Me and my Mom

On a recent day, during a visit from my Mom, we travelled through Toronto via go-train, subway, bus, streetcar, taxi and a big chunk by foot all within the space of a few hours. We reached our destination: Canada Blooms. There we snapped shots of bouquets and table centres we liked, and then later limped our way through the Eaton Centre where we wandered, dishevelled, through a designer shin-dig at The Bay.

We collapsed in front of the tv when we finally made it back home.

I can’t remember what we watched that particular night, but it was likely an episode or two, or maybe even three, of the fourth season of House of Cards. Left all on our own, we blazed our way through the entire season that week, along with a 5kg bag of jujubes from Costco. And we started a frightening but manageable fire at a restaurant with a napkin, a bread basket and a candle flame.

It was a good week. She is a good mother. Not only because, but certainly partly because, she is a mother who will walk, subway, bus, streetcar, taxi, go-train and meander her way through a day, turning the ordinary into adventure at the drop of a stylish hat, worn jauntily to the side.

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