Wake Up

Over the last few months, I’ve been waking up very early, in anticipation of the flood of calls from plumbers who can’t make it that day or carpenters who need me to pick up some wood for a new job I’ve undertaken, a gut renovation of an older home. I stumble into the bathroom, splash my face and squeak the crust out of my eyes to review my handwritten notes for the day ahead.I’ve always dreamed of creating new living spaces for individuals or families and now I’m finally doing it.

But this morning, the birds wake me up instead. Or it could be the sweetness still lingering in my mouth from the night before, from three perfect profiteroles, a pastry -each the size of a walnut- sliced in the middle and filled with vanilla ice cream, surrounded by pools of bittersweet chocolate that would stir even the most complacent individual from slumber.

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The New “F” Word

I’m watching the latest CNN update about the Ukraine. My headphones are soaked from the sweat dripping down my brow. A middle-aged guy I kind of know, a few elliptical machines away, yells something over to me. I yank off my headset, reluctantly leaving Carol Costello in her chic scarlet dress.

“QUIET” he says to me in a very loud voice. “Pardon?” I whisper back to this overly energetic dude, still trying to be polite. “ Am I lifting my heels too loudly for you?”

“No,” he cackles. “Quiet is the name of a book I’m reading by Susan Cain and I think you’ll love it. It’s about the power of introverts and how undervalued they are in society. ”

“Okay!?!” I say with a smirk, wondering if he thinks I’m an introvert in need of empowerment.

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Lost in Paradise

“I’m moving here,” I announce flinging my arms up to the indigo sky.

My kids look at each other, with a “Here we go again” smile.

“Be realistic, mom.You can’t sit still for a minute. How are you going to survive two months, let alone a few weeks here? You will go berserk.”

“No, I won’t.” I stomp my sparkly pink toed feet in the sugary sand. “ You can all visit me,” I chirp like a baby Robin who’s just left the nest. Dreamy-eyed, I imagine escaping to a small painted house, only a bike ride away from the closest beach, routine morning hikes alone and quiet afternoons spent completing that novel and screenplay I’ve shelved for years.

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Mothers strapped with babies to their breasts poured into the Octopus Garden Holistic Yoga Centre on College Street. I was amazed that they could breastfeed standing up and still maintain a reasonably intelligent conversation.

I remember being frazzled when my first baby was born over 20 years ago. The baby carriers then were not as well designed. I would lie down my tiny daughter on the bed beside the dismantled baby sac. Her legs scrunched up and she screamed at the top of her lungs. I tossed the snuggly thing across the room and pretty much gave up any thought of going outside, convinced that I was destined to stay at home until she was 5.

But these yoga mama chicks today made it look so easy. Are they actually real?

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