We (the Man, our two Dwarves and I) arrived in Toronto with bags and baggage late December last year.
But let me first reply to the first question any mentally sane person will ask right away: why in December? It turns out the Man’s contract started in January, so the timing is not due to an irrepressible love for snow, blizzard and crevasses.
On the way from the airport, whilst contemplating the 3-inch thick ice layer on the road, I seriously considered jumping on the first plane heading back to our home sweet home, where winter does not seem to end towards the end of May.
Entertained by interesting temperatures (-15 C on GOOD days), the Man, sport deprived and therefore in a great mood (a mix between a starving triceratops and a rabid German shepherd) and the Dwarves who did not speak a word of English, January left me pretty exhausted.
Leaving Dwarf 1 (5-year old and able to ask 126 questions a minute after warm up) on his first day of school, knowing he would not get a word of what people were saying truly tested my self-control. To make everybody’s life easier, Dwarf 2, who lately shifted from terrible twos to terrorist threes decided he wanted to go back to his usual daycare where people have the decency to speak French. Of course.
Last but not least, and just to make sure social services would end up spotting us at some point, I had to go away on business for a week mid-January, wondering how and if the family would survive.
As times cannot be all bad, our nanny managed everybody perfectly, making sure I would not have a nervous breakdown too soon. Maybe God lives in Canada.