Sending The Good News Home

A few weeks ago we finally got round to mailing the 2011 Roundup DVD back to friends and family in the UK.  This annual event is months in the making, as I sweat and stress over which images, which films, which music to use to fully bring across the essence of the year that has just passed.  I lie awake at night worrying that I have used more pictures of one child than another, that I have not put enough emphasis on one guest’s visit compared with another, and will insult someone.  No matter how hard I try, I know my father will hate my choice of music.  So why bother?  I actually love putting together the annual round up and we all love watching the short movies.  This year the girls were fascinated by our 2009 movies, when they were all so small and squeaky, so it’s a great way to share their growing up with those who see them so rarely now.

Then, on Saturday, I was chatting with my BFF – her in Worcester, me in Coquitlam.  She said the DVD had arrived, she and her children watched it and since then they have all been very depressed.  “Why don’t we go ice-skating, Mum?” asked her 11 year old.  “You do so many amazing things, and we feel so boring” she complained.  I thought about this for a while and I have realized that we are all falling victim to …. The Facebook Effect.  Let me explain….

We have friends on Facebook who arrived in Vancouver shortly after us.  They have amazing children who are always smiling, always happy to be out with their parents at every event and every cool place in town.  They eat at wonderful restaurants, go to parties with a diverse crowd of friends, ski, sail, camp and snowshoe (often in the same day).  We are very jealous, and question why we are not so interesting.  The Facebook Effect has caught us.  When I last spoke to our friend, she complained bitterly about the effort it took to persuade her daughter to come out with them – the sulks, the arguments, more sulks.  I tried not to look pleased, but this is not the story we get from FB.  Of course, we all post the best pictures; not to be smug but to share the news and the great places to be.

So I told my friend in Worcester about the bad days, and I explained that we have the same problems we had in England – there’s a ton of great stuff we could be doing every day, but we can’t afford to do it.  We still have to make lunch boxes, wash and iron clothes, stop the leak in the basement and replace all the mouldy drywall.  We still have to shop carefully for the bargains, and we still wish we could win the Lottery.  We still disagree to the point of yelling at each other and threatening to walk out, but now I’m not sure where I’m walking out to – I could go home to Mother, but it’s very difficult to maintain a righteous anger when you are cooling off in an economy seat on a 10-hour flight.

I’m already planning next year’s DVD.  During the year I am going to take photos of us doing our homework, commuting to work and having sulks.  Then I’m going to set it to something by The Smiths.  That should keep everyone at home happy.

Real life, real bodies

Woman Bathing by Rembrandt

Saturdays have become an unexpectedly wonderful thing.  A few months ago, Laurel signed up for Early Figure Skating, and her program included 8.15am Saturday morning On Ice, followed by 9.15am Off Ice (lots of jumping and stretching).  I tried saying “You have a bike – deal with it”, but I just can’t be that ruthless, so every Saturday I rise, wake the Gruffalo who sleeps in Laurel’s bed, and grab my gym bag on the way out – well, if I have to be there, I might as well do myself some good.

Poirier Recreation Centre is pretty typical of the facilities in the Lower Mainland – a gym overlooking a pool, with 2 ice rinks and a curling rink attached.  There’s a nice cafe and a bar upstairs (open for the Coquitlam Express hockey games), and a couple of small extra rooms you can rent for parties or meetings.  The pool includes the usual sauna, steam room and hot tub, all included in the price of the ticket.  I bought a 10-session pass for $60 which gives me access to gym and pool for as long as I like.  During the winter I have plodded on my treadmill or eliptical trainer in front of the giant window overlooking the mountains, watching the rain, the snow, the occasional sun glitter off the frost, or the soap opera on the TV attached to the machine.

Now here’s the real reason I felt inspired to write.  The Women’s Locker Room.  Immediately I can feel the surge of imagination from both my readers – and you’re wrong.  On Saturday mornings and, for all I know, at all other times, there are no cheerleaders in the Women’s Locker Room.  What there is, is a communal facility (no cubicles here – if you want privacy, go to the Universal area and fight the families for a private space).  Here we see all ages, all cultures, all shapes, all sizes, all looking after themselves in some way.  Some of the older ladies like to wear what appears to be a nightdress in the pool, or sometimes long shorts and vests.  This week I saw a woman sitting by the hot tub with a veil on her head.  Baggy old swimming costumes cover baggy old bodies.   In the showers, ladies of all ages and all conditions produce laundry baskets of products and scrub every inch of themselves, sitting naked on the tiles, doing their laundry whilst conditioning, moisturizing and exfoliating.

My very English daughters, always horrified when I embarrass them in public changing rooms by daring to actually get changed there, are speechless by this unselfconscious parade of physical difference.  I hope they get used to it.  I hope they see, as I do, the wonder of the human body in all its many forms and realize that this is why communal locker rooms are so valuable – can we teach our daughters that this is what women’s bodies are meant to do and meant to be – stretched and recovered, sagging and dimpled, scarred, tanned, mottled and faded?  We are not all the same and very few of us are as freakishly thin or tall as super models, no matter how we diet, exercise or surgically alter, but we can look after ourselves.  Not one of these people I meet on a Saturday is the same as another but we are joined in a common aim – we are at the Gym, and we are doing the best we can with what we have been given, and we are loving it.

Babysitting Basics

Babysitting dolls is much easier...

Today I had the rare and wonderful privilege of seeing my eldest daughter in action as a babysitter.  I occasionally deliver and collect her from her assignments, but I don’t see her “at work”, as it were.  I see her arriving at her client’s house, shy and surly, and I see her fleeing the scene, shouting “Cheers!” as she shoves $5 bills into her pockets, but I cannot imagine that this little girl, my sulky barely-teenager, is in any way to be trusted with another family’s precious children.

Laurel completed the Babysitter’s Basics course, offered by her school at a ridiculously low price, when she was 11 years old (grade 6).  It was a 6 week course and she had to complete a work book and various tests.  When she showed me what it covered, I was a little worried – if they ever introduce a parenting test even close to as thorough as this course, we’d fail for sure.  She was now, essentially, an 11 year old paediatric nurse with a good grounding in nutrition, exercise techniques and could probably cover for any of the Kindergarten teachers if they were sick.

Of course, this did not stop her bullying her younger sisters, and we began to wonder what kind of babysitter she was going to be.  We decided that, at 11, she was still too young to be trusted with anyone else’s children, but if we could get 30 minutes uninterrupted conversation while we walked the dog alone, so be it.  We introduced a mantra before we went out…

“Laurel, until we get home you are no longer a big sister, you are the babysitter – what are you?”  “The Babysitter”

“Weasels, Laurel is no longer your sister.  She is the babysitter until we get home.  What is she?”  “The Babysitter.”

“How do we treat the Babysitter?” “With respect.”

Sometimes it worked, but as we all grew in confidence, Laurel started to get jobs around the community.  When we lived in England, we would never have considered using a babysitter younger than 16 years old.  Everyone seemed vague about the law about leaving children unattended, but we did not feel comfortable with any younger.  Here in Vancouver, the babysitting course is offered to every child in school and as a source of income, babysitting is highly sought after.   A friend’s 12 year old daughter spent the summer holidays providing full day care to 2 children, aged 2 and 4 years and nobody blinked.  The nearly-teens who complete the course are simply preparing for the next phase of their professional lives – life guarding at the pool, teaching swimming to tots, or teaching skating or working at summer camp.  They have a knowledge and love of smaller children which makes them careful, respectful and accepting of others younger than themselves.

Today Laurel was asked to babysit 2 young brothers from 11am to 4pm – she was expected to supervise nap time, meal times and fun time.  After taking them for a walk to the park, she found she could not open the door with the key she had been left, and was trying to figure it out for herself when I called to check up on her.  I drove over, opened the door and left her to it, but not before I had seen her calmly and confidently pick up the baby, move the stroller and chat to the toddler about his preference for lunch.  She is, of course, his favourite babysitter ever.

Basement Love

What you can do with a basement...

I remember, shortly after we arrived, hearing a conversation between 2 colleagues, one of whom had just returned from the UK.  “…and the laundry pair was in the kitchen!” he marvelled.  “Urgh!  Why would someone do that?” asked the other.  Of course, I gave them the simple answer – No Basement.

I never knew what I was missing.  It just made sense to have the washing machine in the garage, freezing up in the winter.  Or in the kitchen, which was so piled with separated dirty laundry at the weekend, we had to cook over the campfire outside until the laundry was done.  And, of course, it was never done, because we didn’t have a drier, so it all hung either damp and warm or crisp and moulded to the shape of the radiators for days at a time.  Ah, happy days.

Our first house in Vancouver had what is called an Unfinished Basement.  This meant concrete floors, rough walls and a top loading laundry pair with a big sink.  I love top loaders – you can open ‘em up and chuck in that odd sock you find on the stair on the way back up after you’ve set the machine going.  Driers are evil, I agree (power draining, expensive and bad for the environment), but I was converted to the dark side the moment my 15 year old thin, sandpaper-rough towels emerged soft and fluffy.  Dim misses not having to bash his socks against the wall to soften them before wear, but he’ll get used to it.

Anyway, a basement is more than just a warm place for laundry equipment.  An unfinished basement is an area the size of your whole house, with endless potential.  When we moved to this house, the previous owners had been in the process of converting the space into a separate apartment, so there was a new shower room and a room with finished walls but little else.

We now have a playroom, spare room/gym/teenager’s film club, laundry and boot sink, storeroom and workshop.  As winter approaches, I know we will be able to batten down the hatches and spread ourselves around the house with room and temper to spare – and not a damp sock in sight!

In Defence Of Sushi…

Raw fish, anyone?

One of the things I find hardest to convince our UK guests is that Sushi is Great.  Every single one of them has politely (and occasionally not so politely) declined my invitation to pop into one of the numerous Japanese restaurants in the Vancouver area for a quick lunch.  Why?  Because sushi = raw fish = Yuk.  No matter how hard I plead, explain or beg, no one believes me that Japanese food is really so much more.  Then I saw a comment from an English friend on Facebook; “Tried sushi today. Tasted a bit like Marmite.”  I was amazed how defensive I was, and how quickly my husband leapt in to stop me making a comment back which I might have regretted.  So just for you, before you come to Vancouver, here is what I have learned about sushi in 2 years.

1.Vancouver has a reputation for some of the best sushi in the world.  Why wouldn’t we, with a huge variety of fresh fish leaping out of the sea and rivers onto our plates?  So if, like me when I arrived here, you are a sushi virgin, Vancouver is the place to learn.

2.  Find yourself a Sushi Instructor.  In Vancouver, this can be pretty much anyone – a colleague, a friend, a 3-year old child; they all eat it and they all know what is good.  I love going out for sushi, because I can try something new each time, and always have someone with me to explain what it is – “You’re ordering conger eel – you might like to reconsider…”

3. You can go out for sushi and not eat anything raw.  My first sushi instructor was a colleague at work, a tiny little German lady, who can put away more food in one sitting than I have ever seen.  She loves the All You Can Eat places, like Kisha Poppo or the lovely Ninkazu or Richmond Sushi, all in Richmond, and she knows how to order fast, order the right amount and order from the crazy tick sheets left at your table.  She also does not eat raw fish, and finds plenty on the menu to suit her.

4. It’s not all cold.  Chicken Teriaki, gyoza dumplings, miso soup, udon noodles, fresh tempura – all hot and all delicious.

5. Sushi itself is an art form in food.  Sushi involves sticky rice, pressed into a block, or used to roll around the central ingredient.  A piece may include nori (a sheet of seaweed), a variety of fillings (raw salmon, freshwater eel, avocado, cucumber, deep fried prawn, spicy sauce, chopped scallops, roe) either inside the roll or balanced on top.  It is presented beautifully, garnished with hot wasabi sauce and pickled ginger, drizzled with different dressings, on a beautiful plate.

It's so pretty...

6. This is no ordinary raw fish.  Sushi fish has to be the highest quality, usually frozen before use to kill parasites.  Don’t make the mistake one of my friends made, at a party after too much whisky when craving sushi – he and the other guests decided to make some from a bit of salmon he had in the freezer and the results were disastrous.

7.  It’s good for you!  Hallelujah! Fast, reasonable food which is actually good for you.  Some westernized rolls like California Roll or Philadelphia Roll contain mayo or cream cheese, but the majority of the menu is low fat, high in minerals, high in protein and makes you feel great.  Even the deep fried stuff like Tempura is fried in a light batter in very hot oil and drained well.

8. It’s reasonable.  Most All You Can Eat places charge between $12 and $15 for lunch.  My current favourite place offers a bento box (soup, chicken teriaki, rice, tempura, gomae spinach in satay sauce, gyoza dumplings) or a lunch special of soup, ebi sunomono (refreshing cold noodles with prawns) and a roll for $10.

9. There are enough rules to please the greatest foodie.  There are all kinds of rules of etiquette for eating sushi, and if you like, you stick to them.  Or you can do what everyone else does, and just eat it and enjoy the food.  No one will mind – this is Canada.

And finally, for my English friend, the bit that tastes like Marmite is the nori.  When you get here, look me up and ask me out for lunch;  I’m working towards credits for my Sushi Instructor qualification.

If you still don't want to eat sushi, how about knitting some?

By Jingo!

Last week we took my brother and his family to the Rodeo.  They were visiting from the UK and the Lynden Rodeo, at the end of the Northwest Washington State Fair just across the US border, is fabulous.  It’s not too big, not too glitzy, just a local event for those who appreciate a cold beer, a corn dog and some curly fries while watching grown men and women eating dirt.  You can even do a bit of shopping at the few stalls, and get yourself a rhinestone studded belt, a ten gallon hat and some light-up boots, plus a giant pair of longhorns to hang over your door.  The cowboys and cowgirls are on the circuit, competing around the US and Canada, and the standard of roping and riding is just breathtaking.  Not bad for $12 admission fee.

Anyway, the start of the competition is a parade of the flags of the sponsors, then the flags of the military services, then the flag of the Prisoners of War and Missing In Action.  We all stood and sang the national anthems of Canada and the US.  Now, here’s the point – I love the Canadian National Anthem.  It’s catchy, stirring, easy to sing and very rousing.  Canadians are not as jingoistic as their immediate neighbours and, as with everything Canadian, if you don’t want to sing it, you don’t have to.  But I love it, and the girls sing it regularly at school so we all joined in and belted it out.  As we finished, the guy in front of us (also Canadian) shouted “Yeah!  Let’s play hockey!” and turned to us for a high five.  I think I heard a sharp intake of breath from our guests, and maybe felt a little shudder – how awfully colonial and thoroughly unBritish.

From a new immigrant’s point of view, there is definately more patriotism in Canada than in the UK, and some may feel uncomfortable with that.  When we first arrived, we noticed how many people wore teeshirts, hoodies, hats and badges clearly displaying “Canada” or the flag or just the maple leaf, and it seemed a bit weird.  However, as new immigrants, we are also profoundly grateful to our new country for welcoming us with open arms and I think, in a city of immigrants, that goes for a lot of the residents.  It is refreshing to feel that it is not uncool to be proud of your country, but also nice that even long term Vancouverites were surprised by the outpouring of loyalty that the Olympics produced.  Bottom line?  It’s a great anthem, so enjoy singing it and let the cynics find their own path.

Evil TV

Just how bad can TV get?  I think I was expecting something better from the thoughtful, artistic Vancouverites; something better than the awful American drivel with all-too-frequent commercial breaks, forced laugh tracks and endless reality shows, but we have been disappointed.  When we first arrived we missed the wonderful innocence of CBeebies, even if our tribe were almost too old for it.  We simply have not been able to find a replacement for CBBC – the channels available are endless violent, noisy or inane cartoons, and their effect on our children was awful.  I’ve done experiments, watching them watching the cable channel, and watching them watching a film on DVD.  During the former, they stare, open mouthed and blank, with no sign of enjoyment, but get aggressive and argumentative if we try and prise them away.  During the latter, they laugh, mouth the words, roll about and get up at the end to rush off outside and reinact their favourite bits.  No contest.

For us, we have found a fairly reliable news channel, and a few channels of endless Friends and Sex In The City reruns.  When we arrived we were addicted to CSI and very excited to find Dexter on the schedule.  Then we discovered the unwritten small print; “Programs may be changed at a moment’s notice, with no warning.  If you thought you were going to get the whole of Season 7, week after week, think again.”  Somewhere there is an evil scheduler, thinking “OK, we’ve hooked them on the storyline, now let’s throw in a couple of episodes from Season 2…. MWAH HA HA HA HAAAAA!”  Our expat friends told us that they pay extra on their cable package for the UK channels but you don’t get the real thing, just endless Top Gear reruns and Cash In The Attic.

Do I sound like I am moaning?  I was very unhappy to begin with; I think TV is part of our national culture, and the British are justifiably proud of our outstanding TV shows.  Bear in mind that I am not a fan of soap operas, or watching sports on TV (except Wimbledon, and when was the last year I had time to do that?)  With children and work, I rarely had the regular lifestyle to keep up with serial dramas, and I’m definately not a soap person.  So I shouldn’t be surprised how easily TV has slipped out of our lives, and our decision this week to cancel our cable subscription was not really a hard one.  I’m just wondering when the children will notice the lack of Spongebob?

Days of Wonder

There are days when the rain stops, the sky clears and the whole world jumps to its feet in celebration.  Today was one of those days.  I drove to work as the horizon lightened and the mountains of Washington came into clear silhouette.  The sun started to rise behind Mount Baker, which looks like a giant white meringue at this time of year.  The sky blazed gold as I crossed the Alex Fraser Bridge and I looked in my rear view mirror at the glittering reflections off the skyscrapers downtown and the fresh white slopes of the ski mountains behind.  In Delta it was “Mad Bird Day”, a rare occurrence when the clear sky and the fresh breeze stirs up every seagull, crow, pigeon and starling to join a mad swirling crowd and buzz around the fields and farms.  They are watched by the Annual Gathering Of The Eagles – every tree lining the Ladner Trunk Road has at least one Bald Eagle, and the beautiful maple by the East Delta Hall had 5 fully grown dignitaries staring solemnly at the sunrise, just waiting for someone with a good camera to take the photo of the year.  Of course, I didn’t have mine with me, so I’ll have to decorate this post with a photo taken during the crazy snow year of 2008/2009.

Bald eagles in Delta

Days like these make up for the grey ones, make our hearts lift and set us up for the returning rains.  We know it won’t be long before the sun comes out again.

Camping Sissy

Porteau Cove looking West over Howe Sound

There's a Moose in my tent!

I hate camping.  Or should I say, I hated camping.  Stupid, soggy, saggy tent pitched either in a field miles from anywhere or squeezed into a 6 ft square area of the busiest campground in the world, with the neighbours’ 16 kids and endless dogs tripping over the guy ropes.

Waking miserable, cold, damp and scratchy with no chance of a shower or decent cup of tea.  It always rains.

That was until I came to British Columbia.  I discovered what camping can be like when the tent pad is level, when you have a picnic bench to eat at and a fire pit to gather round, when you are shaded by the trees and warmed by the sun and you can swim in the lake to get clean.  When you have space all around you and when your neighbours respect the quiet hours rules.  When there is always a risk that a bear might come through the camp, but you can be confident you put all the food in the car and locked the doors – didn’t you?  I know that the equipment is cheap to buy and easy to carry.  I am confident in the waterproofing on the tent, and I have learned how to cook spaghetti bolognaise under a tarpaulin shelter.  My children run wild for days at a time, entertaining themselves with trees, moss, streams and endless toasted marshmallows.  We are all filthy, unbrushed and smelly, and we love it.

Now, in the miserable wet dark days of January, I can dream of the beach front pitches at Porteau Cove, or catching the ferry and diving deep into the Islands to find the perfect hideaway, or driving into the mountains to camp by a cold, clear lake.  If I carry on this way, who knows? I might even be hiking into the back country and stringing up my food from a tree in a few years – maybe!