We had to do it eventually. We had to leave the safety and comfort of suburbia and brave the cold, concrete streets of the big city. The other day, Erin and I bundled up our little girl and hopped on the GO Train for our first baby-laden trip to Toronto.
Abby, as usual, was unfazed by the whole venture. She spent most of the trip into the city screeching at other babies and trying desperately to crawl to the emergency exits while we barreled along at 100 km/h. She also stared down two middle-aged women that insisted on taking up four handicap seats themselves for the entire ride. (She might have given them a pass except for the fact that they kept gloating to each other about how much more comfortable the handicap seats were when compared to the normal ones.)
Our hotel was lovely, so lovely in fact that when my brother and sister-in-law arrived to see us, we spent an hour wandering the empty ballrooms and taking pictures of the architecture. It felt kind of illegal (or at least frowned-upon) but it was worth it to discover no less than three hidden stages of varying levels of silliness.
The pub we ended up at for dinner just happened to be hosting a practice for an Irish folk choir, so our evening was set to songs from the old country. Abby was entranced by the music. We determined that she wants to grow up to be a sailor in search of the Northwest Passage.