July 1st is known throughout the country as Canada Day. But here in Québec, it is also known as Moving Day. As their lease ends on June 30, thousands of families take this day off to pack their things in cardboard boxes, pile them up in rented trucks and move to a new house or apartment. Thousands of families cannot enjoy the day’s celebrations because they are too busy trying to fit their huge plasma t.v. through a very small door. We don’t know for sure when and where this tradition started, but it’s been going on for quite a while.
I used to dread July 1st. Back when we had no kids and used to live in small apartments, my man and I used to move every year. I’m not even sure why, but it was like that. And I hated it. I hated boxes. I hated packing, I hated unpacking. I hated wrapping my plates and bowls and glasses in newspaper. I hated cleaning the previous renters’ mess. I hated when the place smelled like a stranger. I hated living in boxes for weeks because we had no time to unpack. I hated having to look through all those stupid boxes to find a pen or a toothbrush. Did I mention I hated boxes? Well, I really did.
And I hated having to do it all over again came next June.
When my first son was born, my boyfriend took 8 weeks off of work. Not because I thought I would need so much help. But because we, as a couple, as a new family, wanted to live this together. I wanted him to be there for the first weeks of our son's life. I wanted him to take part of the beginnings our our new life as a family. I wanted him to be there with me when our son first smiled, laughed or held his head.
But still, I also wanted him to be able to help. It's nice not to be the only one going up during the night, changing diapers, singing lullabies. It's also nice not to be the only sleep deprived adult in the house. You feel a little less alone (and ridiculous)when you find yourself rummaging through the laundry basket, looking frantically for the baby, in the middle of the night.
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