Family - KINETIC MOTIONS

July 2, 2017July 2, 2017

My Son Flew off to Summer Camp this Morning – Can I Go with Him?

5:00 AM and the alarm clock goes off. I hear the faint voice of a radio announcer giving me the morning news, sports and weather. I see the faint light of sunrise in my window and the house is quiet. It’s time to get up, wake up the family and rush to the airport to send my son off for another summer of overnight camp.

The highway is empty and it is easy to find our way through the maze of parking at the airport at this time of day. The airport is relatively quiet, and we know we are in the right place when we hear the loud din of children and see the commotion of a summer camp trying to get 156 children onto an airplane. There are coloured balloons and, fluorescent t-shirts and even signs, trying to create organization from chaos. Somehow families line up, names and ID are checked, hugs are given and the children are off.

It is a tradition, and I believe a tremendous privilege, for thousands of children each summer across North America, to travel to an overnight summer camp. It is an anomaly to those who have not attended camp or who have not packed up or sent their children.

I believe that overnight summer camp is one of the greatest gifts a parent can give his or her child. It is a wondrous place where kids can just be kids. On the surface, it’s a terrifying thought – hundreds of children running around in the wilderness with a small but reasonable number of “adults” (most aged 18-22) in charge. Do they eat? Shower? Brush their teeth? Do they sleep?

Does it matter?

Whether it’s a one-week camp one hour from the city or in the case of my son, a six-week camp half a country away in central Nova Scotia, it is the best way to enjoy the warm weeks of summer. In Canada children can choose from a large array of camps, from specialty programs like a week of horse back or riding to those that offer a variety of activities for up to six, seven or eight weeks.

My son’s camp, Kadimah, has been hosting children since 1943, giving them a well-rounded memorable experience on the edge of one of Canada’s small beautiful lakes. Thousands of children have grown up there, met their spouses there, sent their children there and now even their grandchildren. My son has six cousins with him at camp this summer and tons of friends that he has made in his few years there.

My son was a bit anxious this morning. After all, camp is over 1,500 km away and he will be away from his parents for six weeks (we will see him in three weeks on visitor’s day but just for a few hours). That’s not it, he told me. He is concerned about being forced to swim every day, to wake up early every day and he will miss his baby sister. Will the baby remember him when she sees him in three weeks? What about his beloved Blue Jays? I assured him the baby will remember him and that I will send him a daily letter with all the scores and sports news he needs.

As he arrives at camp this afternoon and jumps off the bus I know that his anxieties will disappear. One of the greatest moments for a child is that final section of the road up to camp, as you see the cabins and the lake appear. As each child passes through the camp gate and the bus pulls up the stomach flutters and the excitement comes to a crescendo. Summer has begun.

I miss those days and I miss that wonderful feeling of the special arrival at summer camp. Can I go too?

June 23, 2017June 24, 2017

The Rite of Passage for Every Camp Mom: Packing the Duffle Bags

Growing up, the month of June meant not only that school was coming to an end but also that camp was coming near. I’m not talking about day camp, which has its merits and is enjoyed by thousands of children, I’m talking about overnight. I mean parents sending their kids away from home for days, a week or in my case, many weeks, every summer.

I will get to my personal reflections about overnight camp (and one in particular) in a moment and why I feel so strongly that every child who can and wants to go should go. First, I want to tell you all about an important rite of passage for every camp mom: packing the duffle bags.

It never occurred to me as a child, as I arrived at camp and threw my sweaters, shorts, bathing suits and other miscellaneous items on the cabin’s wooden shelves, that my mother had painstakingly bought, collected, organized and packed every item in my two duffle bags. Oh, and not only my stuff but also the dozens of items in my sister’s and brother’s bags as well. My mother considered every detail to prepare me for every weather condition, activity and special event that I would face every summer.

My camp days are over, but 2017 marks my son’s fourth summer at overnight camp. I have to say that as I get older each year maybe it’s a good thing my memory is weakening and I forget about how much work it is to pack a child for camp. I have carried around my now tattered packing list with me like a baby and its blanket. There have been dreams in which my son arrived at camp and his bags were empty and the camp had to contact me to scold me. I have even had dreams where I too was back at camp and forgot to bring my duffle bags.

Packing a child for camp is very stressful, but it is such a rewarding feeling to zip the giant duffle bags closed, dump them in the car and send my husband off to throw them in the truck, ready for the journey to Nova Scotia.

Nova Scotia you say? Alicia, don’t you live in Toronto? Why do you send your child over 1,500 kilometres away for overnight camp? It’s simple – Kadimah.

I attended four different overnight camps as both a camper and member of the staff. Each place had its positives and negatives, but my favourite camp, the one where I fit in best, was Kadimah. Founded way back in 1943 by the Atlantic Jewish community, Kadimah is rooted in community and gives children a warm, fun and safe experience summer after summer. It helped mold me and so many other children, teens and young adults into the adults we are today. My sister met her husband there, children make lifelong friends there and Cathy the baker makes the BEST chocolate chip cookies (she has been baking these cookies for decades!).

My sister and I at Kadimah almost 20 years ago. We haven’t changed a bit, don’t you think?

My sister and her then boyfriend (now husband) at Kadimah just a few years ago!

My kids at Kadimah last summer, with their first cousins. Yes it’s a family affair.

As I bought, collected, organized and packed every item into my son’s duffle bags this week my memories of my days at camp came rushing into my head. Will he wash his hair with the shampoo or dump it out on the last day of camp to make me think he cleaned himself regularly? Or, will he change his underwear daily, and if he does, will he place the dirty underwear in one of the two laundry bags I packed? Will any of the 17 pairs of socks come home? These are questions a mother asks as the duffle bags make their way to camp and the children follow close behind in the coming days.

Today is the last day of school, so that means camp must be near!

June 20, 2017

The Butterfly Came Back the Very Next Year

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am not a fan of insects. I understand and respect the important role they play in our ecosystem, but most insects terrify me. If a spider crosses my path I run the other way. Mosquitoes torture me in the summer as they buzz in my ears and centipedes just scare the wits out of me. But then there is the butterfly. It’s an insect, but it’s beautiful. I would even count one in particular as part of my family.

I know very little about entomology, but I want to share with you something special I learned about the butterfly family that resides in my backyard. We moved into our current home in early June of 2014 and soon after were visited by one very friendly butterfly. We spend a lot of time in our backyard and noticed that it kept joining us as we sat on our deck or enjoyed dinner in the backyard. Day after day, throughout the month of June, this seemingly fearless insect sat with us. Actually, it didn’t just sit with us, it sat ON us! It didn’t just sit on us, it protected us. If a wasp dared fly by our dinner table, our butterfly swiftly chased the wasp away.

This butterfly had the characteristic orange, black and white lines of a monarch, so we assumed it must be a monarch. My daughter named it Monny. Day after day Monny joined our family, and once in a while we would see a group of butterflies flying around our yard wildly. Then one day they were gone.

Fast forward to June of 2015 and our butterfly was back. Or rather, a descendent of Monny was back. It looked the same, again it was fearless and just as friendly. In 2016, we hoped our butterfly would return and sure enough it was back, sitting with us and relaxing with us in our backyard.

This weekend, for the fourth year in a row, our butterfly returned. Last night it swooped in as we sat down for dinner and joined us at the table during our meal. It sits on the table, our shoulders and even our heads. It’s part of our family.

Our 2017 butterfly looks exactly the same as the first one who joined us back in 2014. I don’t know what kind of butterfly it is, but clearly this kind has some homing device that sends the descendants back to our backyard year after year. Our butterfly is beautiful, friendly and wonderful.

If there are any experts or enthusiasts out there who can help me learn more about my beautiful butterfly please leave me a comment here, contact me on my Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/alicia.r.kalman, or Tweet me @AliciaRichler. I would love to learn more about Monny and share my knowledge with my children.

June 12, 2017

I Discovered a New Spot Downtown as a Tourist in My Own City

A couple of weeks ago I wrote a post about Doors Open Toronto and the excitement I felt at being a tourist in my own city. Toronto is a big place and has definitely come into its own as a world class city. With its many ravines, vast greenery and its setting on the north shore of Lake Ontario I really think that Toronto is one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

I have explored many parts of Toronto, but with such a rich mix of cultures, neighbourhoods and urban spaces there is always a new spot downtown for me to explore. With the first big heat wave of the season upon us, we decided, with my parents, to escape the oppressive temperatures on Sunday afternoon and head down to the waterfront. With the beaches closed because of excessive amounts of rain and too many crowds around places like Harbourfront, my parents suggested we try a new spot downtown (new for us) and have dinner at Against the Grain.

This restaurant sits inside Corus Quay, on the east side of Queen’s Quay. As you approach the area it looks quite industrial and there seems to be an infinite number of cranes dotting the skyline. I saw signs for many developers, building both condos and tall office towers. With a dense downtown core, it makes sense that the skyscrapers are spreading out in this direction.

The waterfront in this part of the city is simple and beautiful. It is anchored by Sugar Beach, which on the surface is the most bizarre beach I have ever seen. It is sandy, it has adorable pink umbrellas and it sits on the water’s edge. But there is a boardwalk between the beach and the water with no water access (except for a cute maple leaf shaped splash pad). A massive industrial boat is moored in the water beside this beach, and with the amount of industry in that area I don’t think anyone would actually want to take a dip in Lake Ontario right there. So, I guess it’s okay that it’s actually a lakeless beach.

The boardwalk is relatively small in that area, but it is wide, clean and provides pedestrians a great view of Lake Ontario, the Toronto Islands and the city’s skyline. We got a table at the edge of the patio, so we were lucky to enjoy these sweeping views as we dug into our dinner.

Any restaurant that has a mix of sophisticated flavours, traditional classics and a kids’ menu is a winner for me. My son was thrilled with his pizza and French fries and my daughter couldn’t believe her luck when a plate of cheesy nachos with guacamole was placed in front of her. I was thrilled to see a Moroccan dish on the menu and enjoyed my roasted carrot tagine. The happiest person at the table was the baby who couldn’t get enough of my tagine!

Sitting on the patio, overlooking the lake, was so delightful, especially with the 21-degree temperature at the water’s edge (as opposed to 30 degrees in the centre of the city). A light breeze even picked up as we finished dinner and did another walk around the boardwalk. The kids loved running on the giant rocks around Sugar Beach, playing hide and seek around the giant planters and just being kids. It was wonderful to take advantage of the beautiful weather and to discover a new spot downtown as a tourist in my own city.

May 30, 2017May 30, 2017

No Vaccination Debate

For me there is no debate about vaccinations. Every child who is lucky enough to have access to all the vaccinations available should get the needles and be protected from a whole host of debilitating and deadly diseases.

Yesterday I brought my one-year-old to the pediatrician for her check-up, and there she received not one, not two, but three needles. I shuddered when the doctor told me that this tiny, 18-pound baby, was about to be hit three times with a sharp needle, which would dispense a heavy dose of drugs into her body. I held her tight as she cried when each needle was administered. But I did not hesitate to help hold out her arm as the nurse gave each successive needle.

The baby was cranky yesterday, had no appetite and didn’t have the best night sleep. I expected that. And she is probably going to be moody all day today too. Two of the shots often come with a low-grade fever and/or crankiness for 24 hours, and one shot has side effects, such as fever and crankiness that may appear up to 7-10 days from now.

But I know I did the right thing in giving her this set of vaccinations as well as the shots she received at 2 months, 4 months and 6 months. The baby, at only 12 months old, is already protected from many horrible diseases, including meningococcus bacteria, measles, mumps, rubella, diphtheria, polio and many more.

Every parent wants to give his or child every advantage in life, and giving a child all the vaccinations available is one way to do that. I am not a medical expert, as all I have is an undergraduate degree in Biology, but I have common sense. There should be no vaccination debate. The claim that vaccines have caused a rise in autism and ADHD are unfounded.

My advice to new parents is to vaccinate your kids. I will say it again – there is no vaccination debate. A few days of a cranky baby is better than the fear or even the possibility that your child could contract or pass on the diseases of which we are trying to rid the world.

May 29, 2017

Doors Open to be a Tourist in my Own City

I feel privileged that I have had the opportunity to travel to many parts of the world. I have enjoyed the views from the Eiffel Tower in France, Victoria Peak in Hong Kong and Abel Tasman National Park in New Zealand. I was awed by Michelangelo’s masterpiece in the Sistine Chapel in Vatican City, Rembrandt’s The Jewish Bride in Amsterdam and Monet’s Water Lilies in Paris.

I love to travel and am glad that I have passed that love down to my children. But it occurred to me recently that we live in a world-class city, with many world-class sights and art right at our doorstep. Why couldn’t I be a tourist in my own city?

An annual event in my city, Doors Open Toronto, encourages just that – discover the amazing buildings, both historic and new, in neighbourhoods all over town. And it’s free – as in no charge. France launched this event back in 1984, and Toronto was the first North American city to open its doors, in the year 2000.

I have taken advantage of Doors Open Toronto a few times over the past 17 years, and I was excited to see a heritage property in my neighbourhood on the list this year. Spadina House is a beautiful historic home surrounded by some of the most spectacular gardens in the city. It was a perfect place to visit on a sunny May afternoon, especially since we could walk there.

The first home on this property was built back in 1818 by Dr. William Warren Baldwin, who named his 200-acre property Spadina from the Ojibwe word espadinong which means “hill.” Baldwin eventually sold 80 acres of the property in 1866 to James Austin, and over the following years the home was renovated a number of times. James Austin’s granddaughter, Anna Kathleen Thompson, lived in the house until 1982, when the family donated the property to the City of Toronto.

Currently set up as it looked in the 1920’s and 1930’s, we enjoyed our tour of the main rooms of Spadina House, showing the kids the kitchen, dining room, parlours and a bedroom. They were shocked by the simplicity of the kitchen and the grandeur of the parlour. They clamoured to climb the apple trees (we did not let them!) and run through the garden. The property was hopping, full of people who call Toronto home and many visitors too.

It felt great to be a tourist in my own city, and I look forward to discovering other properties, attractions and art in my own backyard. Have you participated in Doors Open in Toronto or one in your own city? What have you discovered? Leave a comment here or tweet me @AliciaRichler.

May 26, 2017June 20, 2017

Our Tiny Miracle

I believe in miracles. If you had asked me two years ago today, May 26, 2015, if I believed in miracles, my answer would have been a firm no. But on May 26, 2016, a tiny miracle appeared in my life and changed me forever.

Until today I have been very private with the struggles that my husband and I faced with infertility. Today I’m ready to share my story, in the hopes it can inspire even just one couple who still hope to bring a baby home. Mine is not the typical story that you hear because our infertility challenges only began after we had two healthy children.

Some people may react with shock, anger or confusion, wondering how a couple with a so-called “million-dollar” family needed to put themselves through what we did just to have a third child. But we knew, after our first miscarriage in 2011, that something was missing in our life. We knew our family was not complete and we were determined to go to the ends of the earth to bring another child into the world.

After another miscarriage in the spring of 2012 we decided, with the guidance and careful advice of our fertility specialist, to try a round of IVF. I didn’t respond well to the drugs, it cost us a lot of money, but we were excited to see a positive pregnancy test two weeks after two embryos were implanted. I miscarried four days later.

I was devastated and felt lost. I also felt that I was let down by the fertility clinic I trusted after a senior technician, during a follow-up ultrasound, looked at me and told me I should just enjoy the two children I had because many women at this clinic weren’t even lucky enough to have one child.

I went home feeling guilty about my despair, that I had my two young children at home to hug and kiss and give me love every day while so many women would give everything they had for just one child. I feel for those women every day, but I was so angry that someone could look at me and make me feel ashamed for wanting another child.

We took a fertility break for a while, went to another specialist who gave us hope and then had two more miscarriages. By early 2015 we didn’t know if we would ever be able to complete our family with a third child. Late that winter my aunt, who faced infertility and the devastating loss of a baby just after he was born, asked me a question that was game changing for me: Imagine yourself in ten years, when you probably can no longer have more children. Are you satisfied with everything you have done to have a third child or do you feel you need to keep trying?

My husband and I immediately knew the answer – we weren’t satisfied, and we decided to give it one more try. If one more round of IVF failed then we knew we tried everything and could move forward comfortably with life.

After much reflection and hours and hours of conversations into the night, my husband and I returned to our original fertility specialist. He admitted that after every test he and his team had done over the past four years they could find nothing wrong with me, but with my history and the fact that I was 38 years old he was honest that our chances of success were low. I admired his frankness and we went ahead. The IVF failed, and by the end of the summer we decided that we had done everything we could and that our family was complete.

Just when you feel it’s over, when you have moved on and accepted defeat and the stress that goes with it, a miracle can happen. When I found out I was pregnant in the fall of 2015 I didn’t believe it was real. I cried, with my sister by my side, when I saw the baby, with her strong heart-beat, at 8 weeks in utero, and every week after.

On May 26, 2016, our tiny miracle was born. We named her Nessa, the Hebrew word for miracle, to remind us every day of the miracle she gave us, that she filled the missing piece and completed our family.

Happy first birthday Nessa, our tiny miracle.

one of the first photos taken of our miracle — Our beautiful miracle on the day she was born

May 22, 2017June 23, 2017

Growing Old Gracefully

I am scared to get old. Old age is still years away, but it’s something that’s on my mind quite often. I’m not talking about retirement, grandchildren and winters in Florida. When I think about old age I think about frailty, illness and nursing homes.

Why should someone my age (I don’t hide my age – I’m 40 years old) be concerned about old age? Shouldn’t I take joy in my young family, my career ambitions and great friends? Well of course that’s where I focus most of my attention, and every day I am grateful for the life I feel privileged to lead.

But it’s still there – that nagging reminder that someday I may be old. I grew up in a large close family, and all four of my grandparents played a big role in making me who I am today. My Bubby, who had a heart of gold and kindness and love seemed to emanate from every part of her, died at the age of 72. I was only 19 at the time and was still too young to understand what old age was. My other three grandparents lived to be old, and one of them, my Poppy, is 96 years old.

Poppy has been one of my biggest cheerleaders since I was a child and I love him dearly. Poppy has aged gracefully and has overcome tremendous challenges with his health. He is a colon cancer survivor, lives with angina and over the past few years has developed dementia. This is a man who was a practicing Chartered Professional Accountant well into his eighties, golfed and skied for decades and traveled the world.

Baby Matthew playing on the floor with Poppy

My grandparents always told me they chose to live life to the fullest, and I believe they did. But then they grew old, and I mean the cruel side of old age that included frailty and illness.

Last night, while many members of my family were enjoying a long weekend up at our country home north of Toronto my father got a call that his father (my Poppy) was in an ambulance on his way to the emergency room. I won’t go into the details here and I’m happy to say that Poppy is fine, but I could hear the strain and stress in my father’s voice as he spoke with my grandfather’s caregiver about what was going on. My father and sister jumped in the car and drove back to the city to be at Poppy’s side, advocate for him at the hospital and get him back home safely that night.

My Poppy was a strong and charismatic person throughout his whole life, who loved my grandmother with all his heart every day of their 69-year marriage. He was sharp, confident, smart and successful. And now he is frail and depends on his children and a whole host of dedicated and amazing caregivers for everything.

All I could think about last night, as my father raced to the hospital and my grandfather sat on a stretcher in the emergency room, was how scared I am of old age. I hated the idea of my beloved Poppy sitting alone with chest pains in the emergency room and no longer in a position to advocate for himself. Without the dedicated support of his children, grandchildren and caregivers I don’t know what kind of life my Poppy could lead in his old age. And yes, that scares me.

I hope to grow old gracefully, like my Poppy. I hope that life is kind to me, especially old age. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not scared.