You know you live in Canada when.... you look down the street in the afternoon to try and spot your children (to make sure they weren't kidnapped, though sometimes you wish they were) and you see at least three driveway road hockey games occurring simultaneously...
I was busy unpacking boxes that were packed up months ago... old photo albums that I wish were destroyed. My own children didn't recognize me in some of them, the fat years. Those years when I must have lost a mirror and hadn't yet learned that when you eat a lot and don't exercise, the pounds add up like Count Dracula on crack.
But. Here's the thing. Unpacking some of these old mementos causes me pause. I have a gut reaction that says, these don't belong here, what are they doing here? Wait. What am I doing here? If these relics from 1980 followed me here, that must mean I'm staying. My trail has followed me. This isn't just an extended vacation where my dishes followed me... my everything followed me. My parents even followed me for a few days.
About an hour after they left, my mother texted me: "I love your new home and city. Be happy there." It was a command. And I wouldn't call my mom the bossy type. She's more the whatever type. So when she says (or texts) like that, it's a threat. A don't-you-dare-not-do-it threat. And I can't even type what happens when you don't follow one of her few of these. Let's just say it involves extreme pain.
So I'm here in Canada. I'm really here. To stay. And it's weird.