More to be thankful for...

Another Thanksgiving in Budapest.  

A day of gratefulness and family (where my children and husband never hear me yell,  "Just get out of the kitchen!").

And now, more than ever, a time with friends, pulling together stuffing and mashed potatoes, conferring over turkey baking techniques in the kitchen.

Last year it felt a little strange and sad, but this year it started to feel normal.  Of course I miss home and family, Thanksgiving parades and dozing on the couch while football announcers drone on in the background.  But I am thankful to be here.  

I am thankful for home.

I am thankful for the feeling of home, that it is more connected to my husband and kids than any particular place in the world.  

I am thankful for this city at night, for the magic it holds all lit up against the navy sky.

I am thankful for Starbucks at Christmas time, that while I pay almost double what I did in the States, it is so worth it to hold that warm, red cup in my hands and gaze out the white, decaled windows at the busy city passing us by.

I am thankful for warm snuggles on chilly mornings.

I am thankful that I'm a grown up and can eat candy before dinner (though I am back to sneaking it quietly in the corner of the kitchen).

I am thankful for my hard-working husband.

I am thankful that at least once a day someone runs to the bathroom yelling "Poo poo!" like it's a national emergency.  

I am thankful for little superheroes who climb my fingerprint-covered windows, shooting webs and ice from their tiny hands and jumping unabashedly from the couch, sure that one day they will take flight.

I am thankful that in 4 months we will add one more superhero to our collection. 

I am thankful for tiny feet jolting my belly, and for little hands pressing in from the outside.

I am thankful for this busy, growing, boy-filled family of mine.

And I'm thankful that we're crazy enough to keep adding to it.

Not another church!

Today I am relishing the soft couch beneath me.  The boys dive through their toy bins like long neglected treasure chests.  Joel reluctantly left hours ago, back to the grind after tearing himself from the spontaneous embrace of our children.

We are back from fall break.  Back from long car rides and ancient ruins and pizza for nearly every meal.

Our trip began with the annual October break medical emergency.

After clearing our fridge of all edible food through the course of the previous week, we were forced into the local pub for a quick Friday night dinner.  As we finished our meals Finn attempted to climb over the small bench, but instead fell backwards into the heating unit.

We are used to loud bangs and crying children, so after a short "I told you so" lesson I scooped him up in my arms and stroked his little blonde head.

When I noticed a spot of pizza sauce on my arm I leaned him forward, hoping to dab it off with a napkin.  But underneath the spot was more like a puddle, and when I matched it to the bleeding gash on the back of his head panicked mother mode kicked in fast.

Joel paid the bill, Aiden gathered the toys and we were off within two minutes.

The gushing quickly subsided and though we looked like a scene from a horror movie the doctor was able to fix him up with some antiseptic, a small haircut, and a few dabs of glue (a merciful substitute to stitches).

So it was off for bed and some last-minute packing, readying ourselves for the next days adventures.

I thoroughly enjoyed our first car trip.  Those precious hours with a hot cup of coffee and our energetic boys strapped to their seats... something I frequently miss from home.

So aside from some whining and relentless requests for food and drink, we rolled through the green, Slovenian countryside quite blissfully.  After a short stop in Ljubljana for ice cream and gyros we finished the day's adventure at beautiful Lake Bohinj.

The next few days were spent...

 hiking sparkling green (and surprisingly long) river gorges...

finishing with some hot drinks at the top...

riding scenic cable cars (for those of us not staring at our feet, praying it would soon be over)...

feeding the ducks (while carefully avoiding the swans)...

and most importantly, relaxing.

Finn still insists his favorite part of our trip was playing with toys in the apartment.  Aiden loved cooking and eating dinners at "home" (we have to literally beg this boy to go out to eat).  And Joel and I enjoyed sipping our coffee together in the morning, reading books and watching German-dubbed children's television.

From Slovenia we passed over steep, winding mountain roads and into the long, flat expanse of Italy.  There we shed our layers and soaked in the sun on our arms, navigating outlet store and roads lined in olive trees.

This time we ventured further into Italy, ending at a tourist farm just outside Florence, greeted by a bottle of homemade red wine on the rustic, wood table.

The next three days were a blur of people and pizza and so many steps to the next gelato.

But we did get to see these things...

Of course the smiling pictures leave out the whining and meltdowns, our complete exhaustion and the fact that when we finally strolled up to the Vatican Aiden screamed, "No, not a church!" and burst into tears.

But once again it's the happiest memories that linger, gnocchi that melted in our mouths, the kindness of strangers patching our tire, replacing our windshield wiper in a downpour, falling asleep with two little ones tucked between us, small smiles on our faces.

I'm not sure they know how lucky they are, and I'm certain I don't.  But I suspect someday we will.  And until then we'll just try to enjoy living it.

Finny turns 3

"Finny, how old are you?"

"I'm three!"

"That's too big.  You're getting too big."

"I'm not too big for you to hold me.  I'm just a little big."

And hold him I did, wondering at my little baby turning boy.  Wishing for the millionth time to slow down time, to keep him little forever.  Nudging him awake just to spend a few more moments of his birthday together.

When we arrived here over a year ago, Finn was still very much a baby.  He toddled around in his diaper, drank from a sippy cup, clung to his stuffed rhino like a lifeline...

Now he's a potty pro, insisting on his privacy when I dare to invade his space; when he's thirsty he grabs the juice, pours himself a cup, and chugs it down; and sometimes when I clean up at night I find rhino thrown in a corner, Finn sound asleep upstairs, without him.

He's his own person now.  Fiercely independent and overwhelmingly stubborn.  Endearing and sweet and manipulative, the great combination of toddlerhood.

One year older.  Which I'm starting to view as a year gone, slipped through my fingers, vanished too fast.

But if a year's going to fly by anyhow, at least it's been a memorable one.  From his second birthday until now, somewhere between the ups and downs, the giggles and tantrums, this boy has been some places.

All in all I'd say it's been quite a third year...

Finny's second birthday party.  Our house.  October 2011

Soon to be bit by a swan.  Lake Bled, Slovenia.  October 2011

Chugging with a broken collarbone.  Venice, Italy.  November 2011

Swimming at the Aquapalace.  Prague, Czech Republic.  January, 2012

Finny's favorite activity, anywhere in the world.  Vienna, Austria.  April 2012

My handsome man.  Budapest, Hungary.  May 2012

Soaking in the rays.  Barcelona, Spain.  May 2012

Cruising the Danube.  Budapest, Hungary.  June 2012

Throwing stones.  Brela, Croatia.  June 2012

Best friends.  Filzmoos, Austria.  July 2012

Loving daddy time.  Prague, Czech Republic.  August 2012

Back home!  Our village, Hungary.  August 2012

So I'll survive another birthday gone by.  In a few days the sappiness and smothering will subside.

But these memories will remain.  And though I'm sure he'll forget soon enough, somehow I know this adventure is shaping him, just as it is all of us.

And as much as I miss each stage, I love the Finn he's becoming, and I'm thankful for all of the moments that brought him here.

One year here... and one year gone

(This post should actually be backdated a bit, I wrote it a couple of weeks ago on a Word document and forgot to post it.  I'll be back with something more current soon!)

When we first hit upon our one year anniversary in Budapest I thought about how far we’ve come.  I imagined and relived our first few days, comparing those hazy memories to our life here now.  Fear and confusion replaced by confidence and security, tinged with happiness, spotted with challenges. 

I looked at our family.  The boys screaming with excitement when Joel arrived home from work.  Navigating car rides and countries and kids entirely on our own.  I watched the boys grow sticky with ice cream and wet with dancing fountains. 

But the memories, both happy and hard, are tainted with gaps.  Moments of dead air where we most acutely feel our distance from home.  Those times of joy and hardship that we are simply not there for. 

One whole year and I still haven’t figured it out.  How to celebrate new life without holding it, how to be there through surgeries and sickness without stepping through the tinted hospital doors, how to grieve without funerals, to comfort without hugs.

And while we try to do these things from afar, we fail to accomplish that which we would back home.  There are just some moments where a phone call won’t suffice, where 100 written words lack the simple power of presence, where hoping for help falls short of offering it.

So I simply understand that this, also, is life now.  Memories built and memories missed.  I don’t think, anymore, it’s a matter of importance.  This life trumping that one.  Just that we’re more aware of our choices.

Had we stayed back home we would still be losing out on memories.  We wouldn’t know it and we wouldn’t feel it in the hard way we do here, but I can’t imagine erasing this year of snapshots, and can’t really picture who I’d be right now without them.

Even as I write we drive with my parents through the Austrian Alps, its gray tips peeking through thick blankets of clouds, mysterious and breathtaking.  As we’ve spent a wonderful month touring both families through this world of ours sometimes I think, why wouldn’t we live here?  It makes so much sense when they are here, when I don’t, at all, feel alone.

But I’m a bit like my eldest son who, as we prepared him for the excitement of his grandparents’ visit, quickly pointed out in his sad, little voice that before too long they also would leave.  And I know it too, that some days I’ll look around and ask, instead, why are we here?

I suppose this aspect of life is unchanging here.  It touched our very first days and continues even now.  It’s the same old bitter and sweet, just a slightly different flavor each month, each day. 

When we chose this path I expected hardship, but hoped it would quickly fade.  Instead I am learning it changes, morphing and evolving with time. 

But bitter and sweet isn’t always such a bad combination, and one year later I’m just beginning to appreciate its distinct taste.

Day Two

One year ago...

When I wake up sunlight streams into the room.  It seems like midday, but when I glance at the clock I see it's before seven.  Cups clank downstairs, Aiden makes distant car sounds, thrilled with the houseful of new toys.

I hear Finn stirring in the crib beside me, arise to his sunny smile.  I lift him out with a quick kiss and set him on his feet, but when we near the narrow, winding staircase I pick him up again, set him lightly on my hip.

Morning nearly always carries more hope for me than the nighttime.  And I am a little happy for the challenges ahead of us today.

But in a moment my sock slips on the polished wooden stair, right as it narrows at the center.  The following seconds feel surreal, but I notice the weight of my own body as it hits the hard edge of one stair, then another, and another.  But mostly I hear the thump of Finn's head, the sound of his cry.

Joel ends up running to his rescue, scooping him up while I lay helpless at the bottom.  I sit up slowly, but everything hurts, my elbow and hip run through with a searing pain.

Finn calms down quickly, the resiliency of a toddler.  But tears still moisten my eyes and I limp with Joel's help to the couch.  I sit and wonder what we will do.  Aiden hovers over me, scared of my pain.  I try to comfort him, but I think he knows I'm just as frightened.

Joel asks over and over, "What do you want to do?"  I know what he means, but I don't know where to begin.  Who do we call?  Our landlord, the school receptionist?  We don't know anybody here and again I realize just how alone we are.

I pop some tylenol and wait for the pain to lessen.  I am sure something is wrong with my elbow, but I stay quiet.

Now I am thinking of home.  Imagining this same situation one week ago.  My in-laws watching the kids while Joel drives me to our small town hospital, pulling under the awning of the emergency ward, knowing where to go from there.  My parents a phone call away, ready to jump in the car if ever I need them.

But here it's just us.  Our parents can't hop on over to help us.  And with two small kids in a new country the hospital is out of the question.  I am terrified by the thought of it.

In a few hours the pain does lessen and our landlord agrees to pick us up and take us to our car, where it waits in the school's gated parking lot.  I am limping when he arrives, and though I feel a little foolish I've stopped thinking about the hospital and am happy to be heading towards the school instead.

When our landlord pulls in he points us to a green car sitting lopsided in the parking lot.  It's our car... flat tire and all.

Joel rides with our landlord to the nearest mechanic, where he requests some help, only to be met with a "Come back later, it's lunchtime."  At this point he leaves us on our own, unable to wait out the long lunch of our Hungarian mechanics.

Later that afternoon Joel walks away from the school, where the kids and I munch on some leftover airplane snacks in lieu of a real lunch.  He walks to the next village where the mechanics are finally back from lunch.  I count the minutes until his return. I can't place us here, and without cell phones I feel like he's walked of the face of the earth.

Turns out he wandered just five minutes down the road.  Still, I whisper a prayer of thanks when I spot him walking towards us.

Later that evening we park our green car with its four, full tires on a bumpy, dirt road in the village.  We walk across the brick square, empty of life on this gray, rainy night.

When we walk through the restaurant doors we're a little nervous, but it feels like warmth in here, with it's pink and green, plaid tablecloths, it's flickering candles and English menus.

We attempt to order in Hungarian, one of the few skills we learned from hours of Hungarian lesssons while washing the dishes and driving in the car.  Still, our waiter crosses over to English when we realize learning to ask for wine is a fairly useless skill if you can't say red or white.

But the food is hot and filling, the boys are happy and we smile at each other over our plates, daring to imagine a future here, and a happy one at that.

Even with the mishaps, we're here now.  The months of daydreaming are over, the hope and the dread past.  It's up to us to live it now, to stop thinking about it.  For the first time I sit back just slightly in my chair and let myself feel some relief.