October: the time of year when store-bought gourds begin to line the steps of neighbouring homes and fallen maple leaves give a satisfying crunch beneath your boots. It’s the month where we bust out our cozy knit sweaters and foamy lattes to fight against air that’s suddenly grown a little crisper. It’s four weeks of fake cobwebs, clever costumes, and tiny packets of chocolate. It’s also the month of everything Pumpkin.

With pumpkin spice lattes advertised on coffee shop chalkboards, carved pumpkins guarding front doors, and pumpkin smelling hand-soaps in the bathroom, it can be rather difficult to avoid these giant, orange spheres. We can buy them at the grocery store (whole or in pie form) or lug them home from the farmers market. But, for a true October adventure, there’s only one way to find the perfect pumpkin: you have to go to the Pumpkin Patch.

Because seriously, is there anything more “October-y” than a muddy field full of bright, orange pumpkins?

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Dearest interweb, blogosphere, and beyond,

You may have noticed that it’s been a bit quiet over here lately. I promise this neglect is not intentional, simply a byproduct of nasty flu bugs and family emergencies.

Over the past week, we have made three separate hospital trips (one for each of us): twice for dehydration and flu symptoms, and once for a baby who decided to try and back-flip out of mommy’s arms and onto the living room floor.

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Mayonnaise baked biscuits sound weird, I know, but trust me on this one – they’re delicious!

When it comes to making dinner, this lazy chef needs simple recipes that are fast and easy to throw together. (And preferably something I can complete with a little one hanging off my hip.) So when I find something that is both delicious and difficult for me to ruin, I tend to reuse the recipe a lot. Needless to say, this is one of those recipes.

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We joined the circus for a night.

Spandex clad legs wrapped tightly around a bar, I soared twenty feet above the ground. For a few adrenaline charged seconds, I flew through the air without metal wings or spinning propellers. Upside down, with the wind whipping through my hair and sunlight streaming through the trees, I understood how people could get addicted to this feeling. I didn’t need my pilots license for this kind of flying.

I was on a trapeze.

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Cozied up under a pile of blankets, munching on salted popcorn, and swatting away mosquitoes, this is one of my favourite places to be on a summer evening: Theatre Under the Stars.

In its 69th season, TUTS (Theatre Under the Stars) offers annual musical performances at the Malkin Bowl in Stanley Park, Vancouver. Every summer, the outdoor stage echoes with songs from shows like “Legally Blond,” “Titanic,” “Bye Bye Birdie,” “Thoroughly Modern Millie,” “Annie Get Your Gun,” and “Grease.”

With beautiful sets, live orchestras, belting performances, and even the occasional park raccoon to wander its way across the stage, stories come to life under a sparkling, starry sky.

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Twelve months ago, the baby in the incubator looked more like a broken bird than a plump polar bear. During those early days, we were so focused on making it through the next hour that we couldn’t even dream of the next week, let alone an entire year.

But before I knew it, I was mailing out birthday invitations and dreaming of coconut covered cupcakes and polar bear guestbooks. A month of naptimes were spent making bunting, pompoms, and paper snowflakes. Our Costco membership card was broken in, presents wrapped, fondant rolled, and an overflowing igloo cake was stuffed in the oven, cried over, and very nearly stomped on. (Never again!)

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From trendy neighbourhood cafes to moss covered hiking trails, we’re on a quest to get off the couch and discover all that Vancouver has to offer to this mostly home-satisfied family of three. (And yes, we’ve broken the cardinal rule for every true Vancouverite and lumped the surrounding cities into our definition of “Vancouver.”) And so, launching this exploration mission on Canada Day, we figured that there was no better place to start than at the very peak of the city: Grouse Mountain.

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To my dearest, sweetest, little man, Happy 1st Birthday!

Exactly one year ago, you and your brother surprised us with your unexpectedly early entrance. While I was busy envisioning September birthday parties amidst crunchy, fall leaves, God had an entirely different birth date in store.

And His plan was perfect!

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I am not an athletic person. And while I like to think that somewhere deep within my bones is a hidden vein of natural athletic talent, the fact that I’ve spent the majority of my time in organized sports as a “benchwarmer” states otherwise.

So when some friends invited us to join them in a Color Run™, I was initially hesitant about paying money to have my slow-moving body trampled by a mass of super-fit, sprinting, racers. To my delight, I discovered that this race was focused on fun, rather than competition. Boasting in the fact that you can “run, walk, crawl, or cartwheel” yourself across the finish line, I hoped this event would be an easy introduction to 5k runs. And of course, outweighing the dread of having to do actual exercise was the prospect of being doused in a kaleidoscope of colored dust.

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If there’s one thing I’m not – it’s outdoorsy. But Alaska, with it’s unparalleled beauty and raw, untouched landscapes is almost enough to make me change my mind. I was so enamored with it’s powerful mountain peaks, breathtaking glacial waters, and piercingly fresh, salty air that I wanted to strap on my hiking boots (which I don’t own) and ford some gold speckled streams. While this was technically my fourth trip to the land of the midnight sun, it was the first time I had tossed my preconceived ideas about northern living and actually soaked up a tiny bit of its allure. Of course, a quick trip in the dead of January would probably dispel most of these romanticized feelings towards the “last frontier.” But from the comfort of my cruise ship stateroom, this city gal can still appreciate the stunning, natural elegance of an unbridled land.

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When it comes to marriage, I’m in my infancy. Just barely out of the honeymoon stage and with only two years under my belt, I still find myself toddling around on occasionally wobbly feet. Like childhood, these early years offer exponential growth and steep learning curves. While this journey in togetherness has been teaching me oh-so-many things, I have yet to gather a collection of profound wisdom or great advice. But I do have are twenty-four months of stunningly beautiful memories and laughter, struggles, excitement and day to day life.

And so, entering into our third year as husband and wife, here is a quick glimpse (just barely scratching the surface here) into what this wonderful adventure has been teaching me:

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In the Smith household, Saturday mornings were always synonymous with waffles. Tickled awake by the smell of freshly baked waffles, we’d make our way downstairs to find Dad busy creating a mountain of breakfast. Dousing the waffles in butter and maple syrup, we perfected the art of stuffing ourselves to near overflowing, while somehow managing to still find room for “just one more…”

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