I'm not sure I like being an international mom anymore.
My husband and I probably started the whole international thing by raising our children in other countries when they were young. Even when we came back to San Diego there were lots of vacations in Mexico, reenforcing the idea that international was normal. Pepperdine followed for the girls with a school priority of creating global individuals. Florence for Ashley, Heidelberg for Christina, traveling around Europe. I suspect most students who study abroad file it away as a life building college experience and aren't overtaken by permanent travel lust. For our daughters the smell of jet fuel triggered a genetic response to live somewhere, anywhere that involves hours and hours of travel time to get there. It's not escape exactly, it's filling in some missing places that must be filled.
Anyway, the story continued. Christina to Jerusalem for school and Tanzania to teach. Right now international living is temporarily on hold in her life while she pursues ordination but it will reappear in good time. She'll mix career and countries in the best possible way and I'll cheer her on. I'm already cheering her on. I can't wait to see how it all unfolds and I just got my passport renewed.
Ashley knew she needed to implement a plan after college to avoid the free fall that some kids go through, so she moved back to Florence for a post-grad program. That seemed fun. Who wouldn't want to move to Florence for a year? But as the year wore on I started to realize that Ashley's whole life might become an overseas experience. She left for Florence with long blonde southern California hair and came back with Italian stylish short black hair and a Prada outlet satchel over her shoulder. I felt thrilled and proud and sad at the same time. There are things moms just know and I knew.
After Italy the England chapter began. More school, moving through. Then, pivotally, she met Nicholas and the rest is why I truly am an international mom. It's no longer a semester or year abroad, it's life. And it's my life now too.
The thing is, the underlying truth is, that I believe Ashley needs to live in another country. In third grade she told her class that when she grew up she wanted to live in England in the countryside and write stories. I hear myself repeating that story a lot. I want her hopes and dreams to unfold in unexpectedly fulfilling and wonderful ways, and because that involves living far away I embrace it. Still I miss her.
I love London and being there makes me forget my missing-you-blues. Young Oliver is one of the most interesting people I've ever met: adorable, complex, funny, smart, sweet, tall. I love seeing Ashley living out her creativity in ways that she probably doesn't even notice. I love watching her tender, patient, intentional parenting and noticing how much it touches and surprises my heart.
Their little neighborhood is arty and full of moms and dads pushing strollers. Push chairs that is. There's a big green park with lots of trees, ice lollies, a playground, and a path all the way around. On Church Street there are authentic, mouth watering ethnic restaurants everywhere. I've learned how to say trousers instead of pants (underpants), how to stick my nose in a book and not look at people on the underground, and how to buy minced meat instead of ground chuck. And how to say wah-ter instead of wadder.
But it's expensive to go to London even if I use airline miles, which I always do. It's far away. I guess that's obvious but it really is a long trip on a crowded plane with TSA sniffing around in my personal space. Once I flew business class, indulgently using up a ton of miles. It was the way air travel should be and I swore I'd never fly coach again. That was once. Still it's worth everything to walk down the boarding ramp onto a 777 and head east. I'd do it today in a heartbeat.
If I had a first class pass and could take Christina along, if I had a flat in Stoke Newington awaiting my arrival it'd be just right. Morgan's Parkinson's Disease makes the unavoidable walking in London difficult. He's a good sport and doesn't show that it's not easy for him, but it isn't and he admits that he'd rather be in the ocean where physical life is so much easier.
Thinking of travel with Christina makes me laugh. She's fun to be with, knows the ropes, and is available no matter what. One time I called to ask if she wanted to go to London with me to babysit Oliver for a week while his parents went to a wedding in Italy. I'm pretty sure she didn't even take a breath before saying yes. Didn't check her calendar or anything. She's probably packing right now just reading this.
I think I might need to plan something... maybe Oliver's birthday... or later fall... spring at the latest. We'd settle in upstairs at the pub in one of their six boutique hotel rooms. Play and visit. Maybe try for a few little side trips on trains zipping past hedgerows and rolling hills. Then back to London for a shopping day on Oxford Street... lunch with a view at John Lewis... Top Shop for Christina... Anthropology for Ashley. Coffees later at the Blue Legume, fish and chips (with mayonnaise to dip the fries in) with Oliver, some animated chats with Nick over a glass of wine and Ashley's instinctively gourmet cuisine. $$$. Fun fun fun.
So there you go. Maybe I should start a small business assisting moms whose kids are moving abroad. I wonder if there'd be a market for that? I wonder if I'd be enthusiastic and encouraging or just whiny. When I think of it there's some of all of that along the international way.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Parker
I have the best dog in the world and I'm not the only one who thinks so. Sure, he has eaten the Thanksgiving rolls off the counter once or twice, and finishing off a plate of decorated cookies on Christmas morning has become one of his personal traditions. But the Parker Miller Fan Club generally sees his foibles as endearing, balancing out his otherwise stellar behavior. Sometimes I wonder if Parker is sweet because we're his fourth owners and he is forever grateful. Or maybe it's the genetics of his breed, but however he gained his best dog in the world status his story is worth telling.
Several years ago I suffered an episode of severe depression. I got the help I needed but the months of being ill were hard for me and everyone around me. During that time I read two books on depression in women and both of them suggested that getting a dog would be a good way to get out for daily walks and focus beyond oneself. Looking back I can't imagine why the authors thought getting a dog would be a good idea for a depressed woman. It sounds like a setup for stress, work, and disaster but I was willing to give it a try.
Having no energy and little interest in pursuing anything, I didn't really want to search for a dog. The idea of my new dog finding me sounded much more appealing so I decided to pray about it and see if God would send me a dog. I didn't want to be too picky but I thought it wouldn't hurt to be specific. If I could choose, I prayed, I would like a two year old male yellow lab with nice manners, a smaller build, born out of state (less likely to be one of the 100 pounders I saw around the neighborhood); and most importantly, I said, I wanted a dog who would be absolutely devoted to me. After a few weeks of my prayer project I gave up and took matters into my own hands. I searched the internet and talked to breeders about expected litters. I contacted service dog organizations about labs who hadn't made the final cut and who needed home placements. I looked at dogs in shelters. And in the end I chose a puppy from a wonderful couple who bred labs. I agreed to send a deposit and wait until the puppy was old enough to leave its mother.
I wrote out a check and put the addressed, stamped envelope on the dining room table. As I walked into the kitchen I heard my neighbor calling me through the open window. She asked me to come outside for a minute. Nancy was a dog groomer who lived up the street and worked out of her garage. She remembered that our black lab had died five years earlier and she hesitated, not sure how I'd take what she had to say. There was a dog staying with one of her clients, Michelle whose husband had cancer and was not doing well. Things were difficult enough with the pets Michelle and her husband already had and they were unable to keep this dog. Nancy had offered to help Michelle find a forever home for Parker, a two year old yellow lab.
Parker was born in Florida and given, along with his litter mate, to a young vet tech. The girl moved to San Diego but was unable to find an apartment that would allow her to have two dogs. So she gave one of the dogs to a boy she met and asked him to keep the it until she found a place to live. A year later when she reappeared to reclaim her dog, the boy told her he was the one who had fed and trained Parker and he refused to give him back. Sometime later the boy moved to Colorado to attend a community college. He left Parker with his housemates who fed him leftover pizza and let him roam the neighborhood.
Parker had a dog tag with Michelle's address on it, since the boy used his parents' house as his permanent address. When Michelle found Parker in her backyard for the fourth time, rescued by strangers from his wanderings, his ribs were protruding, he had no fur on his belly, and he was timid and nervous. She made the decision to take Parker away from her son's friends, and then called her son in Colorado to tell him she was going to find a new family for Parker. Michelle called Nancy to ask for help and Nancy talked to me.
Michelle and her husband lived only a few blocks from our house and we set up a time to meet. When we drove up their driveway Parker was out in front chasing balls. Male, yellow, small build, born out of state, beautiful face. I got out of the car, squatted down and called his name. Parker trotted over to me, dropped his ball and wagging with his whole body licked my face and hands.
The first month Parker lived with us I never had to say no to him. His manners were impeccable. And still he lets me go in the door first, stays with me off-leash on long trail walks, follows me around the house, carries my gardening tools, brings the newspaper in every morning. He even adopted the kitten we brought home.
Apart from some minor lapses of judgment and year round shedding, Parker has proven himself to be the best dog in the whole world. He's hopelessly devoted to me and I'm so glad we found each other.. along the way.
Several years ago I suffered an episode of severe depression. I got the help I needed but the months of being ill were hard for me and everyone around me. During that time I read two books on depression in women and both of them suggested that getting a dog would be a good way to get out for daily walks and focus beyond oneself. Looking back I can't imagine why the authors thought getting a dog would be a good idea for a depressed woman. It sounds like a setup for stress, work, and disaster but I was willing to give it a try.
Having no energy and little interest in pursuing anything, I didn't really want to search for a dog. The idea of my new dog finding me sounded much more appealing so I decided to pray about it and see if God would send me a dog. I didn't want to be too picky but I thought it wouldn't hurt to be specific. If I could choose, I prayed, I would like a two year old male yellow lab with nice manners, a smaller build, born out of state (less likely to be one of the 100 pounders I saw around the neighborhood); and most importantly, I said, I wanted a dog who would be absolutely devoted to me. After a few weeks of my prayer project I gave up and took matters into my own hands. I searched the internet and talked to breeders about expected litters. I contacted service dog organizations about labs who hadn't made the final cut and who needed home placements. I looked at dogs in shelters. And in the end I chose a puppy from a wonderful couple who bred labs. I agreed to send a deposit and wait until the puppy was old enough to leave its mother.
I wrote out a check and put the addressed, stamped envelope on the dining room table. As I walked into the kitchen I heard my neighbor calling me through the open window. She asked me to come outside for a minute. Nancy was a dog groomer who lived up the street and worked out of her garage. She remembered that our black lab had died five years earlier and she hesitated, not sure how I'd take what she had to say. There was a dog staying with one of her clients, Michelle whose husband had cancer and was not doing well. Things were difficult enough with the pets Michelle and her husband already had and they were unable to keep this dog. Nancy had offered to help Michelle find a forever home for Parker, a two year old yellow lab.
Parker was born in Florida and given, along with his litter mate, to a young vet tech. The girl moved to San Diego but was unable to find an apartment that would allow her to have two dogs. So she gave one of the dogs to a boy she met and asked him to keep the it until she found a place to live. A year later when she reappeared to reclaim her dog, the boy told her he was the one who had fed and trained Parker and he refused to give him back. Sometime later the boy moved to Colorado to attend a community college. He left Parker with his housemates who fed him leftover pizza and let him roam the neighborhood.
Parker had a dog tag with Michelle's address on it, since the boy used his parents' house as his permanent address. When Michelle found Parker in her backyard for the fourth time, rescued by strangers from his wanderings, his ribs were protruding, he had no fur on his belly, and he was timid and nervous. She made the decision to take Parker away from her son's friends, and then called her son in Colorado to tell him she was going to find a new family for Parker. Michelle called Nancy to ask for help and Nancy talked to me.
Michelle and her husband lived only a few blocks from our house and we set up a time to meet. When we drove up their driveway Parker was out in front chasing balls. Male, yellow, small build, born out of state, beautiful face. I got out of the car, squatted down and called his name. Parker trotted over to me, dropped his ball and wagging with his whole body licked my face and hands.
The first month Parker lived with us I never had to say no to him. His manners were impeccable. And still he lets me go in the door first, stays with me off-leash on long trail walks, follows me around the house, carries my gardening tools, brings the newspaper in every morning. He even adopted the kitten we brought home.
Apart from some minor lapses of judgment and year round shedding, Parker has proven himself to be the best dog in the whole world. He's hopelessly devoted to me and I'm so glad we found each other.. along the way.
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