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I’m not the mom who loves to play.

I’m not the one who enjoys scuttling around on my hands and knees, driving cars around an invisible track or fighting off pretend pirates.

Imaginary play is NOT my strength.

And sometimes, I feel guilty about that.

I want to be the mom crawling around the park, pretending to be a crime-fighting dinosaur named Nora. The mom who spends hours acting out intricate storylines about robots and aliens, running around the house in costumes as we dodge lava pits and trolls. The mom who doesn’t get bored after a couple minutes of playing with Lego people.

I want to be that “uber fun mom” with endless energy and creative passion for free play. I want to give my kids that experience.

But that’s not me.

And that’s okay too.

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Winter is over, the flowers are blooming, and it’s finally starting to heat up! Ushered in alongside this beautiful spring weather comes the annual hunt for outdoor activities. One of the locations on our list of places to visit this year was the Greater Vancouver Zoo in Langley, BC.

This was our family’s first trip to the Zoo. Having heard a few unfavorable reviews tossed about by lower mainland families, we pulled into the zoo parking lot completely unsure of what to expect. Thankfully these rumors seem to be overly exaggerated and in actuality, are the very thing that make up so much of the zoo’s charm.

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Now that the weather is colder and wetter, I’ve been busy searching for indoor activities to do with my 18 month old son. That’s when I came across this easy, mess free activity for little ones with short attention spans – painting in a bag. 

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Our family has been trying to visit the aquarium for months now. On three separate occasions we’ve arrived at Stanley Park and promptly driven home again in order to avoid parking chaos and hordes of swarming tourists. But eventually, our determination to introduce our son to the bubbly world of undersea creatures outweighed our desire to avoid pushy crowds. And so, one overcast October morning, we were delighted to finally find ourselves inside a relatively quiet Vancouver Aquarium.

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October: the time of year when store-bought gourds begin to line the steps of neighbouring homes and fallen maple leaves give a satisfying crunch beneath your boots. It’s the month where we bust out our cozy knit sweaters and foamy lattes to fight against air that’s suddenly grown a little crisper. It’s four weeks of fake cobwebs, clever costumes, and tiny packets of chocolate. It’s also the month of everything Pumpkin.

With pumpkin spice lattes advertised on coffee shop chalkboards, carved pumpkins guarding front doors, and pumpkin smelling hand-soaps in the bathroom, it can be rather difficult to avoid these giant, orange spheres. We can buy them at the grocery store (whole or in pie form) or lug them home from the farmers market. But, for a true October adventure, there’s only one way to find the perfect pumpkin: you have to go to the Pumpkin Patch.

Because seriously, is there anything more “October-y” than a muddy field full of bright, orange pumpkins?

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We joined the circus for a night.

Spandex clad legs wrapped tightly around a bar, I soared twenty feet above the ground. For a few adrenaline charged seconds, I flew through the air without metal wings or spinning propellers. Upside down, with the wind whipping through my hair and sunlight streaming through the trees, I understood how people could get addicted to this feeling. I didn’t need my pilots license for this kind of flying.

I was on a trapeze.

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Cozied up under a pile of blankets, munching on salted popcorn, and swatting away mosquitoes, this is one of my favourite places to be on a summer evening: Theatre Under the Stars.

In its 69th season, TUTS (Theatre Under the Stars) offers annual musical performances at the Malkin Bowl in Stanley Park, Vancouver. Every summer, the outdoor stage echoes with songs from shows like “Legally Blond,” “Titanic,” “Bye Bye Birdie,” “Thoroughly Modern Millie,” “Annie Get Your Gun,” and “Grease.”

With beautiful sets, live orchestras, belting performances, and even the occasional park raccoon to wander its way across the stage, stories come to life under a sparkling, starry sky.

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I have a secret to confess.

I’m slightly obsessed with my new colouring book.

Yep, you heard that right. Colouring book.

Like most of us, I left my colouring books back in the second grade along with fruit scented markers and erasers shaped like unicorns. But who can forget those lazy Saturday mornings, sprawled out along the kitchen table with wax crayons and a new Barbie Princess colouring book? There’s something therapeutic about letting your creativity bubble out onto a fresh sheet of paper and transform a black and white page into a swirl of dancing colour.

Yes, I have rediscovered a childhood joy and I owe it all to this absolutely beautiful book: The “Enchanted Forest: An Inky Quest & Coloring Book” by Johanna Basford. Read more

I am not an athletic person. And while I like to think that somewhere deep within my bones is a hidden vein of natural athletic talent, the fact that I’ve spent the majority of my time in organized sports as a “benchwarmer” states otherwise.

So when some friends invited us to join them in a Color Run™, I was initially hesitant about paying money to have my slow-moving body trampled by a mass of super-fit, sprinting, racers. To my delight, I discovered that this race was focused on fun, rather than competition. Boasting in the fact that you can “run, walk, crawl, or cartwheel” yourself across the finish line, I hoped this event would be an easy introduction to 5k runs. And of course, outweighing the dread of having to do actual exercise was the prospect of being doused in a kaleidoscope of colored dust.

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For a while now, I’ve been hearing about the “FlyOver Canada” ride at Canada Place (Vancouver, BC). They’ve run ads on the radio and plastered flyers around town but until recently, I’ve never actually considered checking it out. I’ll be the first to admit that I avoided this attraction for the sole reason that I’m a bit of a flight snob.

Four years ago, with the bare minimum of 200 flight hours to my name, I earned my commercial pilots license. I saw the Rockies up close and personal as I tipped my wings past dazzling lakes and snow capped mountains. Flying from Regina to Three Hills with my night rating, I watched the sun set in flaming beauty and saw the glow of summer forest fires shimmering against the distant night sky. I’ve flown around the Lower Mainland, with mountains on one side, ocean on the other and the city below. I’ve caught a glimpse of the Northern lights from inside my little cockpit and touched down as far north as Yellowknife.

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Usually, I consider myself a pretty good skater. I grew up on the ice and spent a fair number of Saturday’s wheeling around the neighbourhood on a pair of inline rollerblades. So, finding myself wobbling around the rink, clutching at the sideboards, was a new experience for me.

A couple weeks ago, Andreas and I persuaded the grandparents to babysit our wee one (doesn’t take much to persuade them) and headed out on a date. We try to make date night a monthly occurrence and are always looking for fun, new ideas. That’s why I was so excited when we were given a Groupon for Christmas: two passes for an evening of rollerskating at Central City Arena in Surrey.

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As a child, the first signal of an approaching Easter was always the night that we’d get to dye eggs. The table would be set with glasses of brightly coloured water and a dozen, gleaming, hard boiled eggs would await each of us. We’d begin to dip and dunk the little white ovals, excitedly watching them transform before our very eyes. Our baskets would soon be filled with rainbow splashed, multi-hued masterpieces. Every year there was an egg we were proud of, an ugly egg that we hid behind the others, and at least one egg with a crack. Nestled in little woven baskets around the house, we would proudly leave our creations on display for the duration of the Easter season.

It’s been several years since I last decorated an egg, but now that I’ve got a little one of my own, it’s time to revive this time-honoured tradition. (Even if this year our baby Ali-gator doesn’t get to touch them.)

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