Being new

My mother-in-law recently had a health scare, and we needed to explain to The Children (in a moment of don't know how to b.s. this one, better just tell the truth) what happens when things get "old," like our dog, our cars, and a lot of the stuff in the fridge... Death is part of life, death happens to us all, dealing with death is hard and sad, but you get through it, it gets better, etc.

So my 5-year old is thinking about this, clearly getting a bit nervous, and then asks, "But you and Daddy are still new, right?"

Yes, indeed. We are spanking new.

We are new here. Here in Canada. Here in this expensive and strangely quiet and questioningly-friendly place. And being new is hard. It actually kinda sucks much of the time.

Yesterday, I cried when I couldn't find the grocery store. We were all really hungry and tired of eating takeout on the floor.

Today, I almost cried at the bank. The customer service reps here were willing to give me a mortgage, but not willing to give me a bank account. Because I have no proof of address. Even though they just gave me a mortgage to help fund my primary residence. I'm not saying Canadians are stupid. But.

And. I can't get my car registered unless I have car insurance. And I can't get car insurance unless I have a Canadian license plate. Hmmmm....

Ya. New.

But I do know where the nearest liquor stores are located.

And people are crazy nice and polite here. As in: we were invited to someone's house for lunch after a 5-minute conversation; we peaked in a trendy shop downtown and the owner was so excited to hear where we just bought a house, he asked us our address so he could stop by; some people we met at the beach a few weeks ago called today to invite us to the hang out with them tomorrow. This has all been a salve for my sad and lonely soul. And it also seems a bit conspiratorial: are these people terrorists? Kidnappers? Or worse? We have nothing to go by except our guts.

Our NEW guts.

May they lead us to the right places.