Category Archives: Things I Tell My Kids

Why it’s Not About the Work-Out

It’s stormy out.

Rain and wind are pummeling the west coast. In my community, branches and leaves scatter the streets, drumming up deep, rich smells of pine, earth and Christmas. Our power was out for eight hours last week. More warnings came over the last few days. Tie down the deck chairs, folks, and have your flashlights ready. Mother nature is taking the stage.

And big, ugly political storms brew in the U.S. Well, they are actually in full gale force. Trump’s house is dislodged and being pummeled in the funnel cloud. I stand riveted in the thought of it-can’t-happen. I also stand in deep revelation and reverence of what I, as a women, hope to witness next month. The fury of the storm always clears a path.

A few mornings ago, mid-storm, I got in a workout before my family woke. Typical for me, this morning ritual is driven by a deep need to come awake. To shake off layers. To ignite something. I’m still not sure what to call it, this why of mine.

Post-workout, a hot sweaty mess, I got to the headlines. I took in the torrent of articles about Trump, the emerging accusations of sexual predation, and reaction to Michelle Obama’s powerful and devastating speech.

And I was reminded of something.

We need to be well and keep strong because we’ve got big work to do. All of us. In our own corners and arenas. The world needs us at our best. Strong and powerful. With endurance and stamina and capacity. We need to be ready to step in. To serve. To stand firm in the midst of a storm.

What I know is this. It’s not about the work-out; it’s about the work it’s preparing me for.


Castles and Illusions


“Who is that?” asks a 10-year old girl in the grocery store line up. She points at a magazine cover featuring an unnamed model.

I’m not sure. Some nice lady. 

“What’s she doing?”

Standing in front of a camera.

“Why is she standing like that?”

I’m not sure. She might be trying to make herself look different than she is. 

“Why would she do that?”

I’m not sure. Good question. 

“That’s weird.”

I know. [Silence.] It’s kinda weird.  

Because I’d hazard a guess that nice lady doesn’t look or stand like that most of the time. For what it’s worth, I’ve never seen women at a business meeting, or women at the gym, or women in the school yard, or women at the beach stand like that. Someone else did that nice lady’s hair and makeup so she looked quite different from what she looked like when she got up that morning. After other people with big cameras were done taking photos of her with special lights, that lady probably washed her face, put on comfy pants, and went for a sandwich. Then later maybe she hung out with some friends or her family. Maybe walked her dog. Did some pottery, played volleyball or something. I bet she’s super cool and smart.

It’s just that things and people sometimes get depicted like they are not. Sometimes it’s art. Sometimes it’s trickery. Sometimes it’s commerce. Or entertainment.

Sometimes it’s fear.

And a lot of times it doesn’t feel quite right.

Like when we get our family portraits done. It’s awkward sitting there with hands on each others’ shoulders. With hair combed just right. All that smiling when nothing’s funny. Your face starts to twitch, and your eyes get desperate when you stare at a camera and hold a fake smile for too long.

Or like keeping the house clean when you’re trying to sell it. You make the house look like it  never looks. And you run around every morning shoving things in closets and putting out fake place-settings. And you cannot wait for it to be over so you can get back to how you actually live.

Or the recipe pictures. The shimmering green smoothie on a white marble counter in front of the vase of yellow tulips. If you pan out a couple of feet, there’s a pile of slimy, black banana peels. And spatters of spinach and almond milk on the stove top. And probably stray ice cubes melting on the floor. The smoothie still tastes sweet and rich and glorious.

There’s a furious attempt to build castles and illusions, my dear. And I’m still not sure why. I can’t see all the way through it just yet.

The work comes in the un-layering, in finding what is real to you. Because the discomfort in the pose is real. The toil and story behind every image is real. The desire to flee the illusion is real.

As is the homecoming.



Mother’s Day Lunch

I stood by the ‘Please Wait to be Seated’ sign at the entry of the restaurant. It was a perfect afternoon to sit on an outdoor patio. The small restaurant seemed busy. Several of it’s few tables where already occupied.

Table for one?” the young server asked.

“Yes please,” I replied.

The table had a wonderful view. There were mother’s day greetings written in crayon on one of those brown paper tablecloths. The sun was warm on my shoulders.

I looked at the menu. Lots of simple, hearty fare, which would suit me just fine. It was almost two o’clock. I was good and hungry.

The server returned for my drink order. Water with a straw, please. Then I ordered the crackers and grapes for an appetizer. She disappeared back into the kitchen.

Through the patio door to the kitchen, I could hear the chef at work. She hollered “ORDER UP”, and the server emerged with my water, grapes and crackers.

Then she came back for my main course order. I requested the mac ‘n cheese and scrambled egg. For my side, I chose the cucumber.

After about 5 minutes the server returned with some questions from the chef. In particular, she wanted to know how to know when water is boiling (“how big should the bubbles be”) and if it “goes faster” with a lid on the pot.

I continued to wait in the sun, occasionally closing my eyes behind my sunglasses. My stomach growled. With crackers and grapes consumed, I called for the server and asked her if – though not on the menu – I might have some Kettle Chips. She said they didn’t have any. I said I thought there might be some on in the back of the pantry. She checked with the chef, who said no there’s none in the pantry. I suggested they might be on the second shelf from the bottom, sort of hidden near the back. There was some chatter and slamming doors from the kitchen. Eventually a bowl of sea-salt Kettle Chips was delivered to my table. Talk about service.

As I sat nibbling my chips, I heard raised voices in the kitchen. The chef seemed to be getting upset. Something about the server needing to help more. I peaked through the window and could see the server lying on the couch reading a comic while eating from the bag of Kettle Chips. Then I saw the chef trying to drag the server off the couch by the arm, amidst shouting protest. Then the chef stormed out, yelling she needed more help and wanted things to be perfect.

Ignoring the ‘Staff Only’ sign, I sneaked through the kitchen and found the chef in her bedroom. I gave her a hug, ensuring her that things were indeed perfect. In fact they could not be more perfect. A few deep breaths and re-hiding of the Kettle Chips later, order was restored. Frankly, we all get a little nuts around the Kettle Chips.

I went back to my table. Happy chatter and clanging resumed in the kitchen. There was another “ORDER UP” and out came the server with mac ‘n cheese and cucumbers. I asked the chef and server if they could join me for lunch. To my delight, they did.  There were no scrambled eggs, but I didn’t mention that. Because it was perfect.

mothers day lunch


We Live(d) Here

Our house never looked like this before. Like ever.

All the clutter was put away, save a few items.

Like the small artist’s sketch of Heart Mountain, where we got engaged, done in rough strokes of blues and browns.

The bronzey mirrored-glass vase that reflects the afternoon sun into shafts of light on the vaulted ceiling. Twinkling like stars.

I wondered why we don’t live this way all the time. Pared down. Simple. Uncluttered. Yeah, we’ll live like this next time. Next time, for sure.

The house will look great in the pictures, I thought. Weeks of work for 10 minutes of realtor pictures. Pictures of space and light. Just enough to give someone a  sense of whether their life could slip in here.  Someone will love this house. For all the reasons we have. It will be the perfect container for someone else’s gloriously perfect mess.

I sat in the silence and looked around the living room.

I noticed the Sand Fossil paint on the walls. It had been the perfect colour after all. We were right to insist it be re-painted after the painters got the shade slightly off 10 years ago. I didn’t think it would matter (isn’t tan tan?). But in a never-to-be-repeated flash of design prowess I thought it was too “hints of celery” when we wanted “warm sand”.

I saw the crisp white edging of the window trim and baseboards, that my husband installed himself.

And through the big picture window, the leaves of the tall aspen trees in the neighbour’s yard on the other side of the green belt danced in the breeze. It’s a perfect window. Utterly perfect.

I walked around main floor.

I touched the narrow wall leading into the kitchen. Nine years of kids’ heights written in smudged pencil, now painted over.

I scanned the smattering of little dents in the kitchen cherry hardwood. Especially the area where the high-chair used to sit. Messy, imperfect, plate-dropping life is in those dents. Beautiful little dents.

I wandered upstairs into the girls’ rooms. They were weirdly clean, the dirty laundry and stuffed animals hidden in their closets. I stared at those walls too. All the  stickers and scribbling now scrubbed off and touched up.

I recalled the endless hours in the middle of many nights sitting in these rooms staring at these walls, with a nursing or sleeping baby on my lap. That was way before any scribbles or stickers. I would sit in the big brown Lazy-Boy in the glow of the night light, hour upon hour…night after night. Noticing the window trim. The popcorn texture on the ceiling. The way the curtains hang just so. The edging of a photo frame.  The curl of her wee fingers and the curve of her cheek. Listening to her gentle breathing. And the click-click-whirr of the furnace going on and off.

On and off.

On and off.

God, I’ve loved this house.

I love this house.

We lived here.

We really lived here.

heart mtn

Parenting Amateur Hour

So, we’re 2-for-4 with Sophie and the Tooth Fairy over here.

Tooth #1

Sophie’s (age 6) first tooth came out in her sleep about a year ago.

We assumed she swallowed it. I even did the rubber gloves in the toilet with a few bowel movements to see if I could find it. But to no avail.

(Don’t judge me. Parents do a lot of weird stuff. That was right up there).

That evening, she wrote a gorgeous note to the Tooth Fairy explaining the whole I-swallowed-my-tooth-but-please-leave-money-anyways situation.

tooth fairy note

It worked like a charm. The Tooth Fairy showed up as planned with a crisp $20 bill. It’s hard to forget the excitement of the first tooth.

(The Tooth Fairy also made a mental note to keep smaller bills on hand next time.)

Tooth #2

Tooth number two came out in regular fashion.

That evening, it was placed carefully in the little tooth-holder-pillow-contraption. Sophie went off to sleep. We went about our evening.

When Sophie came down the next morning, I was sitting at the kitchen table at my computer. She looked glum.

“The Tooth Fairy didn’t come,” she said, tears glistening in her little eyes. She was holding the little pillow and the tooth in her hands.

My heart skipped a beat. THE TOOTH FAIRY DIDN’T COME.

“Are you sure?” I asked, standing up and breaking into a light sweat. My mind scanned the inside of my wallet. Please God let there be a bill of some sort in there.

I listened to Sophie’s heart-breaking summation of what she didn’t find in her room. Full tears were flowing.

“Did you check on the floor?” I asked, pacing around. “Maybe it fell. You go and check under the blankets. I’ll be right up…”

A few minutes later, we magically…magically, I say…found a $20 bill wedged between the mattress and the headboard. It must have slipped out of the pillow, we figured.

Squeals of delight and laughter ensued.  Joy and belief was restored.

Tooth #3

A few months later, the next tooth dropped.

I went to bed early that night, leaving my husband in full responsibility of the Tooth-Fairy-pay-out-situation. Sophie had been very specific in her note to the Tooth Fairy that this time she would like a Toonie. We’re not clear on why the Toonie, but hey it worked for us.

I awoke early the next morning, as the house still slept. Before heading downstairs, I crept into Sophie’s room to double check the tooth pillow. It was on her nightstand. In the dark, I felt inside it.

The tooth was still there. I couldn’t detect any money. I slipped my hand as best I could under her pillow, beneath her sleeping head. Nothing.

Listen, I adore my husband, but COME ON, MAN.

So I went to my wallet and once again, only a $20. I crept upstairs and back into Sophie’s room and tucked the $20 bill in the pillow.

The kids awoke before my husband. Sophie presented herself in the living room, lip curled and tears twinkling in her eyes.

“Did the Tooth Fairy come??!!” I chirped. Why is her lip curled like that?

“Yes, but she didn’t bring me a Toonie,” Sophie whimpered.

“Oh. What did she bring you?” The weird fake-happy-are-you-kidding-me-sing-song tone I get sometimes rose in my voice.

“Twenty dollars,” Sophie cried. “But I wanted a Toonie!!” Once again, full tears were flowing.

We went and double checked the pillow, all the blankets, and around the mattress. Nothing. So we sat together in her raging river of disappointment.

My husband came down a short time later, awoken no doubt by the inconsolable crying. As he also tried to console Sophie, a wordless conversation was mouthed between us.

I put the Toonie there last night??!!

There’s no Toonie in the pillow.

I swear to God, I put it there.

It’s not there.



He and Sophie went up and searched the room again. A short-time later they emerged with the Toonie. They found it under the bed. We don’t have a theory how it got there.

Sophie soon was squealing with laughter and delight, through the tears. The Toonie, the Toonie!

(Uh, can I get my $20 back?).

Tooth #4

The fourth tooth dropped recently, her second front one. It had been hanging there like Nanny McPhee for weeks.

That evening, we [barely] remembered. And what was the smallest bill we had on hand at 11:00 p.m.? Right, a $20 bill. It was either that or a handful of pennies and nickels. Or a cheque.

Way to learn and be prepared.


All in all, the tooth fairy situation has been one big parenting amateur hour over here. We’re, like, nine years into this parenting gig and still flailing around half the time.

But I guess with parenting it’s always amateur hour. It’s a labour of love. You don’t get paid. You have no clue what you’re doing. Things rarely go as planned.

Plus, there are hecklers.

Sweet smell of spring

I shouldn’t be saying this. But I can smell spring.

Yes, I know it’s March, and I live in Calgary. This typically means there will be several more major snow storms to endure before actual spring starts on about the 12th of August.

But it’s seriously beautiful here. Like be outside in shorts and a t-shirt beautiful.

These sorts of days make me crave outdoor sports, rather than the conceptual pursuit of fitness. These are the days I want to get out of the basement or the gym. I want to run outside. I want to grab my bike and head for the highway. Swim across a lake. Or just take my functioning, healthy body outside for a long, cobweb-clearing hike.

These kinds of days make me think about summer sports goals. Will I do some races, for fun and good measure? A triathlon? A 10k or two? A mud run? Things that will get me outside, with hordes of other crazies doing their own version of their best self? That’s always my favourite part about races, the throngs of people of all sizes and ages doing their thing. Plus all the free bananas.

I bet like many kids around here today, my daughter wanted to ride her bike after school. In the balmy afternoon sun, I hustled her purple bike down from the storage shelf in the garage so she and her little buddy could cruise around the cul-de-sac for a while. I saw my own bike hanging there. How long will it be, I wondered, until I bring her down? Is one whiff of spring enough? I know, people more dedicated than me have theirs down already. They have them down all year. But me, I always wait until it feels like winter has truly passed. Until it feels like there’s a good stretch of road-time ahead. Only then, it feels like “time”.

And given what I know about Calgary, I think my bike will stay up for a while. But after months and months of indoor workouts, I did run outside today. I have started to think about possible races. I will explore some spin classes at GoodLife to find my biking legs. Perhaps, crazy speak, I will even find my way to a pool.

So I tip my hat to these oddly and joyfully warm days of winter and thank mother nature for the reminder of the good things to come.

This post was written as part of the GoodLife Fitness Blogger Ambassador Program, however all opinions expressed are my own

I’m Right Here

There is a natural ebb and flow to parenting.

The flow? That’s the strong desire to be near your kids, to protect them from everything, hold them tight forever.

The ebb? Well, that is the equally strong desire to be nowhere near them. The desire to lock oneself in bathroom so you don’t have to deal with the non-stop sh*t-show that is most weekdays between 4:00 and 7:00 p.m.

As my kids get older, I find myself caught between the ebb and the flow more often.

Sophie (aged just-turned-six) started swimming lessons last Saturday. Off she and I trundled for the 9:00 a.m. start at our local recreation centre. In lessons past, both girls are typically with me. So there’s the management and prep of the active child in tandem with the management and entertainment of the non-active child. Or, on certain super-lucky occasions, the co-management, co-prep and co-entertainment of both children with lessons at the same place at staggered times.

But this time, no. Given the Saturday situation, Isabelle stayed at home with her dad. And I – finally – was about to become one of those parents with 30 minutes to myself during the lesson.

When my kids were really little, I used to look enviously and curiously at the parents sitting in the deck chairs on the side of the pool, when I was into my 45th minute of charging up and down the water slide and sitting in the kids’ hot tub trying hard not to think about how much pee I seriously must be sitting in. When does that happen, I’d wonder? When do I sit quietly with my magazine and my coffee and my flip-flops? Because that looks like heaven right now.

Last Saturday, let the record show, I arrived at the deck chair phase.

I was ready. I smuggled my coffee out on the pool deck, choosing to ignore the many no food or beverages signs. I brought my iPhone and some reading material. I assumed the position behind the little wall on a deck chair, in my flip-flops and rolled up jeans. The cloud of damp heat and smell of chlorine enveloped me like a relaxing hug, as Sophie waded enthusiastically into the pool with her instructor and four other kids.

Her happy wade-in made me happy. Sophie, in her little life, has had the tendency to get huge anxiety and shut down at certain “performance-based” events. Like concerts, recitals or sporting situations.  This happened at the start of her last swimming lessons. I had to peel her off my leg. I watched her from the other side of the glass, as she stood in refusal – arms crossed tightly across her chest and lip curled – on the pool deck for the entire 30 minutes.  Both of us, devastated.

But last Saturday – once I saw that she was going to be ok – I settled into the perfection of the remaining 28 minutes.

But for all my coffee, reading material, iTunes podcasts, and do-what-I-want-ness… perfection presented itself differently.

I just watched Sophie.

I watched Sophie jumping off the wall. Doing her star-floats. Doing her flutter board kicks, all without a trace of hesitation or anxiety. Occasionally her voice echoed loudly above the many others in the pool. She was probably proudly telling her classmates about all the places she has done star-floats and promoting her new orange polka-dot bathing suit. The little show-off. I watched Sophie being Sophie, and not needing me, this incredible creature that I made but that is not mine.

What do her arms wrapped around my leg feel like again? Her tired head burrowed in my neck?

But, every few minutes, she’d look over at me from across the pool and wave.

Still looking for me. For now.

I’m right here, kiddo.

I’m right here.


The Gift of Experience

The feeling starts showing up in early November.

It’s triggered during the first post-Halloween trip to Starbucks. You know the one…where the stacks of red cups and Boney-M and Michael Buble CDs have appeared overnight, as if by magic. The feeling is a soupy mix of comfort, connection…accompanied by a weird desire for egg nog. Then peppered with a light dose dread.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the holiday season as much as the next guy. But with that first red-cupped Americano and storefront glimpse of tinsel, the to-do/to-buy list starts percolating in my head.

Ah yes, the dreaded list of “stuff”.

Admittedly for our family, the holiday season “stuff” is weighted differently.

You see, both our kids have late December birthdays, 10 days apart bookended on either side of Christmas.  So in addition to standard year-end fare — school Christmas parties, piano recitals, school concerts, work deadlines, family visits and trips, and actual Christmas — we have birthday parties to contend with. Four birthday parties to be exact (the party each daughter has with her friends typically sometime before school ends, followed by the family get-togethers on their actual birthdays).

This late-December pursuit of birthday cakes, presents and goodie bags at times leaves me wondering why we didn’t just tell the girls their birthdays were in late-January.

Like they ever would have known.

In the last few years I’ve felt a bit done. Not done with the celebrations and rituals…or the birthdays. But done with all the stuff I feel inclined to buy to honour the spirit of Christmas. I want to peel away everything in the search of a different, more authentic, holiday spirit.

In the past, my husband and I have talked about it. Let’s pare it down, we’ve said. Let’s ask our extended families to pare it down. We don’t need more Polly Pockets, flannel pyjamas, or – for the love of God – small kitchen appliances. But when push comes to shove, the traditions we are embedded seem to win. And we let it wash over us, because in our hearts we know it comes from a place of love.

We worry, however, that our girls are getting lost in it.

They don’t understand our privilege. We see them getting overwhelmed by “wants” and the thrill of tantalizing presents stacked under the tree and the first rips of paper. What is given to them seems quickly forgotten and not fully appreciated, through no fault of their own. What I am learning is this: our family rituals are not set up to create space to teach our daughters about the gifts of gratitude, giving, and the simple joy of togetherness.  While these are clearly first world problems, it is time for a shift.

This year we are determined to try a different approach.

Within our immediate family, we will give one gift and one gift only. Inspired by friends who have done the same thing, we will give ourselves two nights together in the mountains. We we will skate, toboggan, sleigh ride – steeped in the white winter fray between cold and coziness.  In essence, we will give ourselves the gift of memories. We’ll also adopt-a–family. This will shift the flow of abundance toward those who really need it and create room for different discussions with our girls. Discussions about giving and supporting and seeing the world beyond themselves.

How will it play out? Will our family Christmas traditions and narratives begin to shift? Can we take steps away from having and towards doing? We shall see. We shall see.

But I hope that in exploring the gifts of experience we can connect in a deeper way as a family. And feel the joy that comes from offering and togetherness. And the blessed, almighty relief of no more stuff.  This, I want my girls to know, is where the truest spirit of the holidays lies.



Uncomfortable Around Dogs

I’m not an animal person.

But being a parent is challenging me in that area. As being a parent does in so many areas.

We had some pets when I was growing up. I have a vague memory of a set of guinea pigs. Then as a family we went through some cat years. The cat years ended when our last one simply wandered off one day and never returned. The theory was that he settled into a moving truck that had been down our street, and went on to live a good life in Thunder Bay. So I sort of get cats. They’re mostly all cool, just lying around. Except the time our cat Pogo got caught in the upper part of our neighbour’s garage door when I was about 12. There was a lot of hysterical cat screaming (and human screaming) that day during the highly technical operation to free her.

But I never got comfortable around dogs. There was always too much jumping up, drooling, and crotch sniffing for my liking. And freestyle poo-ing. Even today, I always feel kind of bad for dog owners walking along with their little bags of poo.

So I’m out of my comfort zone with my 8-year old daughter’s intense love of animals. All animals.

I totally respect this love of animals, and I know a lot of people feel the same way. But I’m sort of on the edges of it all with her, trying to find ways to be with her in this love without actually feeling the love myself.

We have zoo memberships. And we go to the pet store a lot. Isabelle could spend hours in the pet store picking up the hamsters and mice. I’ve never touched one yet.  But I’m always quick to “get the guy” who will help us.

Isabelle went to a day camp at the Humane Society this summer, after which she declared her allegiance to vegetarianism. So I’ve been sitting in that space with her as her ideas around vegetarianism morph and change. Unfortunately, she doesn’t care for my home-cooked walnut balls.

There was also the two straight days I spent with her in a one-room Bug Zoo during a Bug-Zoo-specific-destination-mom-and-daughter weekend in Victoria last summer. During which – let the record show – I held a tarantula.

Then was horse camp.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” an acqaintance asked me this summer when I mentioned that Isabelle was starting horse camp the next day. “Let me put it this way,” he said. “My daughter went to horse camp once. I now live in the country and own three horses.”

The horse thing is intense right now. It’s almost two months since horse camp ended. Isabelle is still writing daily about her memories from camp (she is on day 3).

So we have been doing ‘animal things’ together and facilitating her participation in animal things. But there are also the conversations about if we can get a cat. Or a dog. Or a hamster. Or move to a farm. Or become a family of horse trainers.

The answer is always “we’ll see”.

The closest we’ve got so far is this.

A couple of weeks ago, counting up her saved allowance, Isabelle realized she has enough money for an electronic toy dog she’d been eyeing in the toy store. She bought the dog.  It actually walks, sits, barks….all that jazz. Isabelle quickly became very connected to GoGo the electronic dog.

The other day, Isabelle invited me to take the electronic dog for a walk after dinner. We meandered down our local pathway, with the electronic dog on his leash beside us. Isabelle was thrilled, stopping every few minutes to get GoGo to sit or lie down. But as other “real dog” walkers approached, I felt a little weird.

The real dog would slow down to look and sniff at us and the electronic dog.  As the pleasantries were exchanged with the owner, I imagined the subtext.

Yep, that’s my kid playing with her fake dog.

Lady, get the kid a real dog.

It was the first time – though it was a quick instant – my discomfort with the idea of having a pet was outshone by my love for my child. I could actually feel the reasons why it might be good.

Oh man. But I’m just not there yet. I’m just not there.





I love the write about fitness, family, and the fine balance we often teeter in.  Then occasionally I like to write about things. Like work out clothes and gadgets. Writing about pants and stuff may not seem super exciting. But I get oddly excited about workout gear. As I’ve said before, sometimes joy requires infrastructure. And sometimes infrastructure comes in the form of pants.

So let’s cut to the chase…

The good people at Sears Canada asked if I’d like to try some more of their new Pure NRG line. And more importantly if my daughter would like to try their new kids line Pure NRG Girls, a just-launched clothing line for girls aged 6 -13.

Uh, yes. Of course, yes.

This arrived. A fab outfit for me. Love the colours and the comfort-fit waist band.


But more exciting for me, these fab outfits arrived for my 8-year old daughter.


How cute is this stuff? The little shrug to go over the tank – come on! Pure NRG Girls stuff features include:

  • All seams flatlocked to eliminate chafing against the skin
  • Tank with built in shelf bra
  • Cool Effect to wick moisture away from the body to keep you dry

The best part is that the entire line has been designed to provide high quality at a value price point with all items costing between $14.97 -$19.97. I seriously love that part. Non-pretentious. These kids are growing fast and we’re all looking for ways to not break the bank.

But really what I love the most is the underlying message that our girls are meant to move. Be strong. Be athletic.



So here’s the flash give-away…

Sears Canada would like to give away an adult and girl PURE NRG outfit package to one of my readers. FREE STUFF!

If you’d like to be entered to win a PURE NRG women’s outfit and girls’ outfit (girls aged 6-13), then simply leave a comment below on this blog post before 9:00 p.m. MST on Sunday September 28th.

In your comment, give me your best rant about your girl, how awesome and strong she is. Or a little girl you know. Or give me your best rant about your boy and how awesome and strong he is (if you win and don’t have a young girl, you can give the girls’ outfit to a friend with a young girl). The point is to rant about amazing kids.

Just one entry per person please.

(Only Canadian residents are eligible. Apologies to my wide, vast international audience).

So leave me a comment now.

Like right now. At the bottom of this page.

Because why not.

And because these kids are amazing. And we want to keep them moving.