Denial.
Both my husband and I grew up moving around. It is very much a part of who we
are and probably very linked to why we chose this lifestyle. We liked seeing
and learning new things. We liked mingling in new cultures, going off the
off-beaten track. More importantly neither of us has any attention span worth
mentioning, and we get bored easily.
When we met we were both working in
development and travelling was part of the deal. We planned our wedding in
Spain while I resided in Colombia and he in Kenya, a great way to avoid family
conflict, not so great for menu tasting. When the kids came along they soon
familiarized themselves with Skype and airport procedures. By the age of five
they had already lived in three continents. But soon it became evident that moving
every one to three years was too much, both emotionally and from the point of
view of logistics. We decided we needed to ensure destinations where we could
stay longer. A job in the US came along that fit the bill well. We never
intended for it to be permanent, we'd always planned for our kids to experience
“moving” at least once, but years went by and everyone settled into New York
life nicely. We bought a house and started putting down roots. However, about
five years in, we started getting fidgety again. To mentally prepare
them for the move we spoke often about the adventure we’d one day take, fearing
somewhere deep inside that maybe it would never happen. That maybe this was it,
the end of the road. What I value most about my upbringing moving around is
that I feel it gave me a sense of relativity. You realize that social rules are
somewhat relative, and as such, it's up to you to decide who you want to be and
what rules you want to play by. I wanted my children to have that freedom.
Also, it was obvious they were not going to be Europeans, like their parents.
But I wanted to make sure they didn’t end up complete gringos.
But in all our preparatory work, we
completely forgot to explain to the kids that moving is hard and it can suck
big time. We were in complete denial about how hard it was going to be to have
them say farewell to all their friends for an amount of time that – for them -
is tantamount to an eternity. How hard it was going to be to get them to go
into a classroom full of strangers speaking a different language, not just
once, when they were still somewhat unaware of what they were getting
themselves into, but five days a week, week after week, with any progress
gained over the week lost over the weekend.
We were in denial about how lonely those
initial weeks can be, spending days on end with no human interaction outside
the house because we don’t know anyone in town. We were in denial about how
frustrating it would be to wait entire afternoons in an empty house for the
internet guy, a service we had completely taken for granted, only to have him
not show up. Time and time again. To not know how to get to places, where
to buy simple things. To lack what feel like the most basic essentials
for kids who've grown up in the States, such as a working TV and access to
Amazon prime.
Anger.
So that is when the blame game begins, because, let’s face it, it’s got to be
someone’s fault, right? I mean, yes, sure, you agreed to this, maybe even
planned it, but it is your partner's job that got you here, and they are the
ones who are turning up late, having to travel, or rush off and skip the
morning drama. They are not the ones who have to spend the entire day working
in a café because the internet signal is gone (again), or wait around for the
(fill in the blank) guy that will inevitably show up late (if at all). It’s not their work that is suffering because
you have no babysitter and your workday has just shrunk to a minimum.
Then there is the anger at the poor internet
guy, when he finally shows up and fails to deliver any results. You know you
should lower your expectations because, after all, this is (insert country
here), known for a lot of things, one of which was never efficiency. It doesn’t
matter. This guy in front of you, telling you he can only give you an 8-hour
window for the technician’s arrival, is now feeling the wrath, as is the woman
explaining that they can deliver the large item to your house, but not
everything else in the same basket because... well, there seems to be no
legitimate reason whatsoever. It is their fault, all of it. They are
single handedly responsible for your misery, that of your children, and
possibly for world hunger. And you are going to let them know.
Bargaining. This phase is sometimes also described as self-begging and is filled
with regret and nostalgia. You now wish that you had made a different choice
and moved into the all-American compound as a permanent living arrangement
because they have internet and it works! You and the kids would be able to meet
other humans, and there is a pool and a spa right inside. Even if it meant they
might never hear the local language. Imagine, you could even go get a drink, or
a massage! without having to locate a babysitter (another thing you still
haven't managed to do). So you start mentally negotiating whether you can move
there in a years’ time, when the contract you literally just signed runs out.
This is when your son declares that he
wants to go back in a year, an option that was initially suggested by you on
purely hypothetical grounds to make the idea of moving easier, and starts
planning his next birthday party around that. It’s when you decide that
since you can't socialise or work you are going to go swimming every day and at
least get your pre-baby body back, ten years later, only to have a tropical
storm, thunder, lightning and all, start just as soon as you’ve managed to fit
what is now a massive set of fizzy hair -courtesy of the 98% humidity- into one
of those obligatory pool caps that resemble a cheap condom. Every time.
Depression. The beginning of this stage (the most alcoholic of the stages) can be identified by how soon
you start looking at the watch to assess if it is too soon to crack open a
bottle of wine. If it’s noon or earlier you’ve moved into stage four. You
look around at what is only just beginning to look like a home and realise
there is no way you are going to talk anyone into doing all this again in 11
months, yourself included. Hell, you are probably going to die here just to
avoid going through all this again. So you mentally say farewell to the compound
and massage option.
You realize that it is going to be
months before you can go back to full time work because you left your entire
support system behind and, let's face it, the kids still need you at pick up
and drop off and in the background when they are fighting or drawing or
watching TV. As long as you are there they can complain and ignore you, but the
moment you hint at the idea of going somewhere, a look of sheer panic takes over
them.
This is the stage when you begin to meet
other humans and realise that after a perfectly nice thirty-minute chat, your
face literally hurts from the effort it entails to keep up a casual
conversation with a complete stranger. It’s when you promise a teary eyed child
to stay the whole day in the school parking lot to ease his anxiety, and spend
the entire day feeling like the worst parent ever because you are not, and
never intended to keep that promise. It’s when you look at Facebook and realize
that, while your world has been turned upside down, everyone else’s life
carries on normal without you.
Acceptance. And then, at
last, a bit of light begins to creep in. You'll recognise this stage, because
you start having more good days than bad ones and things start rolling more or
less as planned. We still miss those who filled with colour our old life, but
we reach out and begin to make new connections. In my case, in the form of
flamenco lessons from a Venezuelan teacher, which is ironic given that I am
originally from Spain. You start recognizing faces at school pick up or at
parties, and identify people you actually enjoy spending time with.
Slowly you begin to accept your new reality and begin
to reorganise your every-day activities around it. For example, here in Panama,
a small country where everything is close, a key element is traffic. There are
times of the day when a 10-minute trip can take more than an hour - we have
learned this the hard way, so now at certain times of the day we just don’t go
anywhere unless we absolutely have to.
There is a subtle but clear shift in your thought
process and on how you approach things. Now when the delivery guy says
you need to wait for him eight hours you nod, internally thinking “in your
dreams” and “make me”. Fully accepting that depending on your location and what
the traffic is like when they call you from the door step, you may or may not get
to own the barbeque you just paid for. You figure your neighbour’s daughter is
a good-enough babysitter.
The kids begin having play dates and referring to some
of their classmates as friends. You accidentally overhear one of them tell
grandma that their new school is “so cool”. They begin using local expressions
and complain about the canteen food, a clear sign of integration. Finally,
looking very stern, the little one informs you that you no longer need to walk
him to his classroom (where you then proceeded to have a 20 minute negotiation
before physically prying your hand away from his fingers), that you can now
drop him off down the street. “It is time” he declares sternly, and you watch from
the car as he heads off between the palm trees, frightened but proud to be
walking to school on his own. No one ever felt so proud of an 8 year old for walking.
A key part of this stage, and the reason that I
personally love moving, is that it entails listening to your feelings and
understanding your needs: recognising what is important to you, and what you
need to move towards being happy again. As a result, we move, we change, we
grow and evolve. We let go of what
is not important.
We become involved in other people’s lives and invest in new friendships,
slowly morphing into a new version of ourselves. The bruises heal and the
wounds turn into tougher skin. Or as my 10 year old put it, you get a second
chance to define yourself.
Love and loss. And then, unbelievably, the time at your new duty station comes to an
end. As a good planner you've been working on identifying a good new duty
station for the family, you're filled with anticipation for all the new things
that you and the kids will get to experience, and grateful for all the every-day
nuisances that you will no longer have to put up with. So long suckers!
And then it hits you. All the
friendships you’ve made, many of them still flourishing, may never fulfil their
full potential because you are about to walk out on them. Others you’ve met you
know are now part of your existential fabric. You know you will remain friends
for life. Unfortunately, from now on that will mean coinciding here or there,
briefly, every few years. It starts to dawn on you that together with all the
nuisances, there are many things that you have come to love about your new home
and you will now miss. And that’s when it hits you, the realization that it
takes a special kind of crazy to keep this lifestyle going. Rinse and repeat.