I’m  a country girl at heart. I never even wanted to visit New York City, let alone move into its suburbs. Only a year after 911, Long Island was a parade of American flags. They hung from every garage and every car antenna.

Watching this patriotism from the outside made me feel like…well… like an alien, but after fours years, I am starting to fit in with my American neighbours. I listen to redneck music and drive a truck. My daughter is signed up for more sports than I thought possible. I hear only the most important Canadian news, like when the Blue Jays win.

My new friends ask me what it’s like to move from Canada. How can you put such feelings into words? Canada is my home and always will be, no matter how nice my new friends, house and neighborhood are. I tell them that the biggest adjustment was dealing with all the people. There are just so much more here, of everything. More traffic, more stores, longer line ups, more activities to choose from.

But really, I lie. The biggest adjustment is watching my daughter grow up as an American. You can only truly appreciate the American love for all things American by living here. Their patriotism is outrageous and inspiring.

The children are steeped in American lore. When I gave my five-year-old daughter and her friends crayons and paper, her two American buddies drew the good old red white and blue. At five, I only wanted to draw kittens. Maybe that’s because the Canadian maple leaf is too hard to draw. You sure don’t see it in the stores like you do the American flag. Major department stores here dedicate entire aisles to Americana memorabilia: teddy bears with flag sweaters, star spangled paper plates and cups, Santa in a red, white and blue sleigh.

Yes, the flag and the pledge are as important to Americans as ___________ are to Canadians. That uncomfortable blank space is because there really is no Canadian equivalent to these hyper-patriotic symbols.

So I worry that steeped in all this obvious Americanism, my daughter will never know what is means to be Canadian. To her Canada is just the place where the Grandmas and Grandpa live. I foolishly mentioned this to an American friend and got the typical reaction: “Oh, that’s not true. I’m sure you will do a great job of teaching her your culture.”

Okay. I’m a good mom. I can do that. Except where to start? What is Canadian culture? There is no temple I can take her to. There are no holiday traditions that are typically Canadian. No Canadian food or style of music. There is no Canadian language, unless I want to teach her to say “eh”.

I’m not particularly patriotic, after all I am Canadian, but I do feel a warmth and pride for my home country. It is a special place and, just like American patriotism, you can only feel its specialness by living it. Americans think Canada is beautiful and clean. Or they get frustrated with the money and the dual languages. Either way, they miss the most important part of Canada; it’s not the US. Canada is immersed in American culture, but still manages to stand apart. Canadians take a silent pride that they escape much of the American foibles. Canadians don’t sue their neighbours for slipping on the sidewalk. They don’t celebrate the right to carry guns. They recognize that someone who is old enough to fight a war should also be old enough to have a drink. Canadians don’t turn their politicians into celebrities (or celebrities into politicians). They aren’t fanatical about religion, politics or anything, really.

Sometimes I go home just to take a breath.

So how do I translate all that for a little girl? How do I make her realize that America is not the centre of the world when it has become the centre of her world? Maybe we can have a Canada-themed birthday party with maple leaf napkins and a beaver pinata. Or maybe her French-Canadian name that no one can pronounce will be just enough to set her apart. Every time someone mispronounces it, I hope she is reminded of that foreign country called Canada.

And this Christmas we will be watching reruns of the Red Green show, eating poutine and singing the twelve days of Christmas. And a beer in a tree . . .