Primary Pieds

A parade of primary-coloured shoes hypocritically picked their way through Winnipeg's slush and saturated streets.  Hypocritically only because these same styles of shoes (and girls) get laughed at when they can't switch up their favourite footwear to accommodate the weather.  But for a night on the town, celebrating one of our best girls, you gotta pull all the stops and primp to the best of your capabilities, foul winds, rains and sludge be damned.

Pick a colour, any colour.  Mix em up and you get great results.

Petits pieds

One of our French immersion teachers in The Pas is from Africa.  You meet a lot of French-speaking folk from different countries when you teach in French in Canada, especially when you sit on provincial committees.  (toot toot).  They bring a whole new perspective to teaching, a whole new voice to the French that I learned in school and later in travel and work, a whole new view of your hometown, home life, home geography.

So when Elisabeth found out that I was pregnant, she exclaimed, "Tu as des petits pieds!"  Apparently, "enceinte" (pregnant) was a slightly taboo word that could attract the evil eye when speaking of young girls.  They skirted that issue by talking about having "little feet" when a woman was in an interesting situation.

Alors, voici mes petits pieds.  The ultrasound pics reveal a lot of spinal cord in one, top of a round head in another, but never that full lateral view.  Other than this.  Petits pieds portant du plaisir palpitant.

The first grainy picture

Only 5 months, and my baby is smiling already!

:)

These are the Dayves I know I know

And now for another episode of "Skiing with Meaghan and Friends".

Beautiful days out there.  Sugar-crystal sprinkled snow on cold days that catches the light, warming temperatures that sends you flying down the trails.  I've been carefully judging each hill before I take it or not.  Straight track?  Packed way?  It's a go.  A free-flying, wind-rushing, soaring-bird-feel go.  Somebody wiped out or obliterated a section with toboggan or snowmobile (cut them at the knee with me ski pole, just a little blood...)?  Find a new way or walk down the slope.  Kill joys.

That's about it for what I've been up to.  Write reports, stoke the fire so that I don't wig out when the house gets too cold, go for ski, maintain some order in our house under destruction.

And wonder...was that the monster moving?  Or am I just hungry?  I wake up before the alarm with my hand on my stomach and have dreamt (or really felt?) the arms and legs waving within me, the monster doing flips.  We went for an ultrasound last week.  There's proof.  A baby is truly there.  And you can actually begin to tell when you look at me now.  According to my coffee shop lady and a friend's mom (science fair judge), "you don't pop with your first" until later.  Well look out.  I think later is upon us.  As before, here's my promise for picture...as soon as we have it.

Seraphim or nephilim

There's a monster growing within me.

It is covered in lanugo, a fine, downy hair to keep it warm.  Or is that gone now?  It has translucent skin.  The (pregnancy) Bible tells me so.  17 weeks means a skinny little thing with translucent skin.  Seraphim or nephilim taken up residence.

Not only that, but it's hungry.  Hungry like a harpy and just as loud.  Wild lion rrroowwww!  For three bowls of Cheerios at three in the morning when I can not sleep.  And peanut butter on stoned-wheat thins by the half-pack.  Chocolate before breakfast and pickles before supper.  Bowl after bowl of popcorn at the meat draw.

Beautiful monster.  It's true, you are starting to be able to tell that it's there.  Especially if you get to see me naked all the time (Steve).  Or if I'm prancing around in long underwear.  Or if I'm wearing that beautiful new short sweater from India (really, United Colors of Benetton) that should not be worn with rolls and folds.  Goodbye beautiful new sweater.  See you next year.

I will share a picture as soon as I get an Internet-appropriate version.

Winter Wonderfuls

When we got back to Canada, back to Clearwater Lake, the only true to-do on our list was a walk with our dog. Steve's biggest worry with being away for any period of time is leaving London.  As we tramped over the trails, we marvelled at how quiet and white and...clean the woods were.  The beauty of our corner of the country.  As I've told many people since our trip, India is a gorgeous country (geographically and human-ly speaking), but it is dirty.  The garbage will pile up in the road-side, home-side ditches, but then be carefully burned come morning.  India's waste-disposal system.

So on to some some familiar winter wonderfuls.  The way the light and shadows filter through the trees every time you go for a walk, snowshoe or ski....never the same, always captivating.

And the Fireking mug, gifted from Mumma's camp.  White and robin-egg blue checkers welcome me home, greet me in the morning.  Small enough to require a refill of coffee, always ensuring my drink is hot.  A definite winter wonderful,  especially as we gut the interior of our house.  Constants to every routine are comforting, no matter the surprises that our way come.

Gokarna or Go Home

Title quote: Tamsin.  In the spirit of Steve and Emile's endless play on words ("We gotta Goa...")

The octopus is losing its legs.  At our largest, we had built up to a group of 8 people, wildly exploring and feeling out the nooks and crannies that we encountered.  We have since dropped to 5 and in 2 days, 3 more will leave India (myself included).

A group of 8 people is theoretically hard to travel with.  Moving from point A to Point B can be difficult, either because you need to arrange transportation (3 rickshaws, 1 giant taxi, train tickets...), accomodation (3 rooms? 2 huts? 3 huts?) or because people get sidetracked.  Not pointing any tentacles.  We all have our weaknesses.

The final five moved to Gokarna a couple of days ago.  A new beach, promises of temples.  And neo-hippies wielding didgeridoos (true to the guidebook's warning).  We ended up on a coastal hike, scrambling up rocks, grasping at roots and tree trunks (after making sure they were not hanging snakes) as we tried not to slip on the small pebbled animal path.  It was amazing.  After two and a half hours we exited the thorny bracken, thoroughly drenched, stinky and exhilarated.  Only slightly scratched, bitten and frazzled.  We never did find the promised temples (though Sara found a fence that she could not penetrate) by the time we arrived at the next beach.  And awarded ourselves as we do at least 3 times a day:  with food and drink.

One more reward found at that beach: Ayurvedic massages.  Think of a serious oily rubdown executed on your loincloth-clad body.  Pictures not included.

 Steve gets his parting wish

 So...on to supper.  Celebrate our last night as a group of 5.  Try out some new dishes or old favourites.  Prawns, kingfish, calamari, paneer have all been daily staples.  Dals, masalas, kormas, a new vocabulary that needs to be brought home.

And as for going home...I'm excited.  3 weeks away is time enough to make you re-appreciate your country, home, family, friends, life.  Allows you to fall in love all over again.