she'd help him solder and sort - without, as it turned out, ever truly believing it would become a real, music-making organ. She also watched as he cut a massive 6'x4' hole in the drywall behind the organ so he could work on the electronics from the furnace room on the other side. Good sport.

My father was sliding back and forth along the bench reaching for pedals with his feet while pulling out stops and fingering the keys with his hands. My mother was beside herself. And singing her heart out.

What an amazing night!!

Countless nights thereafter his playing and her singing filled our home, no matter where we lived. That organ moved to Portugal and then back over the Atlantic to Miami, up to Montreal and cross-country to Calgary. Our new houses weren't homes until Dad started playing. Then it didn't matter where in the world we were, we were home.

If you have a moment, turn up the volume and click play. This is what home sounds like:

Doe, a Deer, a Sweet, Sweet Deer

Crack! Her head and neck were lit up by the front left headlight, which smashed to pieces after she hit it, and I can't get that image out of my mind.

I was on my way home from a hockey game, just two cars on the dark road. I'm always on the lookout for deer as there are many around here, but at this spot - with a high, steep hill on the left and a tall, solid wood fence on the other - I've never seen one, and I glanced at the radio for a second.

Crack! I can still hear it. She jumped right in between the only two cars on the road, hit mine, bounced back and landed in the median, twitching until she relaxed. No movement at all. Noooo! I killed her. I pulled over in the next parking lot, let my adrenaline calm down a bit, and went back.

But she was gone. She had gotten herself back on her feet and hobbled away. I've heard of this happening and was very worried she was going to make her way to a spot no one could find and die slowly from her internal injuries. I drove back and forth ten times and couldn't find her anywhere.

I drove home, shaken. I called Nicolas and then the non-emergency 911 to report it and they said it had already been called in, an officer went out to find her, and shot her. Because I looked down at my radio. I felt sick for days and still do every time I pass that spot on the road.

They sent a policeman to the house to make a report and when he was done he said, "I won't give you a ticket because the wildlife jumped out at you, nothing you could do." I was like, "Duh you won't give me a ticket. I don't think I would've called you to my house to give me a ticket." Hello.

That so little damage could take a life...

That so little damage can cost $2200 to repair...

(Insurance paid, thankfully.)

Masquerading as Teens

When I was in 6th grade we had square dances. 

I'm thinking this is way more fun.

   

Parental Torture 101

My job as a parent is to torture my children, and I'm very, very good at my job.

They have to clean their pretty, custom-painted, private rooms before they're allowed to play with their electronics (quelle horreur!); and on a sunny, gorgeous Sunday I sometimes wake them up to go skiing.


"Wha? It's 7am on a Sunday. What's going on?"

"We're going to Telluride, Cayenne. WooHoo! Let's hit the slopes!"

"It's 7am. On a Sunday."      Roll over.


"Acacia! Tiiiiiime to get up. Telluride, baby!"

"Why are you waking me up? It's Sunday and it's early and..." she falls asleep mid-sentence.

"Yoo-Hoo... wakey wakey."

"Wha? Huh?...... Can we get doughnuts for breakfast?"


Oh why not. Bribery is also a parental tool. Doughnuts all round!

These poor children, having to ski in such horrible conditions.
At least they're not on that stretcher passing Cayenne.

And then, just when they thought they were having a good time, in order to ski the awesome slopes they saw from the chairlift - "Let's go do those!!" - 

they had to walk and - yes, it's true - carry their own skis up to the last part.

That would be Acacia in the pink. Like she just climbed Everest.

See the smile on Nicolas's face? That's the look of a parent who has succeeded in torturing his children juuuuuuuust enough to have a brilliant day.

(The ride home was far more exuberant than the way there.

"Oh man! Remember Baldie? That was EPIC!"

"Where should we have dinner? Let's go to Francisco's. Yum!")


 Pure torture.

 

Like Grandfather Like Father Like Daughter...

(Note to Acacia: Your grand-père says congratulations!)

  

The Mah Jong Olympics

"Don't forget peeps, you're playing against a Canadian. Your chances of a gold medal these days are slim to none!"

But alas, I didn't even medal in our Mah Jong Olympics. Or, as Cayenne likes to say, Mom won the Copper.

Cayenne won the gold. You go girl! Clearly, lots of Canadian in you.

Acacia created the medals last week when Ilona and Michel were here while I attended a Keller Williams convention, which happened to be in Phoenix. Handy! 

That's also when Cayenne got the shiner on her right eye, but that's another story...