Canada Moms Blog

It's not me, it's you

That’s it: I’m breaking up with Canadian February. 

It doesn’t make sense, right? I mean, of all the months to loathe, why chose the shortest month of the year? Why pick on the month that brings the heart-and-flowery goodness of Valentine’s Day? In Ontario, February even delivers a long weekend in the form of Family Day. Here’s the rub: we Canadians have come to expect our long weekends to involve sun, beers and barbeque. Long weekends are not about waiting in line with 1000 other families for the ‘privilege’ of baring your translucent flesh at the public swimming pool.

It’s nothing personal, February, it’s just that you are so conveniently sandwiched between two months that aren’t as hate-worthy. January represents the start of a brand new year; the tabula rasa of months, with a little warm-and-fuzzy New Year’s Eve glitter still clinging to its hem. And March, well that is the month that ushers in the promise of spring. It heralds the return of bunnies and baby chicks, earthy smells and thick green stems clawing their way up through the supple earth.

What do you bring to the table, February? Your formerly fluffy, pristine snow is sludgy and dirty. The composter is stuffed right to the top. The kids’ winter coats are irretrievably stained. My minivan smells like goats have been breeding in the back. I have completely run out of ideas for packing school lunches. I am done, February. Done.

Some Canadians make the move to go somewhere warm in February. I think that is a calculated risk. For instance, this year you might have thought a Disney vacation was in order to beat the February blahs. However, you probably didn’t plan on having to wear jeans and sweaters on your ‘southern’ vacation. Nice one, February. Your evil is not constricted by the laws of physics or geography.

A Canadian Christmas Requires Snow

I have lived in Canada my whole life, and save for three years spent in Ottawa, Ontario as a child, the entire time has been in Saskatchewan.  That means that snow and Christmas, for me, go hand in hand.  I am an expert at complaining about winter, how could I not be after 35 years of practice?  However, it's not the snow that bothers me.  Oh sure it makes driving more challenging but I get used to that.  In fact, I kind of enjoy driving right after we get a huge dump of snow. I feel powerful and mighty maneuvering my van through the drifts (Murphy, you didn't hear that did you?).  I am woman, hear me roar, a little snow isn't keeping me down. 

Yes, I am in therapy, why do you ask?

Falling upon the sexiness of frigid Canada

A sudden blizzard had turned our bare roads and blessed browny-green grass into 4 inches of fluff and it was still coming down hard.  In a rush to get to the post office, I drove with a small mountain of snow on the hood of my Standard Mom Vehicle to the full-serve Co-op gas station where the nice ladies, somewhat bewildered at my snow-besotted state, voluntarily swept me clean.  I sat upon my heated seat, giving them a thumbs up and a smile. 

I was happy, despite this attack upon my September soul because a package was wedged in the passenger seat beside me, a package assembled with love and destined for Spain, and I thought about how my expat Spanish friend has probably never had the pleasure of driving in a Canadian blizzard.  Sure, she's visited castles and ancient Roman ruins.  So the Spanish beaches are only an hour's drive away and on a whim she can decide to spend part of her day snapping photos of terribly old Gothic cathedrals.  But has she had to stop her van every ten minutes to manually brush the snow from her side windows so she can back up safely?   Has she experienced the rush of adrenaline that comes from not knowing whether the van will stop in time to not hit that oncoming car that has the right of way, as the van struggles to brake on the packed snow, despite its slow pace well in advance of the stop sign ahead?

The amazing Canadian summer that ... wasn't, really

I know that my fellow Canadians living on the West Coast are currently drowning in massive pools of their own sweat with a wild heat wave that is sweeping B.C.  And as someone who thinks "humidity" should just be re-named "death" I really don't envy those of you who are sitting limply, trying to just find enough energy to drag yourselves to the nearest beach, pool, or bathtub to cool off.

That being said, I don't particularly care for the sub-arctic freeze that is known as winter either (no, I'm not very easy to please am I?), at least in part because winter just lasts so long here.  Because of that, I put aside my trepidation over having to consider things like the Humidex and I look forward to summer for, you know, the summery things.

Things like swimming.  Playing in the park.  Swimming.  Having BBQs with friends.  Swimming.  Drinking a glass of wine outside on someone's deck or my own balcony.  Did I mention the swimming?  I hold tight to memories of those things when it's March and Montreal is getting its 42nd dumping of snow that season.

Dull Days

I read an article in the paper this morning about the link between depression and cloudy, dull weather.  It seems as if cognitive function in depressed people declines on dark days.  The article certainly provided an explanation for my inability to finish the crossword puzzle.  It may also provide a clue as to why this post is about that over-reaching Canadian preoccupation -- the weather.  A while back Natasha wrote a brilliant post called Summer: The Dope-Smoking, Half-Naked, Laze-About.  You know what?  He hasn't been around here lately. 

Summer: The Dope-Smoking, Half-Naked, Laze-About

Let's pretend that my disdain for summer has nothing to do with traumatic childhood memories; children home all day, unstructured; the dog shedding a smaller dog; and swim suits.

Let's just talk about the weather:  It's hot. I don't like to be hot. Why do people like to be hot? There's a reason why our core body temperatures are not a default 42ºC. I'm not a doctor or anything but I think it has something to do with... organ failure?

I shouldn't be whining because this has been the coolest July I can remember in 29 years. But today was a bit too warm. It was threatening to become hot and I just won't stand for that kind of behaviour. If you want me to be productive with cooking and smiling and moving my person through space, I need a cool breeze on a warm day. Today wasn't that. 

Every day I tentatively fall out of bed, looking over my shoulder, wondering if it's going to get hot and muggy.  The plan is to become as immobile and depressed as possible, should Mr. Hot and Muggy drop by. Mr. Hot and Muggy should not be confused with Mr. Hawt and Huggy. Mr. H&M is all sweaty and slimy, and he spends all day in his parents' basement smoking dope, because school is out.

Mr. Frankl brings enlightenment to April winter

A beautiful, sunny Easter weekend became a winter hellscape yesterday morning.  I wasn't surprised. My birthday is Sunday, April 19, and in 28 years past I can only remember one or two birthdays that weren't winterized.  My lack of surprise does not intone approval or acceptance, however.  Like any Canadian who illogically hopes for Florida weather while living on the edge of the frozen tundra-- like any Canadian who experiences each Spring like a revelation that stirs her soul to repentance and Oprah-like edification--  my 6:30 a.m. response was, "Find someone who has a whole bottle of sleeping pills I can borrow, quick. Or a gun. A gun would be faster." I didn't say it, but I thought it.

To experience inches of snow after days of 20 degree weather is to re-experience the horror of getting your first period ten days after your tenth birthday. It's waiting all week to watch some brain-deadening, soap opera-ish Grey's Anatomy on Thursday night only to be smacked in the face with a re-run. 

We act all heroic when we don't shut down the town on a regional day of mourning such as this but it can't be safe; suicidal thoughts are the only normal reaction when Hope rests indefinitely in a coma and I don't feel comfortable having my children transported to school by a bus driver who's identifying with Sylvia Plath.