Here and Everything In It

Cayman Islands: Decision Time

We are ... maybe going.

(probably)

(and maybe we'll know for sure next week)

If anything, the last few weeks have been about patience, and forbearance, and the ability to adopt the properties of rubber -- as in, we've bounced back and forth on this decision so many times, it's a wonder we're still able to stand upright.

And to tell you the truth, this process keeps going and going and ... going.

However, one by one, the issues that potentially stood in our way of actually deciding whether or not we could go were gradually resolved. Like, we figured out the pets could come, and we'd be able to rent a house within our budget that would house everyone, and I could leave Canada and return without losing my permanent residency because we found out it's all ok because I'm accompanying my Canadian spouse out of the country, and that Brad's considered 100% recovered from the brain stuff from last year so he could actually qualify for Cayman Islands health care.

And with all that bureaucratic confusion swept aside, we were finally left with the decision of whether or not we wanted to go.

And holy crap, that was hard.

I heard a comedian once say that comparing apples to oranges makes no sense, and instead, if you're going to use that saying, it's better to compare things that are totally opposite from one another, like, say, apples and poverty. And that's what I've felt like we've been trying to do over the last month or so. How do you compare your bank account with the love you have for family? Or personal integrity with how much you missed your home when you lived away from it the last time? Or professional growth and steady employment with the joy you have when watching your son's grandparents fawn all over his adorable little self on a daily basis? Financial stability and improved future security with the ability to pop by for visits with friends and family?

How do you objectively compare two unknown paths?

We're still waiting for the return of all Brad's health test results, which we'll then forward to his employer, and then we'll have to wait for them to confirm that Brad's eligible for health care coverage.

But if he's good to go, we're, uh, going to go.

That still feels weird to say. And I'll admit, we're not 100% happy with it.

You're all going to come visit, right?

OK.

*brushes tears from eyes, adjusts funny bone*

But on a more practical side, THIS is what really concerns me:

Or, more precisely, THIS:

Because, ok, hear me out, what if the Cayman Islands falls into the Cayman Trench? Just like, slides in or whatever? I don't know, I've never lived on an island. Is that something to be afraid of? Because that thing is DEEP. And there are definitely sharks in that water, ready to eat us. See their ominous fins? Just biding their time, waiting for the perfect time to strike, like just after the whole island falls into the ocean.

What?

Still Sucked Into the Vortex

Sorry, guys. I know. I KNOW. But soon, soon we will know where we're going -- or not going -- in the near future. Cayman Islands, Canada. One of the two.

It seems like every time we think we've made our decision, something pops up -- a new piece of information -- that changes our minds, or puts a seemingly insurmountable obstacle in our path. But then, somehow, that obstacle is cleared, but only to make way for an EVEN BIGGER one, and so on and so forth, until our brains have been mashed into paste and our nerves are jangling like a junior high school Christmas hand bell ensemble (have you seen New Girl?).

But, by 11am-ish tomorrow morning, we should know for sure what we're doing.

So, sorry for being a silent recluse. SOON IT WILL ALL BE OVER.

Here's a picture:

But We Just Got Here ...

Just before Christmas, Brad was offered a really good job ... IN THE CAYMAN ISLANDS. Let me give you a sneak peak at the tropical amazingness of this potential new employment:

So, yeah.

THIS DECISION IS SUCKING OUR BRAINS OUT.

We just don't know what to do. There are so many pros and cons involved in our decision of where we want to be for the next few years -- the biggest upside to leaving is, well, it's a job (something in rather short supply here in Canada), but then we'd have to leave our families again, which is extra hard considering we now have Innis.

Gah. We have until January 3rd to decide, with a late February move.

So please excuse the infrequency of posts (or emails or phone calls), as we seem to be effectively paralyzed with indecision at the moment.

Polar Dipping? Not So Much.

Last night we stayed over in Calgary, and after giving the regular hotel pool a tentative try ...

... we all just decided to jump into the hot tub:

So Long, And Thanks For All The Sun

Alas, our time in California has come to an end. It is always so hard to leave beautiful places and go home again, but California is especially difficult to leave because we're also leaving behind awesome people.

As per usual, Sara and Edward went above and beyond regular hosting duties, and we went for tonnes of walks together, Brad and I got to go out to dinner TWICE while Sara and Edward babysat Innis, AND they were super cool about Innis's, ah, vocal attitude.

But despite all his screaming, Innis decided rather early on that Edward was indeed his BESTEST FRIEND IN THE WHOLE WORLD:

And it turns out that Edward is a professional "ah!" player (wherein Innis yells AH! at Edward from across the room, and Edward responds in kind, over and over (and over) again).

And, of course, Innis and Cy bonded, even though they probably weren't aware of it. The plan is to take pictures like the following every few years or so to mark Cy's progress as he grows into his feet and hands and ends up eventually towering over our little gorilla:

And though that picture is really cute, I want to show you this one as well because it's pretty hilarious:

Innis is all, "what? Do I smell?"

We had a great, great time. Thank you to Sara and Edward for being awesome, and for the cookies and the muffins, the homemade ice cream, and the quinoa salads, and the taco-truck tacos.

And from the mouth of babes, here's some photographic evidence of how much fun Innis had -- by the end of our week in California, he was drooling hearts:

Swimming Lesson

On Sunday, we took Innis to the local pool for his very first swim ever.

I think he enjoyed himself.

All Babies Should Be Born In California

 At this point, taking Innis back to the frigid north in a week's time seems like cruel and unusual punishment.

Reasons 1 through 3 gazillion:

Saturday morning, we walked about six minutes from Sara and Edward's front door to a farmers' market, and just as we got there, a full-on parade with horses and marching bands and floats and tractors and belly dancers and baby goats stomped by in gloriously loud fashion:

 

Innis: OH MY GOD! Is that a DELOREAN?!!

List Of Things That Make Me Blubber Like A Fool

1. The Big Reveal on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition

2. Cheering Crowds (see #1)

3. People Who Are Really Excited To Win Stuff (see #1)

4. Watching Innis Watch Horses

5. Marching Bands

Call it new-mummy hormones, call it a love for John Philip Sousa, call it an appreciation for synchronized youth, but marching bands now put a wiggle in my heart, prickles in my nose, and tears in my eyes.

Add something like this, and my olfactory system is pretty much doomed:

But the fun didn't stop with the parade, as we then went to a baby shower for Sara and Edward's friends Ben and Meghan, and while Innis got to play in the park with Dad ...

... Mummy got to paint a onesie for the new baby at the arts and crafts table!

Here are some beautiful designs that other guests painted:

I mean, really. An arts and crafts table for adults. At a baby shower. What a great idea. And, you know, I'm not a baby shower connoisseur or anything, having only ever been to one other shower of the baby variety in my entire life, but I think, according to my limited experience, that this baby shower was pretty much awesome. The hosts even passed out envelopes for us to address to ourselves so they could send out the thank you cards in a timely manner (and not six months after the fact like yours truly). That, people, is organization.

AND THEN, after the baby shower, we went to a roadside fruit stand to buy a whole flat of strawberries, then Edward took us to experience the consumerist phenomenon that is Target, and then we all ate homemade ice cream with locally grown almonds and fruit.

And basically, it was all very wonderful and exhausting and ultimately culminated in lovely naps in late afternoon sunshine:

Clearly, Innis was meant for these warmer climes. He's never been happier, or slept better, or eaten more. Dragging him home sort of breaks my heart, but we only have another couple months left north of sixty and then he'll be wallowing in all the humid summertime mugginess Ontario has to offer.

And I know: Ontario won't be California. But it'll do. For now.

Seriously, Who Hates GRASS?

Innis does!!

In a concerted effort to negate all my plans for his California/Natural World Stimulation Extravaganza, Innis has turned out to be somewhat of an indoors type who hates direct sunlight, grass, wind and, well, the world.

These pictures were taken after a catastrophic toppling while sitting in the park which landed him on his back, in the grass, where he was tickled in the neck by all those evil green poky thingies coming out of the ground:

But at least he likes trees:

As long as he's the one doing all the touching.

Baby Needs A New Pair Of Shoes

Hi! We're in California! Lots of things have happened in the last few days!

Let's start at the beginning ...

Saturday came sooner than expected, and we all managed to pile into the truck by late morning despite our plans to get going at the crack of 8am. So, one baby, five dogs, and two adults, crammed into a teensy Toyota Tacoma with one hockey bag, two schoolbags, two suitcases and a baby seat? Turns out packing for a trip with a child and several billion canines produces a total luggage weight much greater than the combined weight of the travelers actually doing the traveling.

Two of the five dogs were fosters, one of whom was Woody, the dog we've been trying to get our foster paws on for three years:

As it turns out, foster dogs aren't such great travelers, and about an hour into our journey (as I was crammed into the rear bench seat in the truck cab attempting to soothe a perpetually screaming infant), I started to hear some strange clicking and sliding noises coming from the back of the truck. Turns out Woody had expelled some anxiety diarrhea into her crate (she was separated from the general population due to previous anti-social interactions), and was sliding around as though she was on skates and sloshing all that nasty business over the edge of the crate and onto the other dogs' blankets.

Needless to say, Scarlet was pissed.

So we stopped on the side of the highway, and while I corralled the other four dogs, Brad hauled everything (Woody included) out of the back of the truck for a deep paper towel scouring. Half an hour and a novel's worth of swear words later, we were back on the road.

After that, everything went rather smoothly, and we dropped Silver off at her rescue and Ida met us in Calgary to pick up Woody:

Innis was pretty good on the plane from Calgary to Sacramento; some crying, some runny nosing, but he spent most of the time whipping his head back and forth, looking for pretty ladies to flirt with. He certainly spread the baby love, shooting gummy grins to anyone within firing distance.

... and also took some in-flight pictures of himself, apparently.

Now he's got a cold, but is not (surprisingly) that much more miserable than usual because of it. We're trying to keep his snotty little self away from Cy (who is adorable), so that we don't end up with a house full of cranky, sick babies.

We're not going to let the sniffles get us down, though, and have been going on our walks in the sunshine just as planned. Innis is slowly getting into the groove of being in a stroller, though he's still adjusting to the idea of not being carried absolutely everywhere. For now, the little emperor must be satisfied with his chariot.

Cy is still small enough to fit into Sara's carrier, and though the weight maximum for such an apparatus is 35 lbs, I don't think I'll be carrying Innis around in one any time soon, mostly because I value the alignment of my spine.

I did, however, fall prey to the enticements of the local baby store, in which I spent more money than I probably should have, but figured that one pair of baby shoes won't break the bank.

Well, maybe they dented it a little bit, but -- c'mon -- how could I deny this little face?

And this little face needed shoes.

When Scarlet Eats Rex's Poop? I'm Just Like That.

I was trying to think of a creature in nature to compare myself to in my current situation. It had to be an animal or insect that did something over and over again regardless of the negative consequences. I got as far as a moth flying into flame, realized that's not quite what I was going for since a moth can only make that mistake once, and then noticed that my perfect simile had been (literally) mournfully staring at me the whole time.

Scarlet. Scarlet eats Rex's poop. Repeatedly. Even though she gets into Big Trouble every single time (usually involving me jumping up and down like a baboon and then chasing her down the hallway, or banishing her to an unpopulated area of the house until I don't want to give her away to the traveling circus anymore (or in my most extreme moments, make her into my new winter coat). It doesn't matter, though, how mad I get. She does it over and over anyways. And she's not even smart about it; she'll always bring each tasty morsel to wherever we all are in the house so she can enjoy her snack with company.

Scarlet eating Rex's poop is like me and Immigration Canada.

Let me explain:

First of all, I should be a Canadian citizen by now. I've lived in Canada for 28 years, and am still a Permanent Resident, and this is entirely (and shamefully) ridiculous. Why haven't I applied for citizenship yet, you ask? Well, I've got lots of excuses, but none of them are really any good. Too young to do it myself, then I was in university and had no money, then when we did have the money, we ended up living up here in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of kilometres away from the nearest Immigration office.

So, no Canadian citizenship: Big Mistake Number One.

Instead, I'm a cardholding Permanent Resident. Or at least I was until last April when a Costa Rican boarding clerk politely pointed out that my card had expired a month prior. She let me through, though, luckily, and the customs officer in the USA did, too, and then the very friendly Canadian customs agent in Edmonton let me into the country after I promised I'd get my card renewed, ASAP. But given all the chaos that surrounded last April and the summer and September, I didn't get around to sending in my renewal application until October, and this turned out to be Big Mistake Number Two.

At the time, last October, I really didn't care how long it would take to get a new PR Card. I wasn't planning on going anywhere until this July, and certainly the card would've been ready by then, right? (RIGHT?) Anyway, I foolishly thought that I could live for ten months straight in the frigid north, housebound with the baby, and not mind. Is it necessary at this juncture to point out that this assumption was Big Mistake Number Three?

So about a month ago, in the midst of the post-Christmas blues, I decided that if I had to wait until July to Get Out, I would probably go crazy and become an online shopping addict, or my eyesight would start to deteriorate into blindness given that I'd existed in seasonal darkness for so long. I also started to worry that we were doing Innis an enormous disservice in the stimulation department -- suddenly it became imperative that he be in a stroller, in the sunshine, and somewhere beautiful before our (seemingly) interminable six month sentence was served.

So, I thought, what better place to go for sunshine, warmth and beauty on Spring Break than to visit our lovely friends Sara and Edward in California? It was clear to me that this was the only path. I gathered my arsenal and planned out how I would propose such an excursion to Brad. Not that he wouldn't want to go, as he loves Sara and Edward just as much as I do, but where Brad sometimes lacks in sensitivity, romance and feelings, he excels in the realm of Being Responsible For Money. And honestly, since our permanent escape from The North comes along with inevitable unemployment in The South, I understood where he'd be coming from.

But, because he loves me, and Sara and Edward are awesome, and because living with me come April would be abject hell if my travel plans did not come to fruition, we agreed that California was a wonderful, fabulous, exciting idea.

(This was my non-confrontational way to settle the issue. Because I am a fourth grader.)

(Also, that chicken scratch next to the checked box says "Road trip? Or fly?" I don't think Brad took the paper off the lower fridge door before writing on it, or maybe he did, in which case his level of penmanship is atrocious.)

Thus, after receiving refrigerator paper confirmation that all systems were go, I immediately sent Sara a joyous email because Hooray!! Tripsies!!!

And then, just to be on the safe side, I called Immigration Canada to ask how much longer my renewed PR card would take, since I'd need it to travel across the border. When they said they weren't even opening October applications at that point, and that the best I could hope for was a late April delivery, which would end up being after we got back from our trip, I went into grasping mode, and asked what could be done to save my sanityyyyyy. I was told that if I had the registered mail number from my first application, I could fax that in along with proof of travel and they could potentially deliver my card within thirty days.

Sounds good, right?

Now rewind to last October for Big Mistake Number Four, which I like to call "Because Sleep Has Become A Foreign Concept, Organization Has Followed Suit":

In a haze, I took my application to the post office here in town, and while I can't actually remember whether or not I sent it registered mail, I definitely didn't put the registered mail receipt anywhere safe after receiving it (if in fact I received one at all), and thus, I now have no clue WHATSOEVER where it could be, let alone what tracking number it contained.

Huh. So, back to the present, and with no tracking number to be had, I took the advice of the Immigration Canada lady and drove to the next town, got new photos taken, filled out a brand new application, booked our plane tickets so I would have proof of travel (they wouldn't fast track my application without it), and mailed the whole thing again, this time registered, and then (most importantly, perhaps), put the tracking information in a VERY VERY safe place. That I will remember the location of. Forever.

I've been told that I *could* receive my card within thirty days after they get my new application, but I'll have to go to Yellowknife to pick it up. I think we have 54 days until we leave for sunny California, so hopefully that'll be enough time. If not, then come April, I'll be making a detour into Seattle to visit the Canadian Embassy to get permission to re-enter Canada, or I'll be renting a car in Washington and driving over the border (since there are customs officers at the border, they'll be able to confirm my status without a card, whereas in an airport, they would have no such data available). This is assuming that I can take a rental car into a different country, and if not, I may be asking the lovely Ida (who lives near the Canada/USA border) to pick me up, stateside, to bring me back home.

Perhaps you remember the last couple times we've attempted to travel to the States, the most recent involving sincere panic on my part that the whole vacation would be kaiboshed because my paperwork was (once again) caught up in bureaucratic limbo. And now here I am again, in a very similar situation, though Status: Kaibosh has been reduced to things just getting rather complicated.

So now, perhaps, you understand why I've likened my relationahip with Immigration Canada to a cat-shit-eating dog. It doesn't seem to matter how many times things get sticky because of my Permanent Residency status, I still haven't got my ass in gear to apply for citizenship. I think it's because being a Permanent Resident, when I'm not attempting to travel, isn't really much different from being a citizen to begin with, except that I can't vote. And I'm lulled into complacency by this. Just like Scarlet forgets how mad I get in the interim between her brownie snacking, I also forget how annoying it is to be a Permanent Resident between the times I try to leave and re-enter the country.

Me and Scarlet, we just don't learn.

The Canadian Government Thinks Innis Is An International Spy

Next summer, my sister Claire and her fiance Corin are getting married, twice. The first time, they're inextricably binding themselves together on a replica warship (read: pirate ship) that's moored on the Thames in London, England (I think it's this one) and then we're all heading off to a villa in Spain for the Big Serious Do. Sounds very posh, doesn't it?

Well, in order to get there and back again, I have to renew my expired Permanent Residency card (gah to you, government paperwork), and Innis, our infant son, requires a passport. I mean, seriously? Really? And the funniest part is, he needs a photo in his passport for identification ... a photo that we had taken yesterday in town so everything will be processed in time for next July ... a photo which will end up looking NOTHING like his 10-month old self when he eventually passes through customs next summer.

You think family portraits are frustrating, try posing your five week old baby for a head shot that has very specific requirements when you're not allowed to hold him upright or brace his head with your hands because he has to lie on his back (no shadows!!). It took half an hour of coaxing (eyes open, baby! open!), fifteen minutes of crying, ten minutes of boobie bribery, and about fifty takes, but here he is, in all his internationally accepted, glorified grouchiness:

Ha. Because a passport photo in which you look happy/attractive/not stained with breastmilk is not really a passport photo at all.

This reminds me of when Brad and I were in England and he decided to take the absolute worst picture of himself for his Underground ID. His theory was that it would be hilarious to watch the ticket collector's expression every time he flashed his card -- but what Brad didn't take into account was the fact that we were in London, and lots of people there look scary/weird/psychotic in their tube pass pictures without even trying.

But even if the hardened Underground staff didn't bat an eye the entire time we were there, Sociopath Brad made us giggle all summer, so the effort was well worth it in the end.

ETD: 11 Months

So, we're back. Back in the North amidst the bugs, the blaring dirt bike engines (soon to be skidoos ... hooray ... ), the hour-and-a-half drive to groceries ... for just one. more. year. In fact, less that one year; in eleven months' time, we'll be on our way home to Ontario to fulfill dreams of Earthships and Boarding Kennels.

Eleven months. That's like, nothing. I won't even be thirty by then.

I think we can do it.

The weird thing is, after I'm sent away to Yellowknife to deal with my Women's Problems in September (common practice is to catch any early birds by sending pregnant women to YK two weeks before they're due, but I can't help but feel like I'm being sent away to a shed in the woods somewhere, away from the more practical concerns of the menfolk, where the mysteries and mess of childbirth can be tidily tucked away from public knowledge. And I know that's stupid -- I can't have my baby here, and Brad's totally coming with me the whole time -- but still ... I wish I didn't have to relocate for so long. It just seems so, I don't know -- disruptive), I don't think I'll be seeing the inside of a hotel room again until next summer when we make the last trek home. And this is totally strange, because I think if I counted the number of nights I've spent in rented rooms over the last year, they'd probably amount to an entire month. And to tell you the truth, this frequency of hotel visits has worked wonders for my OCD: while I won't yet wear a pair of underwear if my dirty hotel carpet feet touched the fabric as I pulled them on (which is why I always pack at least triple the pairs), and I still can't touch doorknobs or the light switches on the bedside table lamps, I don't coat the toilet seats with toilet paper anymore, and I don't always remember to strip search the bedding for mystery hair, bugs, or questionable stains before I deem the room acceptable. And that's progress, right?

Anyway, at least my last hotel stay was memorable. While we were in Edmonton, we were unexplainably booked into a room that I presume is either usually reserved for psychiatric patients, geriatrics, or those with severe mobility issues (like women in the advanced stages of pregnancy?).

So, at no extra charge and without asking for it, we got a shower seat:

Some extra heavy-duty Fixtures of Hoist:

And a phone, right by the toilet -- you know, just in case I was suddenly struck by that thing I forgot to tell so-and-so the last time I saw them and couldn't afford to forget about again ...

The funniest thing about this phone for me was that it had a series of emergency buttons, one of which was meant to call the front desk to report a fire in the event that I was unable to lift myself from the throne and alert the authorities in a more orthodox fashion. Because inadvertently setting our hotel room on fire wouldn't be embarrassing enough, I would then need to be rescued from the blaze by a troop of firefighters (or maybe just the front desk guy) while sitting on the can.

Oh, the indignities of the human condition.

And Now, Back To The Rest Of The World

Today we're ferrying out of the Islands, back to the mainland, and back to life on a Schedule. Boooo! But wait, who am I kidding? I'm retired! From here on in, my schedule is what I make it!!

... oh wait. The baby.

Right.

All these delusions of fall afternoons spent quietly drinking tea in my peaceful afternoon living room, or filling entire winter mornings with inspired creative writing ... this won't be my reality, will it?

Hm.

I'll just have to develop an excellent inner peace; a mantra to fight those crazy stressed out days ... and I'll regularly use this picture to recall times less pressing and involved, when throwing back the covers in the morning or heaving myself up off the couch was only necessary for biological reasons (involving a trek out to the kitchen or outhouse), and exercise consisted of leisurely walks in the sun and sand when I spent an inordinate amount of time dawdling over which washed up agates and shell pieces I should add to my collection (bending over to pick those things up is hard!):

Well, objective achieved: we are now relaxed and ready to return to Life. And considering what life's about to throw at us, I think this was a pretty good way to prepare.

Pretty Beach Things II

 

... and also a slug:

Who is also pretty, in his own sluggy way.

Likin' The Lichen

Sorry. That title is silly. But it was either that or a pathetic attempt to link lichen with werewolves, and then ultimately with Twilight, and I just couldn't do it. So Likin' The Lichen it is.

And, I do:

Although, I guess it could be moss ...

These hang from the trees all over the place here, and when it's overcast they have a really strange and creepy look about them, though in the sunlight, they kind of remind me of something. I think it's those big creatures from Where The Wild Things Are, but I'm not sure.