The morning chorale of cock crows caroms from yard to yard - an avian call and answer as neighbourhood roosters puff up and let loose. They’re at it from 3h00 with brief sign offs filled by crickets, operatic frogs and yabbering, yapping guard dogs owned by just about every household. The cocks of the walk pick up momentum until just before dawn. As the red sun readies to creep over the horizon, it’s easy to distinguish 5 or 6 different voices cranked up in a flurry of self expression. It’s a sound we don’t hear in urban Canada.

There is much different to sound and sense here - the deep reds of bouganvillea, the star white blossoms of the breadfruit tree, the myriad shades of green to luxuriate in, the buoyant salt sea with steady dreaming breakers, the heavy elixir smell of humidity. Every day there is the bite of a nearly equatorial sun, the cooing of mourning doves, the bass beat boom throbbing from mini-buses and lizards skittering across walls in all directions.

Lots of marvel eyed wonder from Noah-David. He is particularly enamoured of the lizards. “Mr. Lizard what are you doing?”, he calls out to the green mini-dragons. He enjoys seeing the yellow throat sacks inflate as they pause to take in their surroundings. The water has been a real hit with him too. He shows no reservation, no reluctance to get in and get wet and will bob and float with us for 15 to 20 minutes at a time. The water skittishness seems to have been skittled by the greening blue shallows of the Caribbean Sea, the warm air and the hot, hot sun.

Nellie is the Queen of the Warrens SuperCentre. We’ve been shopping here 4 or 5 times and without exception Nellie-Rose makes friends with fellow shoppers and staff alike. It’s her whole face is a smile, hiya look that gets strangers pulled right in and engaged with our little imp. She talks up a storm in her own dialect amidst giggles and oh so cute facial expressions. She likes the water, isn’t ga-ga about it but usually will give an abbreviated squeal of delight before she heads back to the sand where there is potential for unsupervised mischief to get into.

This first week we’ve been on the beach-a-day plan and have floated, soaked and submerged on the west, south and east coasts. Getting there is a fair sized production. With prepping the sproglets (a basic marinade in the highest SPF sunscreen available and a serious dousing with insect repellent), travel back and forth to the deep blue sea (which invariably includes a “we’re lost” component) and the actual baptism, immersion into the mystically cleansing and refreshing waters, we’ve been out and about for 2 to 3 hours.

Each beach has its own distinguishing characteristics. I’d return to all of the ones we’ve visited to date: Folkestone, Batt’s Rock, St. Lawrence Bay, Bathsheba and Mullins. Some are sandier than others, or have a gentler gradient leading to deeper water. Some have crashing breakers while others have a barely noticeable swell. Some have plenty of shade, at others a big beach umbrella is de rigueur. All have a breath of breeze en route from South America, Central America or Africa. Some have winds that blow and froth and chop and undercurrents that can quickly drag a person to an unhappy end. Those waters are for extreme enthusiasts or fools. I crave the security of safety for our 2 little ones - simple pleasures in soft, calm waters sporting the occasional splashy breaker.

“Attache-toi papa“, buckle up is Noah’s mantra as soon as we get into H1096. It’s an unloaded compact - automatic transmission, manual everything else. Haven’t checked the make as yet but it’s running fine having proven itself climbing the summits of the east coast hills and providing us a safe return to St. Thomas. All tourist rental cars bear the mark of the “H”. This is a designation that’s as readily recognized by good samaritans as those whose interest in the tourist driver might run more toward prey. Our experience to date with strangers has wavered between positive and neutral. No nasties and that’s how we hope it will remain.

Back to driving and the buckle up admonition. It took me 4 days before I would drive at night and then only along a familiar route. The non-highway roads are narrow, twisty-turny, watch out what’s coming at you type thoroughfares. In addition to the buses, motorcycles, minivans and regular old cars bearing down there are also the pedestrians and ditches at the side of the road to preoccupy a driver’s mind. Driving on the left fully consumed my grey cells for the first few days. It was characterized not by near misses but by constantly ripping the wiper rubber across the dry window because it was on the left hand side of the steering column where I usually find my direction indicators. Driving is an adventure that requires constant vigilance and if you’re not careful can send you around the bend especially if you’re not paying strict attention to the approaches to and traffic flow on the roundabouts.

Over 70% of the roads are not named on maps. They look to be accurately represented in relation to their position and scale but sadly the all important identifier is in most cases not there. This does not augur well when lost because it is very difficult to precisely pinpoint where you’re located with the general result that the lost lasts a little longer. Although not as abysmal as the map situation, road signage is not always brillant. For example on the way back to Bridgetown from Bathsheba, the main road comes to a “T” junction with no indication of what lies in either direction. On that particular one we made the wrong choice and had to backtrack. With all its vagaries driving can be a quixotic pursuit where the road not taken could in fact be the one you are desperately looking for to arrive at your destination.

By end of day, or earlier, we like to be back at Bagatelle. As the sky falls, the sinking sun pinks and roses migrating clouds, light scrapers reflecting the day for just a few moments longer. As the dark fills the dying day a helter-skelter squadron of bats displays its aerial magic. Each individual flight path undulates to a constantly shifting take out counter with only one item on the menu - insects. Three cheers for the bats and any other natural enemies that take a bite out of the 6-legged population.

The bugs have proven to be quite formidable - skeeters, sand flies and gnats would fare better in hell than they would leaving their fate in our hands. Mélanie gets an allergic reaction to the bites - a more significant swelling than what most individuals would experience. With all our chemical repellents, there is still a need for stalking and I’m proud to say that Mé has become The Terminator - tracking down biting bugs for the final kill. The kids are not bothered by the bugs at all, a fortunate turn of events for them and us.

Plenty of discoveries and rememberings still to come from the outlier island, a coral beacon at 13° 10′ North and 59° 32′ West.

The Smith Cordeau family has packed up and headed south. We were feeling just a touch jilted by the summer that never was. We’re not really complaining though because we played in some Pacific coast sun in May and are now feeling the heat under Caribbean skies.

This illustration pretty accurately captures our mood, excitement and joie de vivre. The family portrait in water-based marker was rendered by 6-year-old artist Passy Vinet earlier this summer while visiting her family in Ville Mercier. Passy’s dad Jean and I met 30 years ago as participants on a Canada World Youth exchange with Sénégal. On the afternoon of the portrait, Passy canvassed each of us about our favourite colours. She didn’t tell us what she was cooking up. An hour or so later with a flourish and a smile, she presented us with this beautiful piece of art. It’s a gift that we’ll treasure forever. We don’t have Passy’s wonderful fashion flair but if we did these are the colours we’d be wearing.

Monday morning we dragged our butts out of bed at 3h00 for a 3h45 departure to Robert L. Stanfield Airport. Noah-David had been counting the sleeps for a week so he was pretty psyched to roll out of the sack and get bundled and buckled into his car seat. Nellie-Rose on the other hand had no idea what was about to unfold. She’d already done the long distance deal to San Diego in May so we were pretty sure she would be up to it. There is only a 1 hour time difference between Nova Scotia and Barbados which makes body and sleep adjustments much easier.

After circling the periphery of the airport parking area twice thanks to construction, bad signage and a broken ticket dispensing machine, I made my way to the only other available parking that requires a shuttle ride to get back to the terminal. It’s now about 4h30 and Mélanie is waiting for me with the kids and 9 or so assorted pieces of luggage. She’s looking forward to my quick reappearance and I’m out dipsy-doodling trying to find a spot to park our chariot for the next 3 weeks. I asked the driver of the shuttle how long it would be before he pushed off. He thought it might be 5 to 10 minutes before he filled it up. I told him my situation - wife with 2 kids under 3 waiting with luggage a go-go. He radioed in his dispatcher and let him know that he was leaving right away. Nice gentleman - thanks again.

Overjoyed might be a bit of an exaggeration but Mélanie was glad to see me approaching. At this time there were very few people checking in which was fortunate because it resulted in us getting some personalized and very helpful assistance. As the boarding card dispenser couldn’t read my chip card (a yet to be perfected technology these chips) one of the agents took us directly to her station allowing us to get past that glitch. This individual was absolutely superb - empathetic, sympathetic, a customer service dream. She took us under her wing and dispatched us with the minimum of fuss all the while engaging in small talk with Nellie and Noah and larger talk with us. Her and I are the same age which she picked up from my passport and she too had started a family later in life. Her parting words to me were, “you look after yourself for those babies.” Her bagging, tagging, lifting, checking and printing took about 20 minutes and was all with a smile, all in a day’s work. With 2 little ones hanging off us and a serious insufficiency of sleep this agent was manna from heaven. Thanks…

We spent 7 hours on planes that day and the 2 sproglets were better than best. They got the sleep that they needed and managed to live within the space confines of economy seats. With Nellie-Rose always on one of our laps it was tight by times. She was Miss Social Butterfly giggling, cooing and making eyes with everyone around her. Her funful gregariousness was like a repeat command performance that Noah had made a couple of years earlier on a flight to Scotland en route to an adventure to the Outer Hebrides. When we landed at Sir Grantley Adams International Airport, Noah-David broke out into a spontaneous Barbados song that had everyone on board smiling.

The moment that we stepped out the rear door of the plane and started down the stairs to the tarmac, we knew without a doubt that summer had made it this far. There was a humid wall of heat that we shimmered through as we made our way to the zig-zag processing line. We still had to get through Customs, get the car hire and make our way to my former mother-in-law’s house.

More on that in our next post.

For now, we’re safe, hot and happy in Barbados. Sunrise at 6h00 and sundown at 6h30 providing plenty of opportunity for all of us to discover new places and for me to reacquaint myself with old haunts.

Earlier this week we hopped in the car ocean bound in search of wind. The air was breathless still in our yard as we readied to go - not a blade of grass in motion, not a whisper of leaves to be heard. On the trip out for what I hoped would be our first kite adventure together, Noah asked, “why can’t we see the wind?”

Now before you think that our just turned 3-year-old is a budding philosophical giant wrestling with the metaphysical, I need to come clean. During a far ranging discussion on storms the previous week that encompassed lightening, thunder, rain and other meteorological mysteries we did bandy about the concept of wind’s invisibility. Noah took this information to heart, tucked it away and in a puff of curiosity as we motored along Cow Bay Road breezily popped the question.

My answer was less than stellar and certainly not scientific. It was along these lines - you can feel, hear and see the effects of wind but cannot see or touch the wind itself. As we were driving I was able to point to a flag aflutter as an example of seeing the effects of the wind while not being able to eyeball the wind itself. This has satisfied our lad on the wind issue for the time being. A quick google provides one, two alternate responses. Take your pick in the event that this question ever comes your way.

Rainbow Haven Beach had just what we were looking for - even though we couldn’t see it - lolloping, blusterous gusts of blowy wind. We assembled our $3, “Made in China” clown face kite very rapidly and thrust it into the air. It swayed and danced tethered on a string its tail swishing 20 metres above our heads. Noah wanted to know if any birds would visit the high flying kite but nary a one glided anywhere near. Maybe like some young children, birds are spooked by clowns. Perhaps it’s the rictus-like, just a bit too happy perma-pressed smile….

Our first time kiting was a great success. Noah-David took the helm himself on 3 separate occasions and looked skywards into the sun as our paper (oops composite fabric) bird tugged and bobbed and weaved. The wind’s pull was steady enough to tire his arms so he asked for a couple of breaks. This will be an ongoing past time with many more outings on the horizon. We’ll continue to spool out the fun, string flying through our fingers and kites sailing away on eddying updrafts. As we speak almost exclusively in French with the 2 sproglets, I was curious to find the origin of cerf-volant. Seems it wasn’t a flying deer at all as a literal translation would suggest but a flying serpent, snake, or dragon…

I’ve also enjoyed kites with my 2 eldest daughters. Alexa and I had many kiting adventures on the other side of the harbour. My favourite spot was the springy moist ground above Pebble Beach at Duncan’s Cove. Never any question of having to search for the wind there. Always a blow, a gust, a send a kite into the air breath of wonder. Makyla and I did our first kite flying when she was just over one-year-old in Barbados. There’s a big Caribbean tradition of kite flying at Easter that we took up one of the 2 Easters we lived there.

As a kid I loved the bat kite and stingray designs. We’d have dog fights with them high above our playground that bordered on Toronto’s 401. The bat kites with their red decal eyes and foreboding black silhouettes could be vengeful marauders when they swooped into or dove onto other kites. The material couldn’t withstand direct hits and a mid-air collision would often result in rips and tears that we would doctor the best we could with hockey tape. Broken strings would break hearts too as the wind would waft a flopping kite across the 401 never to be flown again by its original owner again.

40 years down the road the materials have become much lighter and more resilient. Despite the increased technical sophistication, I think a young boy, or a young girl’s thrill of flying a kite hasn’t really changed much in the thousands of years that we’ve been looking skyward string coursing through our fingers and wind teasing our hands. For more on kites, consult Best Breezes an excellent blog and website on this enduring source of of fun and simple pleasure.

Nellie-Rose is making headlines again with an alarming means of expression. She’s really throwing herself into it head first. In some circles her new move is known as a Glasgow kiss. In less picturesque language it’s simply a head butt. You wouldn’t think there would be much cause for shying away from a wee baby’s forehead. When Nellie gets excited though she lets fly and usually the closest target is somewhere on our faces. She would be a mean striker on a soccer pitch. Given that she can propel her cute little noggin backwards too, we need to be doubly alert. Really what we need is eyes in the back of our heads. If she gets a direct hit or even wings the cheekbone, or nose with the exceptional velocity unleashed from her well developed neck muscles, we’re talking big surprise and some measure of pain. We can usually see these special kisses getting telegraphed but there’s still a need for caution and defensive measures as she’ll try and pop off 5 or 6 in rapid succession when she’s in that exuberant, ecstatic zone. We love to see Nellie-Rose in that state of happiness and so far none of us have had to get treated at emergency. Here’s hoping that this is a phase that will quietly fade away into the night with minimum of fanfare.

Before leaving the lovely Nellie altogether, take a listen to this whooping crane recording and then throw in a soupçon of bray and you’ll have an idea of the insistent and not quite endearing sound that our girl makes when she wants something to happen right away as in yesterday. Her ‘honk’ is a bit more prolonged and the pitch is not as high. Fortunately this Nellie call is of relatively short duration and has a low daily frequency. The goos and the gaas, the i yaaas and all the rest are how she really converses with us inviting us to her world as she crosses into ours. Thankfully the whooping honk is reserved for special occasions.

Not to be outdone by his sister, Noah-David tools along on his own path. On this birthday week that has meant: fingernails that are growing now that they’re no longer velcroed to his teeth; the first afternoon at tiny tot soccer - a high energy giggly gang of 3 to 4 year olds being put through a basic soccer boot camp by 3 teens; the first time that Noah asked to have his picture taken - an action shot falling off the bottom of a slide at the Woodside Playground; and his first selection of a toy bought with his own money, birthday dollars from his great grandma in Québec.

As soon as he tried the Color Roller - a real sight and sound extravaganza - the sale was clinched for Woozles. Despite suggestions, nothing else would do. Six days later the intensity has started to diminish but this number is still in the revered land of top toys. The roller’s sound factor combined with Noah’s ability to push it like a lawnmower are attributes that should ensure this toy a long, playful life.

A quick postscript. Noah’s highlight at tiny tot soccer was getting to hold on to the only yellow checked ball. That afternoon on the Tallahasee gym floor our lad was flashing pretty constant smiles and rolling in the giggles. The next outing is sure to be fun.

Just 2 more sleeps and we board a plane for Barbados.

There’s been a lot of dancing around our house the past few days. It’s Noah’s spontaneous groovin’ to the beat. When he gets fired up, toes tapping, hips swivelling and wiggling he likes to get maman and papa out on the floor. The three of us let loose together sometimes with the little Nellie-Rose doing a dipsy-doodle crawl between our legs. We’re not fussed by styles, or steps. It’s pretty much an expression of free form elation. Noah’s been movin’ to the groovin’ almost since he started to walk. I’ve always thought it would be a barrel full of fun to get a 100 or so 2 to 4-year-old kids together and let them loose to music for 3 to 4 minutes as the intro piece to a professional dance show. Perhaps it’s already been done……

Nellie-Rose is mobility. She’s an unstoppable force. A virtuoso hands and knees girl she’s now crawling around, over, or through just about any obstacle. She’s faster than a speeding puppy. If they had such a thing as baby races I’d put money on her. Over the last couple of weeks she’s developed a new means of locomotion that I’ve dubbed the belly back slide. Her ear-to-ear grin when she’s propelling herself backwards is a true sign of fun’s pure pleasure. The move is simplicity itself. Belly down on the floor and head up so she can watch our reactions, she pushes herself mightily and repeatedly with her hands scooting across smooth surfaces in reverse. The belly back slide is a relatively rare sighting, an unprompted impulse that creates moments of wonderful lightness floating us all to the moment of now.

Ms. Extreme Sport has also started climbing stairs and has turned it into a game of giggles, chase and catch me. Her favourites are the ones that lead from downstairs. They are carpeted and provide a little cushion in the event of slips and tiny tumbles. As soon as she arrives at the first of the eight steps she pulls herself up and turns her head around to look back into the room. She knows that she is not supposed to climb up but this look back is a beaming beatific smile from our capricious imp. She launches herself on a spirited assault on the first step. Perhaps this is how a young Chris Sharma started out?? She never gets beyond the second step before either her maman or I swoop her up into our arms. With supervision she’s able to scramble to the top unassisted - it’s really time for us to get the safety gate in place.

We’ve had to innovate in the area of behaviour change over the past couple of weeks. To assist us we’ve established the Eastern Passage Canada Research Chair in Applied Behavioural Discipline. Noah-David is currently the only undergraduate student conducting research. As the Chair is physically located at the end of the hall that leads to our bedrooms we’re happily able to keep everything under one roof. The Chair has now replaced the bedroom as Noah’s place of conscripted contemplation where he reluctantly sits to ponder what maman or papa have flagged as social transgressions that we’d like to nip in the bud. Early results of the new treatment suggest that it is more effective than the bedroom isolation chamber but the findings are still inconclusive at press time. The initial transition from bedroom to Chair created a crescendo of wails and gnashing of teeth but this past week we have not had to call upon the Chair at all.

In the last couple of weeks we’ve also been able to put the kaibosh to an annoying and unsanitary habit. Constant nagging every day over a couple of months had not proven to be very effective in changing Noah’s inveterate nail biting. The gnawing is now a thing of the past. Maman introduced the solution one afternoon - mittens. Noah’s yelling, sobbing and crying when the mittens were put on were met with a steely determination from both of us. By the end of the afternoon the mittens were removed with the agreement that there would be no more biting or the mittens would be reapplied. Noah’s nails will be due for a clipping soon, hurrah.

Noah-David was threed and the family birthday celebrations were excellent. Grand-maman Nicole and grand-papa Raymond came from Sorel laden with hugs and gifts and my family scooted down the road from Portland Estates for some cake and kisses too. It’s hard to believe that he’s 3-years-old. I think we’re so fortunate that for the majority of that time he has been in our care and will continue to be now until he goes to school. His first experience with another caregiver was an unbelievable hit. We were so fortunate to have Tomoyo come to our home following Mélanie’s return to work. It’s just over one year ago that we said goodbye to Tomoyo and Noah remembers her still - as do we. She was such a wonderful light in our boy’s life. The subsequent 4 months at day care wasn’t quite as much fun though Noah speaks nostalgically of it now. The transition was never really a success and now the lad is home and happy with his maman, little sister and for the time being papa too.

Nellie has had a few digestive problems linked to eating fruit we think. Her little system is having a hard time breaking down the solids resulting in way too much gas for such a tiny body. There has been night time crying, writhing and discomfort. It’s vaguely reminiscent of the colic queen days but luckily for all of us, nowhere near as intense. At about the same time this digestive ailment bubbled up, our Nellie added a new vocal cry to her repertoire that makes me think of a whooping crane in full whoop. It is not a pretty sound. It’s clear intent in its absolute raucousness is to loudly and insistently telegraph a need that must be met NOW. It’s as effective as it is annoying particularly when it is proferred repeatedly in rapid succession because the need requires some preparation before it can be met. This is a sound from my beloved Nellie-Rose that I hope will be retired sooner rather than later.

Rainbow Haven has become a favourite local hangout. Don’t get me wrong, we don’t actually get in the frigid Atlantic wash but we do enjoy trolling the beach and looking across the narrows to the goings on in West Lawrencetown. Noah runs free lugging huge rocks down to the water’s edge to catapult into the lapping or splashing waves depending on the tide’s turn. Nellie scrabbles across the hard packed sand her tiny inquisitive fingers picking up the minutest pebbles and making their own raindrop indents, the “Nellie was here signature” an ephemeral imprint in this large expanse.

As the grey skies started to lift at dawn the full moon dashed out some morse code long and short through skirting clouds. It said the Passage would be in for a fine day. The sun is bright at 8 and the beach is beckoning.

I hit the snooze button on 180 Days of Magic 3 weeks ago. It wasn’t planned that way. It just had to happen. Some serious time was required to conclude business on the house selling and home moving fronts. A word of caution if you’re contemplating a move with small children in the under 3 set - be prepared for nights with very little sleep. We were on the borderline of sleeplessness in Halifax (old house) and in Eastern Passage (new home) over the 3 days of the actual move and old house clean up. Two weeks and a couple of days after the last boxes were brought in, we’re still arranging the space but thankfully we’re no longer beating the clock against a sale closing. The absence of that very real and inflexible deadline is a huge relief.

Moving was a marathon. We crossed the finish line intact and essentially in good health but I’m not convinced that we had the best training plan in place. I don’t think either one of us fully grasped the snowballing magnitude of the perfect house move storm. A shower of bouquets for ma belle and tireless Mélanie. She worked for weeks in advance of the event packing boxes, shifting through our belongings and identifying garbage, and, perhaps most satisfying, finding and buying the new stuff we’d need. Without this fine preparation we would have been disappearing faster than an elephant in quicksand.

All unpacked boxes have been lugged, shoved, pushed, cajoled into the half-basement storage space which turns out to be just the perfect size. The majority of these boxes contain books that I’ve acquired over the last 30 years. We had an expansive built in bookcase at the old place that was able to hold 80% or more of those millions and millions of bound words - stories of dreams and defeats, betrayals and triumphs. It was another great Bob Sr. special built and designed by my Dad. Alexa and I were his assistants when we put it together it 7 or 8 years ago. We started early one morning and by 21h00 we had a 9 feet wide floor to ceiling bookcase with 32 shelves.

The new home has a much better layout and more liveable space. We have a large family room, bedrooms for each of the 2 young ones, a playroom, a sitting room sans television, a kitchen/dining room, a couple of washrooms and a good sized backyard for growing kids.

Back to the move itself - we rented a cube van to haul our earthly possessions the 25 or so kilometres across and around the harbour - my cheap, cheap, cheap Scottish skinflint percolating to the surface. We were fortunate to have hired a couple of very conscientious helpers as day labourers who gave us everything they had and then some. Will, a Mi’kmaq from the Afton Reserve, and Boris the travelling statistician by the way of B.C. and Russia moved the big, bad and the ugly from one locale to the next.

Day 1 was 2 full loads that included most of the nasty heavy items - fortunately we were leaving the appliances behind for the new owners. In a wet week that seemed to be a warm up for a tropical rainy season we were lucky to get a dry day followed by an almost dry one. On day 2, Boris and I managed the remnants which amounted to another full load that included the meanest, most awkward item we had to move - a bureau from Alexa’s bedroom that lunged at my leg as I lost my footing on the skirt of the truck. That encounter left me with my only visible souvenir moving scar. That day we brought in some house cleaners to give the place the once over. They were life savers and graciously worked around us and the ever dwindling chaos. The owner’s 6-year-old daughter was with her and provided some great comic relief and good conversation. She also came across a few treasures that she was able to take away.

Exhaustion and disbelief set the tone for the 3 nights and 2 1/2 days endurance event. Under cover of darkness I liberated, well disposed of, over 40 bags of garbage and sundry loose items in local dumpsters. I had a lights off stealth approach as I rolled up to the industrial size canisters. After coasting to a halt I unloaded my cargo as quickly and silently as possible always a little paranoid that I’d feel a tap on my shoulder and get challenged about my unsolicited donations. It’s all now long gone to the landfill. This is in addition to the fully loaded 1/2 ton truck that cleared out the basement in mid-June. And here’s where the disbelief comes in - the sheer volume of stuff accumulated over the years, the quantity of last minute dumpster material and the amount of time it took to finally make it a wrap, walk away and leave the old place behind.

In the process I nearly became a candidate for rehab. I developed a real dependence over a 4 to 5 day period for the Tim Horton ice capp made with chocolate milk. Thankfully we’re in Nova Scotia and there is a Tim’s on nearly every block so it was easy to feed my ever expanding appetite for a sugary sweet chococaffeine treat morning, noon and night. At the end I was a shaking mess and resolved to let it go cold turkey. In the 2 weeks since then I’ve only fallen off the wagon a couple of times.

The moving beard is long gone, the last boxes were unpacked yesterday and last night we welcomed Mélanie’s parents as our first sleepover guests. The MacKay Bridge incident with a waving custodian running out into the traffic lane yelling that I couldn’t cross with the truck now seems like a funny footnote to a groggy, sleepless and surreal do-it-yourself move.

The Eastern Passage adventure has set sail. The next milestone is Noah-David’s third birthday which we’ll celebrate with family tomorrow night.

I’ve missed jotting about our daily comings and goings and look forward to getting back at it on a more regular basis. We’ve got a new place to explore and new people to meet. The 180 Days of Magic are drawing to a close but there are some good times ahead before we say good-bye.