Category Archives: Two’s Company

A Weekend Away

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023It’s one thing to hear abstract statistics about how many marriages end in divorce.  Statistics include everybody, and lord knows what everybody is doing.  But it’s quite another to watch your friends, the normal people you’ve known for a long time, the ones who have stable relationships and tend to make good choices, go down.

My husband and I have been together long enough to have borne witness to this a few times, most recently over this past holiday.  When people ask me whether I did anything special for New Year’s, I can say yes.  I left the house and my husband close to 11pm, to drive across the city to make sure a friend who wasn’t answering the phone was hanging in there after receiving some particularly distressing news about her marriage, which had already burst into flame in a spectacular way a few weeks earlier.

This kind of thing invariably makes me appreciate my spouse a little more, the relative insignificance of our complaints.  Our friend’s trouble didn’t lead us to take a weekend away just for ourselves – we had planned to do it anyway – but it did form part of the background as we firmed up our plans to go.

We decided to go to a unique bed and breakfast, an urban homestead which practices some truly sustainable living practices that we find inspiring and would like to learn from.  It was just an hour and a half away, and we were gone just over 24 hours in total, but we had to pull out the stops for childcare, with my mother, my sister, and my in-laws all pitching in.  I did the planning and the packing and the shipping of children while my husband was at work (I picked him up there) and I confess that by the time we were starting our trip, I was tired.

But of course it was worth it.  Even the drive offered wide expanses of time to talk, uninterrupted.  The accommodation was simple and lovely, the hostess warm and informative, and we soaked up the tour she gave of her house and farm.  It was an unusually mild winter weekend, so my husband and  walked long into the night, and more during the day, taking in new surroundings, eating meals that were, again, uninterrupted.  We made some exciting plans.  It felt good.

Yet still I find myself thinking about my friend, the one whose marriage wouldn’t have been fortified by any number of weekend jaunts.  I know she will find her way through the mess.  But she’s no statistic, and until she comes out on the other end of this, I’m sending her whatever wishes of comfort and strength that I can.

Follow The Yellow Brick Road

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This weekend I saw the all-Canadian new production of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s The Wizard of Oz presented by Mirvish Productions.

Based on the 1900 children’s novel, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz written by L. Frank Baum, this production is heavily influenced by the 1939 MGM motion picture starring Judy Garland but with a few surprises and a modern take on some of the classic songs that are instantly recognizable from the first note.

Danielle Wade, the winner of the CBC’s reality show Over the Rainbow holds her own in the spotlight with veteran Canadian performers and delivers a rendition of Over the Rainbow that will leave you with goosebumps.  Wade, voted Canada’s Dorothy, after several weeks of competition proves that she has what it takes to take top billing.

Lisa Horner who plays Miss Gulch and The Wicked Witch of the West is nothing short of captivating and when she takes the stage, your eyes will look at nothing but her.

Aside from knock-out performances given by the entire cast, The Wizard of Oz is a visual spectacle from the moment Glinda’s glittering dress graces the stage to the whirl of green shimmer and sparkle that create The Emerald City.

For more information about the show, visit Mirvish and be sure to follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brick road all the way to the Ed Mirvish Theatre at 244 Victoria St. in Toronto, Ontario.

What was your favourite part of the Wizard of Oz?  Was it Dorothy’s ruby red slippers?  Of the evil flying monkeys?  Have you see this production and if so, what was so memorable about if for you?

image courtesy of Spec.com

A Weekend Getaway to New Orleans

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Now that the boys are older and we are lucky enough to have a generous, supportive team of family who are willing to help us out, my husband and I have made good on our promise to spend more time together and resume traveling.  Last year we spent five glorious days in Paris where we reconnected and a long weekend in Boston for my birthday.  This time, we opted for a weekend get-a-way to New Orleans.

I can safely say that Paris and New Orleans could not be more different, with the exception of one thing: both cities offer gastronomy experiences that leave you wishing you had worn your fat pants.

Good to know: In New Orleans, completely acceptable to wear fat pants in public.  In Paris, not so much.

Where We Ate:

Cochon

A trendy tapas-style restaurant away from the French Quarter that is a hotspot among locals.  The ambiance is similar to what’s being seen in many of Toronto’s newest restaurants: an eatery style, devoid of tablecloths, accouterments and friendly servers.  But for what it’s lacking in charm, it makes it up with the food.  The dishes are easy to share, favour local ingredients and focus on regional flavors.  True to its namesake, pork abounds on the menu but easily shares the spotlight with a variety of vegetable sides.  I couldn’t help myself and indulged in the mac and cheese casserole which after one bite I decided was not worthy of sharing….it was that good.

Image courtesy of kapper22.blogspot.ca (this gal knows where to eat!)

NOLA Restaurant

Bam!  How could we go to Nawlins and not dine at one of famed chef Emeril Lagasse’s restaurants?  NOLA did not disappoint.  Every attention to detail was made.  The service was top-notch, and the atmosphere undoubtably New Orleans without being kitschy but nothing could eclipse the food.  The fried chicken was bar none the best chicken dish that I have ever eaten.  The spiced buttermilk batter was crispy fried and protected the succulent juices from the chicken with perfection.  The side of sweet potato mash with a hint of brown sugar was a delicious companion to this main.

Image courtesy of Flavor-Junkie.

Sylvain

A hidden gem of a restaurant tucked in the French Quarter that offers everything from casual ambiance; spirited wait staff and unforgettable food.  The chef favour local ingredients and had a decidedly unique European twist on southern classics.  While everything we tried had us scraping our plates for more, my husband took the plunge and ordered a second serving of the shave brussel sprouts salad.  If you manage to get a reservation, ask for the table on their rear courtyard.

Image of the brussel sprouts salad courtesy of food blogger Appetites.

Image of the courtyard table courtesy of Domestic Chic, who has the most gorgeous photos of New Orleans on her blog.

What We Saw

The French Quarter

The French Quarter is the city’s oldest neighbourhoods dating back 200 years and is steeped in Creole history.  From voodoo to antiques and everything in between can be found among the protected historical buildings, which are adorned with elaborate ironwork and colourful walls.  While Bourbon Street is touted as a party hotspot, I can say that the partying going on didn’t interest me much.  Boozy patrons spill over onto the street from the clubs and barely clothed women take to dancing in doorways.  I much preferred the restaurant scene to the bar scene, but to each their own.

Devastation from Hurricane Katrina

It’s been seven years since the storm and the city is still facing the devastating task of rebuilding.  With the support of generous individuals, newly created foundations and celebrities like Brad Pitt and Harry Connick Jr., the city is slowly getting back on its feet.  I was not prepared to see such poverty and loss in a country as great as the USA.  It truly is heart wrenching to see many people, including young families, struggling to rebuild and re-establish their lives.

Jazzfest

We were lucky enough to spend a day at Jazzfest.  I had my first gospel experience and I soundly concluded that if my church were as much fun, I’d be certain to get myself into a pew each Sunday.  Take a listen to my favourite gospel performer, Kim Che’re, who had the crowd praisin’ Jesus!

Swamp Tour

Would a trip to New Orleans be complete without a visit to the swamp?  I swallowed my fear and held a baby alligator but was too chicken to even take a picture of the 3 footer that my husband held.  Not only did we learn a lot about alligators and swamp life on this 2 hour boat tour, we also saw first-hand just how beautiful a bayou can be.

Still Saying Yes, One Day at a Time

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Proposals gone right.  I have one.  And like most of us who said yes and don’t regret it, I love mine.

It featured a suburban apartment that I had chosen but immediately hated, hoping it would give me insight into whether I wanted to move to the country (it so very much didn’t), plus a landlord who suggested we open the oven door for heat when the furnace gave out in February, and a bonus crazy basement renter below us.  Crazy as in:

1.  Coming to our door on Valentine’s Day and telling us that she knew we were young and that this was a day for romance and she had her TV on nice and loud so she couldn’t hear anything downstairs (thereby precluding any possible sex that day).

2.  Offering me her used lingerie, including thong underwear, smashed into little paper gift bags that she’d hang from our apartment doorknob or hand me in person (with the proviso that “I kept the crotchless panties for myself”).

3.  Trying to help me relax on moving day, when the moving trucks didn’t show up and we had to use my uncle’s cube van for five trips to Toronto, by throwing a bucketful of cold water in my face:  “I thought you needed to cool off!”  (I managed – just – not to annihilate her.)

But.  In this apartment inferno there was a bedroom, and in that was a bed, upon which I lay one day feeling particularly miserable and defeated when my now husband asked me to marry him.  There was no ring (we would buy it that afternoon together), there was no view, there was no good ambiance.  But the Eiffel Towers and Taj Mahals and all the carats in the world can’t compare in riches to me.

I can’t quite tell you more about it; I hope you don’t mind.  Adding a newborn to our family, the three times that we’ve done it, puts some strain on our marriage.  Our latest little one has ushered in the easiest transition by far, but thereare still some adjustment kinks, and my mood isn’t leading me to bask comfortably in the glow of our proposal gone right.  Rely on it, yes, that I do, but no basking, nothing smug.

We’re just working at it, one day at a time.  But it is nice, this little opportunity to remember how we were in those moments when we decided that we were in it for good.  I think it may have demonstrated a little of the stamina and sincerity that we would need to see us through, and is kind of reassuring that way.

Reader, I Married Him

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This is where my husband asked me to marry him.  It’s the rocky point at the end of a tiny beach, in a tiny town on the shores of the Northumberland Strait.  The cottage on that beach is where we spend two weeks of every summer, and it’s where my husband spent all his childhood summers.  It’s a piece of us.

13 years ago, we walked out to the rocks at sunset with a bottle of cold white wine, and we walked back to the house betrothed and drunk with love.   

The proposal went wonderfully right, from my point of view at least.  For Ted, it was nerve-wracking.  Before we left on our trip, I was cleaning out the back of the car, and I pulled out a pair of his jeans and a shirt that were just sitting on the back seat.  Not in a bag.  I hate that.  I was already grumpy about the whole not in a bag thing, mumbling something to the effect of “How hard it is to container-ize?”, when out of the pocket of his jeans fell three of my rings.  I started in on, “What are my rings doing in the pocket of these jeans that you so carelessly transport without a bag?!”  He’d taken them off the dresser to take to the jeweler’s to get my ring size, of course, but I was so hung up on the whole clothes not in a bag, rings clattering onto the sidewalk, they could have fallen out anywhere, it’s lucky that you didn’t lose them train of thought, that it never even occurred to me to wonder why he had them in the first place.  He said he’d picked them up off the floor of our bedroom when he was vacuuming and had forgotten to put them back on the dresser.  Bless ‘im.  It never even occured to me to question that.

So having escaped my noticing that he was scoping out my ring size, he then had to come up with a way to present the ring to me.  That year, Alice Munro, whose stories I wrote about for my doctoral thesis, published The Love of a Good Woman, so he thought he’d buy a copy of that aptly-titled collection, cut out a hole in the middle of it, and put the ring box into it.  Great idea, but the book wasn’t thick enough.  So he went to the shelf and took off the thickest of her books, her Selected Stories.  The copy with all my notes and annotations in it.  And he cut holes through 500 pages to create a little nest for the ring box. 

He was more afraid that I’d be mad about the book than he was worried about my response to his proposal.  Which was, of course, yes, yes, a thousand times yes.  I was not at all fazed by the cut up book, I was enchanted by the idea, and I am still head-over-heels in love.

Proposals Gone Right

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Will you marry me?

Such a simple phrase, so easy to say yes to, and so impossible to understand the implications of when acceptance will entail.  Valentine’s Day is just about upon us, and to mark the day, 4Mothers will be talking about proposals gone right.  For the record, we four are all (still, currently) married, so we may end up talking about our own proposal stories, but then again, proposals come in all shapes and sizes, so who knows?

Do you like the celebrations?  I know many people get annoyed at the forced and commercial nature of the day, but I always remember my university roommate who defended Valentine’s Day by saying, “of course we don’t need a special day to remember our loves because we can celebrate them all the other days of the year, except that we don’t”.

So, before we talk about proposals, we’d like to be among the first to wish you a good day tomorrow, complete with a virtual box of chocolates.  Happy Valentine’s Day, readers.  We are so glad you come here.

A Beantown Getaway

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It was back in March that I blogged about a fantastic (and much needed) trip to Paris that my husband and I took.  It was exactly what we needed to do: reconnect.  We needed something more than a dinner date or a quick night away – we needed time to really rediscover our relationship.

While we were sipping champagne in the glow of the Eiffel Tower, we made a commitment to each other to make our relationship a priority.  It’s much easier said than done.  In between the kids’ schedules, family obligations and a demanding job, it’s easy to see how relationships can become neglected.

We do have a weekly dinner planned and although the night may shift and the time and location variable, we try never to cancel our date.  Should the circumstance not be avoided we reschedule.

This past weekend we took “date night” on the road and explored the city of Boston.  If you have never been, I highly recommend it.  The old brownstones and cobblestone streets evoke a European feel but the impressive monuments dedicated to the Civil War and the love affair with the all-things Kennedy instantly grounds you in America.

It was a short visit – only the weekend but thanks to the hop-on, hop-off trolley we were able to see the sights and learn of the city’s rich history spoken by our jovial guide with that distinct Boston accent.

Eating and drinking are a common theme on our trips, so I thought that I would share with you our favorite eats.

Neptune Oyster House – this tiny, strictly seafood restaurant (pictured below) located in Little Italy is worth the line-up.  There are not many seats in the house, and after a forty-minute wait we sat at the bar, which arguably is the best place to sit.  The oyster shucker pried open the shells feverously to keep up with the steady demand for fresh grub and the bar tender was quick to offer up her favourites on the menu.  I had the best lobster roll I have ever eaten.  Steaming hot lobster, drenched with butter atop a perfectly sized bun.  So simple, yet so delicious!

The Butcher Shop – Just as the name suggests, The Butcher Shop is a small restaurant across from the famed Hamersley’s.  The wait to get in is long, because so few tables pepper the shop.  Vegetarians be ware this is not the place for you.  Meat abounds at this place and the quality and presentation don’t disappoint.

Coppa – Tucked away in a residential neighbourhood, this Italian osteria is a noisy mess hall for locals.  The food is modern Italian that can be described as a nod to traditional dishes but with a twist.  Since this was my birthday dinner, I indulged in carb overload.  I started my meal with a wood fire pizza (don’t judge – I shared!) and then went on to eat lobster linguine (only a half order). The pre-dinner cocktail, wine and limoncello for dessert helped to assuage my guilt for playing food group favourites.

Legal Sea Foods – Perhaps it is a bit touristy but for a quick, and easy lunch this is the spot.  Families are welcome here!  The food comes out fast and it’s good.  There is a reason that this place is considered an institution.

Limoncello – Because we hadn’t stuffed ourselves enough, we decided to end our trip with a meal from Little Italy.  We had heard from many locals and tourists alike that we wouldn’t be disappointed.  Wandering the winding cobblestone streets of the North End to choose a restaurant proved to be more challenging than we thought as all of the menus beckoned.  As we walked by this restaurant, a quick peak inside sealed the deal.  For one, the décor was beyond tacky (see photo below).  An obnoxious mural of Florence lined the wall, white cloths draped the formally set tables, knick-knacks such as fake grapes were displayed on ever-available surface and the chairs looked to be about thirty years old.  The way we see it, any place that has survived so long that it feels like a time wrap usually means good things.  And secondly, there were other people in the restaurant speaking Italian.  Let’s just say that the food was so unbelievably good (and to quote our waiter: “Why not?  You deserve to eat the best! ) that I actually contemplated untucking my shirt so that I could unbutton my pants and keep eating.


Not Exactly Paris

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My husband Ben had hip surgery this past Tuesday.  The specialist who performed the surgery works out of Hamilton, about an hour an a half from where we live in Toronto.  Because I need to take care of the kids, because the surgery was scheduled for early in the morning, because we have to carefully parse out the time when childcare arrangements free me to visit him, Ben drove himself to Hamilton late on Monday night, and spent all of Tuesday (before, during, and after the surgery) alone.

It wasn’t ideal.  But we’ve been through this before – three of Ben’s four hip surgeries have taken place in Hamilton.  We knew he would be so heavily drugged on Tuesday that it wouldn’t be the best day for visiting.  Don’t get me wrong.  I wanted to be there, just as I want to be there everyday, but we have to pick and choose.

So we picked Wednesday.  With some serious assistance from Ben’s mom and my sister to take care of the kids, I had the luxury of visiting Ben alone.  Ben missed them and wanted to see them, but it would be so much more complicated to have a 4 and 2 year old in tow, and visiting time at hospital would shorten dramatically.  There would also be that perpetual fear of the unexpected jump on the bed, which could have serious consequences for Ben’s recovery.

Ben had driven our car up, so I had to take transit.  To my dismay, I missed the hourly train.  But as luck would have it, there was an express bus that got me there even earlier than planned.

The bus trip actually had the slight feel of adventure to it.  I had never taken it before, and it’s been awhile since I’ve done something outside my routines.  I had the foresight to bring a skein of yarn, and I wound it.  I didn’t look outside the window much, but having the luxury of doing this activity that is so darn slow, during this period of life that is so darn fast, in the  foreign environment of the bus, it kind of reminded me of travelling.  I realized:  I was on a little trip, and it was kind of fun.

Not all fun, of course.  I knew why I was there, and unfortunately the hospital routines weren’t new.  The ward was familiar, I knew where the cafeteria and restaurants were, I even recognized a nurse.  Then there were the IVs, the patterned blue-green hospital gowns, the bloodied bandages, the pain pump, the man lying immobile in the bed.

But somehow, as unpredictable as it may be, it also felt good, even vacation-like, to be there.  Ben and I are at ease in hospitals, and Ben’s clarity about pursuing this surgery helps us get through.

Also, I was there for six hours straight.  Six hours.  Just with Ben.  I was not distracted with taking care of little people and I was especially focused on Ben’s needs and comforts.  I felt both pain and tenderness at seeing Ben in this vulnerable place, yet again.  I sought to make myself useful and care for him.

In his turn, Ben took obvious pleasure in me being there.  He had said he didn’t need me to come.  Perhaps technically that’s true, just as perhaps technically I didn’t need to be there.  Except that we really did.

It may be strange, but it brought to mind Beth-Anne’s recent post about rejuvenating her marriage through a trip to Paris.  Ward F4, Room 3 offers neither champagne cocktails nor room service, but it had its charms.  Principal among these was that, like Beth-Anne in Paris, I was not the bossy, exhausted mother in this room.  I was the woman who loves.  Enjoying Ben’s sense of humour, remembering how easy conversation can be, knowing how he tries to defy pain, watching him struggle to stay awake through morphine to not miss any visiting time, all of it reminded me of a compatibility and affection that was born a long time ago.

It wasn’t Paris.  It was me and Ben in a dingy, shared hospital room.  And it was great.

We’ll Always Have Paris

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Before I had children, I had a vague notion that my life would change but really nothing can prepare someone for the complete transformation that occurs once baby makes his arrival.

Gone was my self-centeredness.  It wasn’t a conscience shift.  I didn’t have some sort of epiphany.  It was much simpler than that: I just didn’t have the time to focus on myself anymore.

I was quite blinded when it came to my marriage.  I was naïve to think that my relationship would somehow escape the trials of parenthood unscathed.

Somewhere between diaper changes and car shuttles to skating lessons, I opened my eyes to the fact that my husband and I were becoming a cliché: ships passing in the night.  Each of us charting our own course: me, on a quest to be the perfect mother and him the perfect provider.

Both of us were unintentionally neglecting the very glue that holds our precious family together.

It happened in a natural flurry, the shift between coupledom and insta-family.  Our relationship comfortably grew and evolved but in the mess and mire that is parenthood, such a connection between partners can easily fray.

We try to maintain balance with regular “date-nights” but the idea of spending a week away from the kids, our home and all of our responsibilities was exactly what we needed to recharge our selves and our relationship.

Paris gave us a chance to slip off our mother/father identities and try on our former selves.  Our time away was reminiscent of when we were dating.  Amazingly, we fell back into our familiar ways.  No longer was I the bossy, exhausted mother – always pressed for time.   I laughed.  A lot.  We blew off the museums in favour of champagne cocktails and afternoon naps.  We ate late.  Really late.  When normally I would be sleeping.

Without the constraints of time we aimlessly wandered the cobblestone streets and found ourselves.

On the plane heading home, I was as giddy a newlywed; full of promise and renewal, the balance restored.  I watched my husband sitting across the aisle casually sop up the mess from a spilled drink and the little girl beside him fidgeting on her wet seat.  I was overwhelmed with emotion.

In the quiet of that moment, I saw him as the easy-going young man that I had married, the compassionate father he had become and the husband that I have always loved.

 

Restoring Balance

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The equinox marks a shift.  The day and the night are equal and balance is restored (albeit for a fleeting moment).  This week I am restoring the balance between motherhood and being a wife.

This week the the teeter-totter is about to become  level as I take in the City of Lights with my husband.

This week it is all about being a wife, a partner and a friend.  This week is for us.  Balance restored! (albeit for a fleeting moment).

photo credit: http://stubwah1.wordpress.com