MONTRÉAL

“I asked her who the big smiling face was in the middle,” Mae said. Clara’s sad brown eyes looked up — still moist from shedding tears — “and she wailed: ‘It’s you … because you’re leeeaaviiiing!’”

We felt lucky to have left at all, having caught the last train out of town. Forecasters were calling for a storm packing high winds and up to 40 centimetres of snow. None of us was willing to miss this trip. As three working mothers, we have a hard enough time planning a coffee, let alone a weekend away from home. The two-hour ride was dominated by conversations about our kids. Mae talked about the different personalities of her two daughters and proudly revelled in her son’s love of hockey. Gillian was concerned her son should be talking by now but marvelled at how she could understand his grunts and babbles. I went on about my five-year-old’s new-found circle of friends and how I almost cried when he’d recently lost his first tooth.

We all love our kids dearly, but at a time in our lives when everyone else’s needs — our kids, our partners, our bosses — seem to take priority over our own, we were all itching to spend 48 hours on us.

Malins bids us adieu on the north side of Vieux-Montréal at Le Place d’Armes Hôtel & Suites, where we’re staying. Our suite is pure luxury — exposed brick walls, red-leather and black-wood furniture, and a marble and chrome ensuite the size of my living room. Gillian and I look down at Mae. She has hopped into the empty soaker tub, fully clothed. As she lies there with her eyes closed, imagining warm water and bubbles, I can tell she’s kind of wishing we’d just go away. With the snow still piling up outside, I’m wondering whether we all would rather hole up and order room service, slip into the plush robes from the closet and cram onto the king-sized bed to watch movies. But our good sense gets the better of us. We force ourselves out into the stormy night to sample some of the city’s exquisite cuisine and end up returning later than we’re used to, knowing we’ve got a big day ahead.

Our maternal clocks cursedly keep us from sleeping in. By 9 a.m., we have been to the hotel gym, showered and eaten breakfast and are now on rue St-Denis, ready to shop. The sun is slowly coaxing people out to assess the storm’s wrath. One early riser has almost fully unearthed his car from a spot on a side street by piling the snow onto the poor soul’s car in front of him. Storekeepers are just arriving to sweep the wrought-iron steps leading to their walk-ups and carve paths to their entrances.

A colourful window display draws us into a gift store, and we emerge with bagfuls of goodies for our kids. Mae frets over what to buy her husband and her co-workers, who encouraged her to take an extra day off to come on the trip. “Forget them,” I say. “This is Canada’s fashion capital!”

The fashion industry in Montréal employs some 48,000 people, representing more than half of the country’s clothing industry. And rue St-Denis, between Mont- Royal and rue Duluth, and boulevard St-Laurent, between Mont-Royal and rue Sherbrooke, are hubs of chain stores, local designers and unique boutiques.

Heading south from Mont-Royal, we stop at Quebec designer Philippe Dubuc’s sleek boutique. A quick glance at the gorgeous monochromatic collection, and we realize it’s a little too chic for our lifestyle — not the kind of clothes you want mixing with Crayolas. A few doors down at Do, Gillian and Mae find sweaters and blouses. I panic slightly that noon is approaching and I have nothing but a heart-shaped hot water bottle for my son. But then I spot the perfect red wool coat at Boutique Olam and, in quick succession, grab a blouse and a funky sweater. Gillian contemplates a dried wreath in Qui Dort Dîne, while Mae and I are awed by the luxurious colours and textures of the highend French linens. “Do I really need a wreath to go over my toilet?” Gillian ponders aloud. In the end, she decides no.

By the time we reach the busy intersection of St-Laurent and Duluth, there are more restaurants than boutiques and it’s getting late. Weighed down and worn out, we head back to the hotel for our spa appointments.