The Best Place on Earth

My son and I just returned from two glorious weeks in what is arguably the best place on earth: British Columbia. If you haven’t been there, go. Now.

Of course, there is always too little time. Too many people to see, too many favourite places to visit, and too many mountains to climb. (Oh, and too much wine to drink. How I didn’t gain 10 pounds off wine and chocolate alone is beyond me.)

Every day that we were away, my son asked for his dad (“Dada? Dada?”). But now that we are home, he is asking for my dad (“Papa? Papa?”) and his little cousin (“Ami? Ami?”).

It’s adorable but heartbreaking. How do you explain to a one-year-old that he won’t get to see “Ami” for a very long time? Of course, he will forget after a while. That's just as heartbreaking.

It’s tough to live away from family, and even more so when babies come along. There is no free babysitting from grandparents, aunts, and uncles. There are no impromptu family dinners or camping trips or playdates with cousins. Instead, we have the phone, video Skype and digital photo albums. Poor substitutes, all.

I do like where we live, but every time I go back “home” I ache with the knowledge that I don’t live there anymore.

So every day I make plans to move back. Every day I scheme and dream. The move is years away, but it will happen. Some day.

Of course, now that I am back at this home, the one where I actually live, I appreciate the friends I have here. The longer we stay, the harder it will be to move. No matter when I am, there are always people somewhere else that I miss. I guess I just need to convince them all to come with me.

So come on, everyone, let’s all head west. You won’t regret it. I promise.

Mr. 30E and the Airplane Adventure

Here is a new addition to my least favourite things: A five hour flight with a hyperactive one-year-old on my lap.

The morning started badly. We had to get up insanely early with no time to eat and barely enough time for coffee. The incompetent airline -- that shall remain nameless -- did not have enough staff on desk, making the baggage check line ridiculously long. Despite arriving in plenty of time, we barely made our flight. Consequently, I did not have time for breakfast and barely managed to buy a coffee before racing to the gate, one-year-old in tow.

I missed pre-boarding and got onto the plane after most passengers had already taken their seats. Our seat was at the very back, which meant I had to walk all the way down the aisle as other passengers looked at me in dread. The walk of shame.

Yes, I was that mother, struggling to contain an excited, wriggling toddler with one arm while balancing hot coffee, a muffin, and a big bag with the other.

To make matters worse, when I finally reached our seat, there was someone in it. When, barely able to contain my writhing son and looking obviously desperate for help, I politely told the man that he was in my seat, he did not move. Instead, he smirked at me. Yes, he smirked. This did not win him a place in my heart.

“E.” He said.

“No, my seat is 30D.” I said. Then, assuming he was confused, I explained: “D is the aisle. F is the window.”

“E.” He repeated with the same smirk. “He is in 30E.”

I was so confused. He who? Then he gestured to a blonde guy seated in the row across from us. I looked back and forth between the two, hopelessly losing this mind game. I was starving, dying for caffeine, and had lost any ability for witty banter somewhere before security.

My son chose this perfect moment to dive from my arms. While catching him, I nearly dumped my entire coffee onto a sweet old lady. The man still didn’t move, and in fact smirked even more. Clearly he had no idea how close he was to death.

“I don’t care what seat he’s in!” I exclaimed desperately. “I just want my seat.”

Something in my tone must have penetrated his evidently thick skull, because he finally moved. Mr. 30E then got up to claim his middle seat beside mine, promptly pulled his toque over his eyes and put his headphones in.

The flight hadn’t even started and already I felt like a pariah. I even heard a woman remark that when she was young, parents never took small children on flights. Well, excuse me.

We must have done at least fifty treks up and down the aisle. Then we went to the bathroom to play with the faucet, which apparently is the Best Thing Ever. Then we headed back up the aisle. Then to the bathroom to play with the toilet paper. We would sit for about twenty minutes until the Captain took a nose dive off my lap, and then back up the aisle we went. And down. And up.

We attempted lunch, which mostly ended up on the floor. We attempted milk, which mostly ended up on me. Finally, we attempted Cheerios, which mostly ended up on Mr. 30E. My profuse apologizes went unacknowledged.

I have never wanted sedatives so badly in my life. For all of us.

Dirty, dirty!

I like to think of myself as a responsible, well-informed mother. I do my best to keep toxins out of my son. We have stainless steel sippy cups and try to avoid things made in China. We don’t use health products containing parabens or phthalates or other nasty things. We buy organic when we can and avoid processed foods.

Yet I cannot convince my son to keep garbage out of his mouth.

I don’t mean junk food. I mean garbage. Literally.

You see, I work hard to give my son healthy, fresh, homemade food. He, in turn, throws these lovingly prepared meals on the floor, only to eat them later when they are dried onto the tile and covered in dust.

I read small print on ingredient labels until I go cross-eyed, ensuring that my son’s soaps and shampoos and lotions are chemical-free. He tries to eat cigarette butts off the beach. Then he goes for the rocks, and at least one mouthful of sand for good measure.

I give him filtered water and organic milk to drink. He thinks it’s hilarious to drink soapy bathwater and take big gulps out of the dirty, brown river.

I use non-toxic cleaners and laundry detergents and don’t allow shoes in the house. He eats my shoes.

We purchased an organic, cotton mattress, free of fire-retardant chemicals and carcinogenic foam. He tries to chew the garden hose and washes his hands in the toilet.

And it's not that he doesn't understand the concept of filth. In fact, "dirty" is his favourite word. He yells "Dirty, dirty!" every time the toilet seat is up. He poops on the potty, claps, and shouts "Dirty!" as if it's the best thing ever. He points at the garbage and very seriously tells me: "Mama, dirty, dirty." (Either that or he's telling me that I'm dirty. I'm hoping for the first option.)

I guess I can be comforted in knowing that his immune system is getting a very good workout from all of these germs. But cigarette butts? Rocks? And sand?

Well, at least it’s BPA-free.