Fly with me, Baby

I love traveling. There’s such a thrill involved in the discovery and exploration of somewhere new. But more than just the final destination, I love the process of getting there. I love being propelled upwards through a ceiling of grey clouds to skim along the rays of brilliant sunshine. I like sitting thousands of feet in the air, jostled by turbulence, watching the world pass by below. Hmm… maybe I should get my pilots license, or something?

But add a baby to that combination and the magic of flight fades a little. When a screaming baby drowns out the rush of the engine, you start counting down the seconds until the plane touches down and that seat belt light switches off.

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Searching for a Home

On Sunday morning, Alistair and I stayed home from church. He had developed his first “real” cold complete with a drippy, clogged nose and an adorably sad, little cough. So I bundled him up and went for a walk, in hopes that the cool air and bouncing buggy would help clear his stuffy nasal passages.

Surrounded by high density apartments, it’s not uncommon to cross paths with moving vans and stacks of brown, cardboard boxes. Today, I noticed more than the usual share of real estate yard signs advertising an “open house.” As I passed the third sign, a startling train of thought emerged. “For the first time in my life, I’m homeless.”

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Date Night: Escape Rooms

While walking through a Paris neighbourhood, we were suddenly accosted by an armed man. A friend was grabbed and unless we could get our hands on a specific piece of artwork, the thug would kill her. Locked in the museum, our little band of eight had a mere forty-five minutes to crack a safe, find the painting and get ourselves out of there. At least… that was the given scenario.

For my husband’s 25th birthday, we gathered a group of eight friends and headed to Richmond to participate in an increasingly popular activity: Escape Rooms.

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