Here I am in Toronto, babysitting my little grandson while his parents go to their friend’s wedding in China.
As you do.
Today is my first day flying solo, and I’m not afraid to say it: I’m a little apprehensive. We don’t see each other often; he’s more used to seeing me on FaceTime than in real life, to be honest. That can be the cost of living abroad: losing out on more moments like this. Continue reading
I remember your first apartment, or perhaps I should call it room. It was, to my memory, in a beautiful, old home, the type that would have held one family, 4 servants, gardener, and a coachman, back in the 1800s.
In the 1970s, it was a little dilapidated, but still had an air of elegance to it…if you ignored the quilts in place of curtains, the mis-matched dishes and cutlery, and the excessive amounts of tofu and bean sprouts in the kitchen.
Oh, and the smell of pot. Continue reading
Rachel here. I’m pretty sure if my mother tried to write a post right now, she might just break down. See, she’s had a rough past 48 hours, mainly because she was helping me move all my junk…er… precious possessions out of Humber residence, where I’ve just finished my third year, and into a temporary storage locker. Continue reading
Ch-ch-ch-changes, turn and face the strain. Thanks, David Bowie, for putting it so well.
Like you, we’re also facing the strain of a few changes this summer.
Lars and I will begin our summer in one home, and end up in another, in a different country and continent. Continue reading
Last week, I became the wife of a retiree. Yeah. I know.
We’d been thinking and talking about the Big Day since last year, and recently, a friend of mine suggested I keep a diary, penning my thoughts about how he’s handling it. She suggested I call it The First 50 Days. I thought about doing that, but realised, I’d rather think about how I’m coping instead.
I guess I’m selfish that way.