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.
