For Easter this year, I decided that I wanted to take a trip down memory lane and use decorated eggs as my table centerpiece. In the past, I’ve only dyed hard boiled eggs but was looking for a longer lasting option. Since we will most likely be decorating alongside a pair of tiny hands in the future, I knew that this Easter would be the perfect opportunity to try something new: blowing out the eggs.

I had no idea what to expect and envisioned at least one exploding egg, complete with raw yolk running down my face and shards of sharp shell in my hair. I figured that I’d go through an entire carton, cracking eggs left and right, before one emerged unscathed. Needless to say, I did not have high hopes for this project. But, I am happy to say that this apprehension was completely unfounded.

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As far as I know, neither Andreas nor I have Irish roots but we cannot deny our indisputable fascination with the country. Our family has yet to visit the Emerald Isle but given the chance, we would be on a plane headed over the Atlantic in a heartbeat. Is there any sound more lovely than the lilting melody of an Irish accent? Oh, to spend the day traipsing around crumbling castle ruins and soaking up the breathtaking beauty of a lush, green, countryside or craggy, windblown coast. And truthfully, a good part of our fascination probably centers around the music. On road trips, we spend hours blasting this song on repeat and when Alistair is in his jolly jumper, there’s nothing like some good Irish music to get him bouncing. My research on an Ireland trip has officially commenced. Now if only our bank account would agree with my plans…

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Okay, where did the saying, “Sleeping like a Baby” come from? Because as peaceful as they look for those brief moments of blissful slumber, we all know the truth. Babies suck at sleeping. I’ve been sleeping on a baby’s schedule for the past seven months, and hands down, I would much rather sleep like an adult.

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I love traveling. There’s such a thrill involved in the discovery and exploration of somewhere new. But more than just the final destination, I love the process of getting there. I love being propelled upwards through a ceiling of grey clouds to skim along the rays of brilliant sunshine. I like sitting thousands of feet in the air, jostled by turbulence, watching the world pass by below. Hmm… maybe I should get my pilots license, or something?

But add a baby to that combination and the magic of flight fades a little. When a screaming baby drowns out the rush of the engine, you start counting down the seconds until the plane touches down and that seat belt light switches off.

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On Sunday morning, Alistair and I stayed home from church. He had developed his first “real” cold complete with a drippy, clogged nose and an adorably sad, little cough. So I bundled him up and went for a walk, in hopes that the cool air and bouncing buggy would help clear his stuffy nasal passages.

Surrounded by high density apartments, it’s not uncommon to cross paths with moving vans and stacks of brown, cardboard boxes. Today, I noticed more than the usual share of real estate yard signs advertising an “open house.” As I passed the third sign, a startling train of thought emerged. “For the first time in my life, I’m homeless.”

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While walking through a Paris neighbourhood, we were suddenly accosted by an armed man. A friend was grabbed and unless we could get our hands on a specific piece of artwork, the thug would kill her. Locked in the museum, our little band of eight had a mere forty-five minutes to crack a safe, find the painting and get ourselves out of there. At least… that was the given scenario.

For my husband’s 25th birthday, we gathered a group of eight friends and headed to Richmond to participate in an increasingly popular activity: Escape Rooms.

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Not going to lie – this post is pretty much just shameless promotion of my hubby’s ridiculously amusing “New Van Fan” videos. Can you believe they’re already in Season 3? (This means that if you haven’t seen their video’s before, you’re in luck because there are 19 videos to catch up on!) Better get your mini bowls of popcorn ready!

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The other day, I took Alistair out for a walk in his jogging stroller. Usually, the instant his five point harness snaps shut, his eyes close with equal ferocity and he’s out for the duration of the stroll. But this time, his baby blues were open wide in amazement. Birds, trees, cars and tall buildings – these are pretty spectacular sights for someone who has previously only been able to see as far as his feet.

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In the little white casket sat a pair of blue booties, knit with love.

I was nineteen and in my second year of college. There was this certain, red headed boy that I’d been dating for a few months and I was busy working on my commercial pilots license. When we weren’t wandering our way through an Albertan blizzard, we spent a great amount of time trying to knit. Very few college students had managed to avoid the knitting fever – even the boys spent time “brocheting.” And so, when my roommate tossed me her old pair of knitting needles and a ball of yarn, I eagerly set to work.

Three failed attempts later, I’d finally completed my first project – a wobbly, lime green, garter stitched scarf.

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In our house (following a tradition that dates back to my husband’s childhood) every Friday night is PIZZA NIGHT. And now, with this recipe, you can kick off your weekend the right way too.

I call it “Swedish pizza” but really, it derives its name from the fact that my husband and his family are so proud of their Scandinavian birthright that anything they touch turns Swedish. (My husband is like the Greek father in “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” – according to Andreas, just about everything comes from Sweden. Seatbelts, Angry Birds, dynamite… you name it…)

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When my son was born at thirty-one weeks, we were immediately ushered into the preemie life. But at just three and a half pounds, we quickly realized that when it comes to the littlest of little ones, some products work better than others.

Here are a few of my thoughts on some of our favourite preemie baby gear.

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