Mile high.

Make that 7.043 miles high. Because I am a journalist and I must be accurate to point three decimal points, even here on my own damn blog.

Words and phrases Sylvia says that are not part of your average two-year-old’s vocabulary:






Bike helmet

Buff (the headscarf)

No, thanks

Stupid Dodge

Dandelions are big buggers

My kid rocks.

She’s sitting next to my right now. We’re on an airplane somewhere over Maine. We just came through some of the roughest turbulence I’ve ever experienced, complete with a brief air pocket or two. Who needs amusement parks when there’s terrifying stomach-churning air travel? Sylvia slept right through it, thanks in no small part I’m sure to the awesome head restraint I fashioned for her:


The flight attendants complimented me on my ingenuity, actually

There’s a woman flying the plane, and I want to ask if she’s the infamous pilot I heard about who pumps her breast milk while in the air. I don’t want to be that creepy passenger at the back of the plane though, so maybe I will abstain.

 Although, if she IS pumping breastmilk up there I’d love to know about it. Would make me feel good to know there is a super human at the controls.*

Do pilots need to radio into the US when we enter their airspace? How high does one nation’s airspace go anyway? At some point, doesn’t it all just become atmosphere anyway, or do they own their view of the stars the same way NL owns our very own hole in the ozone layer?

When I was 10 or 12 or younger there was a huge public awareness campaign on to wear sunscreen and hats because that summer the hole in the ozone layer was going to be directly over Newfoundland. I think we’ve since learned there are many many holes and thin spots up there, and it’s more or less good practice to wear a hat and sunscreen wherever you are in the world, but that summer THE hole was going to be stations directly overhead. I still imagine ‘our’ hole as our own secret tunnel to space. Except not so secret anymore.

Heading back in to Quebec now. This trip is going considerably faster than the last time we headed west. We’re less clear on our return date this time, but I have come to some kind of terms with living with the uncertainty.  It’s much like living with a scab or an itch – forever irritating, but only seriously aggravating when you scratch it.


*(I asked. She totally is not the milk-pumping pilot. But she did write an e-book for kids that’s like a real pilot’s logbook for them to record their flights in. That’s kind of cool.)


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