Between two worlds

The plane ride there is filled with excitement.  Anticipation.  It's 12 more hours, then, 10, then 8.  It's bearable, even with a one year-old.  Because you know in just a few more hours you'll be met with hugs and kisses, your children's hands held and your bags pulled.  You know for the next month you'll have four more hands, and you can feel yourself starting to relax.

You arrive in the car and the road looks huge, well organized.  You see billboards you can read advertising stuff you want.  Your body craves sleep, but your mind is wide awake, taking it all in.

The first night is strange.  You wake up after a few hours and can't remember where you are.  Then you remember this is your childhood home, the room you snuck into for late night sleepovers with your sister.  It's strange, but it's already hard to remember your other house, your other bed, your other life.

You wake up for good around 2am.  Your children awaken soon after.  You spend the sweet, early-morning hours with infomercials droning on in the background.  Your husband places a hot cup of coffee in your hands while little boys play excitedly on the floor below you.

The first time you leave the house you panic at least three times when you glance in the rearview mirror.  Then you remember your kids are home, with grand-parents.  You take a deep breath and hold your husband's hand.

When you walk through the grocery store your eyes are wide the whole time.  You say over and over again, "You can get anything you want.  All in one place."  You grab a pack of Reese's in the check-out line.  If for no other reason than you can.

You're almost unbearably awkward with the cashier.  You forget how to make small talk and are a bit suspicious that someone you don't know could be so, incredibly friendly.  You bag your own groceries and look up in surprise when the cashier says thank you, and is staring at you, both confused and grateful.

You finally compose yourself and go to renew your husband's expired license.  You're ready for a fight.  You're ready for a long, complicated process.

It's easy.  It's fast.  And people are actually apologizing for your inconvenience.  What in the world are they sorry for? you think, but you don't really care because you've been given time.  And although you have nothing to do, time suddenly seems very important.

You stop at a coffeehouse because, again, you can.  You talk about all that is different here.  You talk about Americans... only to remember you are one.  It's a bit overwhelming.  You miss home.

A day or two later you're feeling a part of things, and you're surprised how fast you adjusted.  You're creeping out of the jet lag fog and starting the visits.  You remember that time and distance quickly fade with the people you love.

You bounce back and forth between family and friends, catching glimpses of your past life.  You both can and can't picture yourself there, and you pretend for a moment that you never left.  You imagine your life, continued.  Your mind wanders down the other road.

About halfway through you start thinking it's almost over.  You feel the weight of leaving, the heaviness of good-byes.  You spend hours on Amazon finalizing orders.

Your start the separation, one person at a time.  If you let it, it feels a lot like the first time, so you put up a shield, paste on a smile, and part with the words, "We'll see you soon."

You spend one full day carefully packing five, large suitcases, a carry-on, and four, small bags.  You weigh, you shuffle, you stuff.  When they magically hit 50 pounds each you smile, satisfied.  And then it hits you.  This is it.

You don't say much that last night.  There's not a lot to be said.

You busy yourself the next morning so you don't have to think.  It's easy as there's much to be done.  You put on a smile for your kids and tell them all they have to look forward to.

You check your bags at the airport, and it's suddenly time.

You keep on with the see-you-soon routine, because you don't want to cry when you still have 5 bags, 3 kids and a stroller to drag through security.

You say good-bye and wave a ridiculous amount of times.  When you're finally through you turn and wave one last time.

You walk away, but you stop shortly after to hold your oldest son as he cries, the same sobs that shook his body a week ago as he said good-bye to his other grandparents.  You try to think of something comforting to tell him, but in the end you just admit that you're sad too, and you carry on through the airport.

You order fully-loaded nachos and beer at the terminal restaurant, because you can... and you all need a little something.  You smile as you watch your family dive towards the cheesiest chips, and then you reach in quick, because they'll be gone fast.

You board the airplane and ready the Benadryl.  You learned your lesson last time.  When the baby's finally asleep you scroll through the movies. You watch brainless comedies and attempt a few hours sleep.

You land.  You wake your children and drag them off the plane.  You want to carry them, but you can't, so they stumble through two more airports, sleeping across vinyl-covered chairs as our heads bob beside them.

You finally land back home.  A bus picks you up at the door, drives straight to your house.  You marvel at how easy it feels this time.

An angel messages to tell you she's prepared your family dinner, to come by and pick it up.  You finish the hot, delicious meal just as your groceries are delivered to your door.

With full bellies your children drift off the moment they lie down, and you smile to see them in their own beds.  You're happy to have them so near.

You stumble to bed yourself.  The room spins a bit and quickly disappears.

You wake up at midnight to the sounds of a happy, wide-awake baby.  You try to make him watch Elmo, but he's not fooled.  It's time to play.

You trudge downstairs and share a snack on the couch.  You watch him and tuck this moment away, just you and him in the dark.  Baby smiles and laughter.

Two hours later he takes your hand, pulls you back up the stairs.  The two of you fall quickly back to sleep.

It's so bright, but you force open your eyes and reach for your phone.  It's 10:30, but your body won't get up.  The house is still quiet.  You remember where you are, but it doesn't quite feel real.  Home feels impossibly far away.  It's hard to remember already.

You start to wonder about the meaning of your life.  You feel, in a way, that you're floating.  Stuck between two worlds that don't quite fit together.

You grasp for your phone once more and you find these words.

"Where can I go from your Spirit?  Where can I flee from your presence?  If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.  If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast." (Psalm 139:7-10)

And suddenly, the other side of the ocean doesn't feel too far.  And suddenly, you know right where you are.

You tiptoe down the stairs where your husband waits.  He places a hot cup of coffee in your hands.  And another day begins.

Today

Mother's Day always makes me a bit sappy.  It's one of the few days every year I want to capture my life.  How it is.  Right now.

But tomorrow it will be different, somehow.  And next year something else entirely.

This time in my life is a moment.  And a short one at that.

But the truth is that sometimes they drive me crazy.  When Aiden chants, "Finny the fried fish" from the backseat of the car.  Or when Finn, in turn, bites through his skin like a stinking vampire.  Or when Benjamin hangs on my leg as I limp around the kitchen, chopping veggies to the rhythm of his cries.    

But today was not one of those days.  Today I woke to beautiful, homemade cards.  I drank my coffee in relative piece and showered with only one child in the bathroom.  I walked through our gorgeous city holding two little hands, the soft weight of a baby head resting on my back.

Today, when our waitress told me how lucky I am, with my three, beautiful boys, I teared up and thought, she's absolutely right.

And just like that Mother's Day wasn't about how lucky they are to have me, but how lucky I am to have them.  These three, wonderful boys who make me a mom.

In case your New Year isn't vomit-free

It was a week before Christmas and we were on our way to Ikea.

I expected the normal Ikea happenings.  Marital discord, meltdowns in the candle section, checkout line promises that "we will never come here again."

But I never expected this.

Five minutes from our destination I heard something.  It started as a low growl, but the sound turned quickly and undeniably wet.  My head whipped around just in time to watch a cascade of vomit cover Finn's jacket, pants and carseat, landing with finality on the floor.

"Joel, he's throwing up!" I yelled in a panic, followed quickly with a forced calm, "It's okay buddy, not a big deal, just relax."

So with Aiden crying in the back over the smell, Joel driving with his head out the window, and Benjamin sleeping through it all we made our way to the closest gas station.

I hopped out and stripped Finn down to his underwear, his only un-soaked article of clothing.  Pulling out the baby wipes I cleaned the mess as well as I could, wrapped him in the baby's blanket, and insisted we go "back home right now."

Unfortunately, the four lane road where this incident occurred forced us to continue on our previous path towards the Ikea, where we planned to turn around and drive our sick, cold child home.

Ikea was finally in our sights, and we searched for a place to turn around.  Just as we approached the ramp to the parking garage I heard another sound, this time from the way back.  I turned in time to catch the full, explosive event, this time covering Aiden in a pool of vomit.

"Aiden's throwing up," I yelled.  "Pull in here now!"

The car shot quickly down the ramp, under the moving arm and into a far corner of the Ikea parking garage.

One look at Joel's queasy face and I knew I was alone on this one.  I told him to take the baby and go get the piece of furniture we originally set out for.  I knew it would take me some time to clean up and after all this I wasn't about to make the hour trek back home with nothing to show for it.

Unfortunately Aiden's explosion soaked him through, and in the end was left butt naked in his cold car seat.  After just getting him wrapped in my coat and settled down Finn was at it again, and then again.

Finally it seemed as though the storm had passed.  The boys sat huddled quietly in their car seats and Joel returned to the car with a deliriously happy baby and a quick and easy purchase (an Ikea Christmas miracle).

We loaded the car, tied the throw-up covered clothes tightly in bags, buckled up and breathed a sigh of relief to be headed home.

Joel turned the key and the engine ground and screeched, but wouldn't turn over.  He switched the key back off.

"No," was all I could say.

This wasn't happening.  Certainly it would start next time.

He turned the key again, longer this time.  Nothing.

I thought about a friend from our church in a similar situation.  In her car on the side of the road, three kids in the back, car not starting.  She took the time to pray with her kids for the car to start and the next time her husband tried the engine began purring, took them all the way back home.

So I prayed.  I prayed hard.  I prayed by myself, with the kids, I think it's safe to say I begged for that darn car to start.

Joel turned the key again.

Nothing.  In fact, it seemed to be getting worse.

"I need to get someone to jump us," Joel said, and went to the back for the cables.

Easy enough in the US where he could simply approach a fellow customer and ask for help jumping our car.  But at a point in break where his shaggy beard and wild hair had him looking less-than-respectable, approaching unsuspecting shoppers with long, metal cables (as we didn't know how to say "jump our car"), and without a wife and kids in view, he may not have appeared the type people are generally eager to help.

Finally he found a woman willing to drive her car over to ours.  He hooked up the cables and I kept on praying.  He got back in, turned the key.... turned it, turned it, turned it, and.... nothing.

After a few more unsuccessful tries we thanked the lady for her help and watched sadly as she drove her wonderfully working car right out of the parking garage.

At this point I started to get nervous.  An hour away from home, two naked children, a crying baby and a car full of stuff that just wouldn't start.  I felt homesick for our two sets of parents, who would have driven hours and done anything to rescue us, I felt angry that God wasn't answering my prayers, I felt abandoned and alone.

Joel and I both are particularly bad at asking for help.  We don't want to inconvenience anyone and generally tend towards taking care of ourselves.  But desperate times call for desperate measures so we swallowed our pride and called our friends for help.

They heard our situation and immediately offered to come get us, a huge relief as a taxi ride with two, butt-naked, sick children and a baby sounded like a nightmare of its own.

But as we had wandered so far from home we knew we were in for a wait.  So I wrapped the children tighter and shivered in my seat as Joel attempted to explain our situation to the Ikea customer service representatives, as it appeared our car would be trapped in their garage for the night.

At this point all three boys were tired, cold, and Aiden was starting to get scared.  Although we assured him help was on the way he still insisted that he was "going to die" (he's not dramatic at all).

I decided some Christmas songs were in order, and the boys quickly agreed, although refusing to sing themselves.  So I started with the classic Jingle Bells, but I only know one verse so it got old fast.  The next song to pop in my head was "Silent Night," so with the boys staring passively out the window I started to sing.  "Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright..."

I listened to the words I was singing, and at first I felt angry.  Why couldn't I have a silent, peaceful night.  Why couldn't I be in our warm house, snuggled up in our pajamas, watching a Christmas movie by the twinkling tree.  Why would God answer my friends' prayers, but not mine.

Then it clicked, and I realized that the birth of Jesus I sang about, that silent, holy night, wasn't the event I always pictured.  The warm, soft glow of the manger scene, the baby Jesus in a bed of silky hay, Mary in a spotless, white dress kneeling beside her tiny, sleeping child.

I have been blessed to deliver three healthy babies... but I also endured the absolute most difficult, painful, and trying hours of my life thus far doing so.

I remember playing the virgin Mary as a second grader in our church's nativity play.  I was so incredibly happy when they pulled my name from that hat, and I practiced for weeks knocking calmly on the door of each inn, asking if there was any room for us, that I was going to have a baby.

Three children later I like to imagine what that was really like.  I could barely handle the pain of labor in the quiet and calm of my hospital room, with doctors and nurses roaming the halls and constantly checking on me.  What must it have been like to wander through the dark, pausing only to catch her breath, or to push through another excruciating contraction, and to hear time and time again, "I'm sorry, you can't come in here, we're all full."

I wonder if she felt abandoned.  Or angry.  I wonder if she thought, "how could this get any worse?"

And finally they landed in a manger, after what I imagine was Joseph begging for some place, any place, for his wife to have her baby.  Perhaps she could feel he was coming soon.

So Mary sets about delivering a baby in a barn, which I am fairly certain looked little like the nativity scenes adorning our mantles.  The place was crawling with animals and the sounds and smells that accompany those animals.  I can't imagine any place comfortable and clean enough to push out a small child.

But she did.  And for a moment, I'm sure, there was peace.  Relief and wonder and peace.  Something like I felt after each birth, only magnified at the sight of this miracle baby.

I somehow doubt that Mary had room service bringing her a warm meal immediately after all her hard work.  Or even a nice, hot shower and something soft to lay on.  But still, I imagine there was joy and peace.  In the middle of a barn.  On a night where everything went wrong.

I thought in that cold, stinky car about how I picture Christmas.  A tree adorned with colorful ornaments, lit with sparkling lights.  Hot chocolate and freshly baked cookies.  Snuggling on the couch watching one of millions of Christmas movies.  Piles of presents and overflowing stockings.

It stands in such stark contrast to the thing we celebrate at Christmas time... that crazy night when Jesus was born.  A night where it must have seemed that everything went wrong, that God, somehow wasn't answering her prayers as she imagined he would.

Eventually the boys fell asleep and Joel returned.  Our friend arrived, towed our car out of the garage, and drove us the rest of the way home, blasting the heat for us and buying the boys Ginger Ale to settle their stomachs.  Other friends helped us figure out the best way to get our car back and fixed the next morning and gave us one of their cars to use while we waited.

It's been over two weeks since this incident.  It's not quite funny yet, but also not traumatizing.

It has me thinking again, though, with the start of this new year.  Everyone wishing for happiness and health and prosperity for 2014.  And how some, if not most, people aren't going to get that.  At least not all year long.

So in case this year is filled with more vomit and broken-down cars or things much worse or not quite so bad, I hope to look back on that night when Jesus was born.  To know things don't have to go perfectly as I plan.  To know that everything can go wrong and still, it will be okay.

Because perhaps, in the middle of it all, a miracle is happening.

Welcome to the world

It was just dawn on a hot, July morning.  The kids' room remained silent and I knew there was just a short window before they barged through our door, begging for breakfast.

Heart pounding I made my way to the bathroom, full of hope and dread.

A few minutes later I slid back under the covers, nudged Joel, and whispered one word that would, once again, change the course of our lives.

"Schwanger," I said, a smile on my face.

His eyes opened and he laughed a bit, either from joy or nerves or the irony of our German pregnancy test.

We turned onto our backs and stared silently at the ceiling for a while.  A million questions waded through my mind.

What have we gotten ourselves into?  I wanted this, right?  What will we do with three children?  How will we keep them all safe and happy, bathed and fed and loved?  How will I manage in a foreign country, so far from home?  What if it's a girl?

Nearly 10 months later, Benjamin is finally here.  And like magic all our doubts washed away the moment we saw his smashed up, little face.

Suddenly I would do anything for this tiny man, even give up my precious full nights of sleep.  And Joel, who worried how he would manage with three, couldn't keep his hands off him, his face covered with pure amazement as he stared at our newborn son.

In the three short years since our last new baby, I forgot so much.

I forgot about that long wait, how every day passed in a slow blur of nerves and excitement and frustration.

I forgot about labor (which explains why Benjamin is here at all).

I forgot what it felt like to hold a brand new, slimy baby in my arms, the mixture of relief and joy and exhaustion, the touch of his warm skin and the gaze of those dark, beady eyes.

I forgot how my heart soared as my husband spoke in soft tones to our screaming infants, how each child quieted down and I could hear the nurses comment, "he knows his daddy's voice."

I forgot that feeling of pride, the quiet knowledge that if I can do that, I can do anything.

I forgot what it's like to see your children meet each other, to witness the first moment of so many together.

I forgot about those middle-of-the-night feedings, the intense stares of a newborn looking through me in the quiet and dark of the hospital room.

I forgot that when changing a newborn you have to be quick, or you and everything around you becomes a probable and likely target for all kinds of projectile happenings.

I forgot what it felt like to forget the world for a few days, to focus almost entirely on this new and changing family.

I forgot how good it feels to hold a sleeping baby, his belly puffing quickly as he lies against my chest.

I forgot what tired feels like.

I forgot that after a month of wiping poop and waking all night long, that first wild, baby smile erases every hardship.

I forgot how your heart grows to make room for each child, and how, somehow, it grows every day after that, so that at night, when you place your hand on the rise and fall of each little chest, you feel as though you will burst.  And although you know in the morning you will probably find something to yell about, you go to sleep with a smile on your face.

I learned a few things as well.

I learned that someone was missing from our family, and I never even knew it.

And I'm learning every day who that person is, how he fits here, and just how much I love him.

Welcome to the world baby Benjamin!

The waiting game

I remembered this part being awful.

I just forgot how awful.

I never experienced the wait with Aiden.  I went to the doctor Friday morning, 37 weeks, where he told me, starting today, I am officially at term and they won't attempt to stop my labor.  That night, with friends in the living room, my water broke while cleaning the kitchen and we were off to the hospital, full of naive excitement.

We expected the same with Finn, but 10 days after my due date the induction I dreaded was written in on the hospital calendar.  At the very last minute Finn decided to come on his own and was born 30 minutes before my appointment.

Now I wait again.  Wondering and hoping and fearing.

I know in my head that a due date is just an estimate, and I certainly realize that my first coming early means nothing for subsequent labors.  Still, when 37 weeks hit I rushed around like a mad woman, packing bags and scrubbing showers and hunting down dust mites.

And then I sat down and waited.  Well, as much as I can with two kids who still need fed and bathed and loved.  Nearly two weeks later the dust has returned and my hospital bag sits open at the door, where I regularly exchange items I hoped I wouldn't need again.

At this point I am still over a week from my due date.  And I told myself time and again not to expect anything, but like the silly, hormonal, pregnant woman I am, I did anyhow.

It's mostly the not knowing that gets to me.  The not knowing what to tell my kids when they want to know when the baby is coming.  The not knowing when I put them to bed at night if I will be there to greet them in the morning (and by greet I mean rolling over in bed and grumbling for them to go downstairs).  The not knowing if this is my last trip to the grocery store, or what will happen if I'm alone with Finn in the city, or will this labor be faster than my last, and if so, what are the chances I have this baby in the car (I'm hoping by writing that one down I have significantly negated the possibility of its happening).

I guess it's just called worry, nothing new or significant really.

I could think of a million different scenarios of what could possibly happen, particularly in a foreign country with a 30-minute drive to the hospital.

Or I could trust... and wait... and then wait some more.

All I really need

It's Valentine's Day, and because I haven't posted since Thanksgiving I feel obliged, and even slightly motivated, to write something.  And so I will sit, sipping my reheated Starbucks mocha (a Valentine's treat from my husband), staring out at the snowy hillside, and indulge my sentimental side for the afternoon.

I am a personal fan of Valentine's Day.  I know we should celebrate love every day, that romantic gestures and simple expressions of feelings shouldn't be assigned a date on the calendar.  And yet I'm glad that it is.  Happy that amidst nagging my kids to pick up their toys and my husband to shut the kitchen cupboards, there is a day to wonder, primarily, if they know how much I love them.

With the exception of Finn (who will take every opportunity to communicate his undying love for us), we aren't overly sentimental in this family.  In fact, Joel is probably wincing as he reads this, wondering where this is leading, and if it will get unbearably mushy at some point.

Well buckle up... things are about to get gooey.

I won't go back to the beginning or pick apart everything I have loved about him in the past eight years, but since most of our communication occurs loudly over dinnertime commotion, between rounds of "tickle monster," or is followed by the words "if you don't stop fighting we will turn this car around," I'd like to take this small moment of peace to say a little something about the man I am spending this crazy life with.

And really, just a few words, because any more would be horribly embarrassing for him.

I honestly didn't know if I could do this whole living abroad thing.  I thought that I needed a lot of stuff... my family, my best friends, Turkey Hill ice cream.

And really, it wasn't always easy.  At first it felt a bit like Joel and I lived in two separate worlds.  He lived in the world of English-speakers, of lesson plans and meetings and familiarity.  I lived in Hungary.  I was an outsider and most of the time I was scared.

Life has gotten easier for me in many ways.  But even then one thing never changed... at the end of the day, when Joel opens the door and the kids scream and run giggling behind the couch, I know that this is all I really need.  He is like the final puzzle piece that brings our family together, and even when I'm stressed or angry, or even when I feel like the world is out to get me, he walks through the door and I feel like I can breathe again.

I love that he can make my kids erupt in laughter, that they are sad when he leaves and want to be with him just as much as I do.  I love that he believes in me more than I believe in myself.  I love that, even when he drives me crazy, I would rather him be around than not.

Truly, I'm grateful.  Stressed and tired and grateful.  With so much changing and so many unknowns I am thankful that God has blessed me with this solid family, this place of solace that really isn't a place at all.

They are my little, traveling home, and for the first time in my life, I know I could go anywhere.

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.

Day One

One year ago…

I stand in the terminal, frozen. Vaguely aware of the kids and Joel, struggling with our bags. Dublin to Budapest flashes across the board in menacing red letters. Around me I see only strange faces, hear only strange words. This will be my life, these people my surroundings. I can’t move.

Joel somehow herds bags, kids and wife to a table at a nearby café. Before I catch my breath a cold Guinness lands before me, its golden foam promising temporary relief.

I start to refuse, but instead sip slowly and the tightness in my throat loosens, ever so slightly. Enough to breath. And just barely enough to step on that plane…

When we land I concentrate on the in and out of my breath, fidget with the kids' hair, clothes, cleaning their sticky hands, gathering their trash… trying not to think of the next step and knowing there’s no going back.

I snuggle one child or another in the front of the bus that picks us up. I don’t know which one, only needing something warm and real to hang on to. Although we’re back on the ground I feel like I’m floating and cling to the only thing I understand here, my family.

In what feels like minutes night falls and we’re crossing a bridge. I glance to the left and it is like our Budapest guide book coming to life before us, only the lights more brilliant, the night even deeper. My breath catches, but it’s not nerves this time. I glance at Joel across the small aisle and my first smile today plays reluctantly across my lips.

But soon the roads narrow and the bus bounces over a playground of potholes. It begins to rain as we unload kids and bags from the bus, as we drag days and weeks worth of packing through the gate, loading the hallway of our temporary home with the remnants of our past life.

When the colleagues sent to greet us close the door behind them a quiet settles in and I am struck by our isolation. Surrounded by strangers, we are left alone to navigate this alien land all by ourselves. After six years of marriage and two kids, I feel like a grown up for the first time.

One thing remains the same, however. My kids need snacks, drinks, toys to play with, baths and bed. The routine remains unchanged and tonight it grounds me, the neediness of my children saving me from the vast emptiness just outside.

I watch American TV on my computer as I struggle to sleep that night. Every few hours I wake and click through for another episode of The Office, longing for a taste of home throughout this long night.

Forcing my eyes closed, I imagine tomorrow, the daylight, a hot cup of coffee. I am lucky I don’t know what it actually holds, but tonight I find enough calm to slip in and out of sleep until dawn...

A taste of ordinary

Wow.  So I knew I was majorly neglecting my blogging responsibilities, but almost two months?  Is it too cliche to ask, where has the time gone?

I mean, now that it's summertime there are so many important tasks vying for my attention.  Books that need read, pools requiring swimmers, reality TV shows begging for my viewership, and always, always children needing... well, children needing.

Today I woke up late (7:30) to Joel missing on a morning bike ride, Aiden coloring downstairs, and Finn whining in my doorway.  After providing four or five breakfasts to our continuously hungry boys we leisurely piled in the car, headed to Ikea.

Visiting Ikea always transports us back in time, to our first week here in Hungary.  Joel tells me the word terrifying is too strong, but I think it's a fairly accurate description of our first seven days (well, mine at least).  Terrified to board that plane, to drive, to shop, to stand in the Ikea food line with it's foreign menu, foreign money, foreign system.  I remember looking at each other with wide eyes, asking, "Did we just pay $100 for lunch?" (it was actually more like 10).

There is not much I like to revisit about that first week.  I keep thinking it will get funnier with time, and while many things have, that hasn't.  It was too real and we had too much at stake.

Fast forward 11 months...

We navigate the long, crowded food line with ease.  We know where the toys are, our boys' favorite Ikea meals, we've learned the absolute necessity of electronic entertainment if we hope to purchase anything.  We fill our car with the mass-produced treasures loading our cart, hop in and head happily down the road.  On our way home we near the McDonald's and with temperatures in the 90's the McFlurry temptation is almost impossible to resist.  As Joel finishes a phone call I pull the kids from the car, hold their hands across an empty street, and welcome the cool air as it filters through the open door.  With Finn in my arms and Aiden at my side I communicate our ice cream needs using a mixture of poor Hungarian, ridiculous hand gestures, and the ever-effective pointing.  But my heart isn't racing this time, I'm not worried anyone hates me for my wildly inept language skills, I don't flounder when they tell me the price, worried I'm somehow being swindled at every turn.

It's easy in a way I've never defined easy before.  Easy because it's what we know, because somehow we understand how things work here... easy because this is our new normal.  It doesn't mean that every day's a good one.  That I don't get lonely or nostalgic or sad.  But it's not scary now, and certainly not terrifying.

I've noticed in our time here that the lows are extra low, the highs extra high, but mostly, average is average, anywhere.  And almost a year in our days are mostly just that, average.  The boys racing cars along our tile floor, monotonous trips to the grocery store, dinners cooked, dishes washed, lazy afternoons on the deck.

And really it's what I love about this new life of ours.  Sure, the frequent trips to exotic and beautiful destinations don't hurt.  But I think when I look back on our time here it's the little moments I'll miss.  Finn peering through the window, shovel in hand, nose pressed against the glass.  Family bike rides to the sweets shop, cooling off with an ice cream cone.  Quiet dinners outside, swatting at flies and stabbing sausages.

It's what we lacked in the beginning, what we missed without knowing it.  A sense of the mundane, a taste of the ordinary.  The feeling of content, amongst all the intense emotions of those early days.  A feeling that surfaced so slowly I almost wondered if it existed here.

But it does.

And now we wait anxiously to show this world to our parents, to guide them through our every day.  It is fun to imagine them here.  Seeing things how we saw them for the first time, noticing people and places we've learned to just pass by.

Wondering what we ever found so terrifying about such an ordinary, and extraordinary, place.

The disappearing in-between

Ah, Mother's Day.  What a nice notion.  A day all about Mom.

A big "thanks for everything Mom" where I can settle down on the couch with a cup of coffee and watch my children play from a distance while my husband scrubs dirty dishes in the kitchen.

It always looks so hopeful first thing in the morning, when Joel calls the kids downstairs so I can get a few more minutes sleep.  When I finally do roll out of bed and my two year-old yells, "Happy birthday Mom" as I wander down the steps.  When I'm greeted with hugs and kisses and a steaming mug, a soft couch...

On which I can sit for at most two minutes before realizing that even though it's Mother's Day, and perhaps even more so because of it, I am still the mom here.  And particularly with preschool-aged children, though I imagine it never really ends, they still expect me to do mom-type things and, well, to still be their mom... on Mother's Day!

I'm not the kind that can honestly say just being with my family is all I want for Mother's Day.  Believe me, I've tried in the past.  It took Joel just one year of taking me serious to learn his hard lesson... that's not what I want at all.

I want a big deal.  A to-do if you will.  Homemade cards, constant reminders of exactly whose day it is, and of course some festivities that center primarily around food and coffee.

I want lots of time with my kids.  Just time that consists of giggles and kisses, of chocolate-covered faces without the sugar aftershock.  A day that looks a lot like a montage of all our best pictures.

But as most parents know, though we may seriously attempt to lower our expectations of any activities involving our children, these days never seem to go as planned.

Everything was perfect in theory.  A bike ride in the morning.  A long car trip with quietly slumbering children.  An amazing brunch at a beautiful hotel, delicious food, plentiful drinks, a fully-staffed children's area.

It had everything.  Brightly colored cards.  Appropriately extravagant festivities.

Even constant reminders of the day's true meaning.

"Aiden, stop kicking your brother... it's Mommy's Day!"

"Just eat the toast... it's Mother's Day!"

"Get off the floor, you're going to trip the waiters.  Come on guys, it's Mother's Day."

"Finn, you just peed all over the door.  Really, on Mother's Day?"

Believe it or not, my kids were still needy today.  Still rebellious and frustrating and whiny.

At the end of the day I turned off their bedroom light, fell into my own bed, and decided as they argued in the room beside me that tonight, Mother's Day night, they could put themselves to bed.

Some moments later, a tiny whisper.

"Finn, you should go make Mom feel better."

When I saw those small silhouettes in the doorway I held out my arms and let them climb into bed beside me.  Finn rolled on his back, grabbing from my night stand anything with buttons.  Aiden fetched BooBoo Doggy (my childhood pal) from his new home in Finny's bed, beginning his usual interrogations as to the origin of BooBoo's injury, if it still hurts, why he's crying.

As I felt their slight movements beside me, listened to their aimless chatter, looked into those wide, brown eyes, my mind started scrolling through the day's pictures.

And in one of those surreal parenting moments, I saw only smiling, chocolate-covered faces, heard only giggles and squeals of excitement, felt only the weight of their arms around my neck and the height of their adoration.

It's a funny thing that happens with kids.  How hours and even full days of fighting and tantrums, of strife and pure, intense exhaustion, can be canceled by a single moment.  A small clip without a before or after, where you can almost hear the sentimental music filtering in, view the happy pictures fading and appearing before you.

I guess as someone's child myself, I am luckier for it.  Grateful that my mom tends to see all the good and none of the bad, and that I'm sure she views my sister and I's lives as something of a joyful montage (lacking many of the less-than-glamorous in-betweens).

It might seem like happy ignorance, and perhaps it is.

But I like to think it's magic.

A foot in each world

This is where I live.

Where my babies live.

My husband.  My house. 

This is my home.  

But also, this isn't my home.

It's not that it feels particularly foreign anymore.  In fact it feels quite comfortable.  I leave the house without fear now.  I bike, I shop, I talk (out loud).

I don't expect smiles and waves as we wander the streets, I've stopped worrying if everyone hates me, if they can somehow smell the foreigner on me.

In fact, until I open my mouth, it's pretty easy to blend in here.  And I find I'm granted a little extra leeway for the small children I tote around on a fairly regular basis.

There are certain moments, holding Finny's hand down the slide, coffee in hand, where I feel like this is mine.  Like I own it somehow, or at least participate as a small part in it all.  

But there are times when I feel my heart quite literally pulled across the ocean.  Back Stateside.  Back home.

It nearly always hits quick, unexpectedly.  And is layered with the guilt of my contentment here.

Mostly it is fear.  My nephew not knowing me.  My friends moving on.  My family not needing me.  My kids growing older.  

How I wish I could freeze our time here.  Enjoy it, experience it, learn from it, but not lose the time.  The moments I'm missing back home.  The moments they are missing here. 

Nine months in and I am happy here.  

Sometimes I sit back at my book club, or play group, or home, and I feel so lucky.  Lucky to be here, to experience this, to know these people.  

So when the panic sets in and the homesick surfaces, it's more complicated, and, to a degree, more painful.  I don't miss home because I'm unhappy here, I miss home because I'm missing it... missing moments, missing people, missing time.

I am torn between one happy life and another.

In bath tonight Aiden decided he would like to go back to the United States.  Tomorrow.  For one day.  Then he would like to find an airplane and fly back to Hungary.  For one day.  Then... well, you can guess where it goes from there.

But somewhere in that four year-old mind he is searching for solutions to my exact problem.

We love it here.  We are happy here.  But also, we love it there, and are happy there.

If only we could live with one foot in each world, a day here, a day there...

But if we followed through with Aiden's plan we'd spend most of our life in the air, between homes, in the company of strangers.

For now this is our choice, our home.  But a part of me belongs both places.

The pictures, the voices... they are snapshots of a life I'm missing, moments without an in between.  But moments just the same.

And while I can't have a foot there, these moments keep bringing me home.

Aiden's Easter prayer

"Thank you for Aiden and Finn, who are the best family in the whole world, and for Daddy, who loves us all so much.  And thank you for Easter..."

"Stop Mommy!  I want to say that part."

"Okay buddy, go ahead."

"Thank you for Easter and for dying when you were so sad, and thank you for coming to life, and for Easter."

It's something, really.  The way a child can simplify the most profound mysteries.  And how one short sentence breathed in complete sincerity can hold more impact than a book full of carefully researched theology.

Not that he is without questions.  In fact I've spent many a long and drawn-out bedtime answering such inquiries...

"Do angels fly?", "When Jesus comes back to live here, will he come to our house and play video games?", and my personal favorite,  "Does Jesus eat dinner in my heart?  Yes or no?  Just tell me, yes or no."

Sometimes I think he doesn't understand at all.  To be honest, sometimes I wonder if I understand at all.  The more questions he asks the more I think, "I have no idea."

But then he pulls out something both beautiful and simple.  He so easily suspends his questioning for belief.  And for thankfulness.

And so today, Easter Sunday, we are thankful for much...family, friends, the everyday adventures of a life abroad.

But we are especially thankful for those things we don't completely understand.  The simple complexity of faith.

Happy Easter everyone!

A bit like love

Nearly 8 months and life is slowly creeping its way into normal here.

The onset of spring brought with it my usual change-of-season gloom. The sunshine and open windows, the fresh air and happy(ish) pedestrians... it all made me miss home.

But it wasn't so long this time, and certainly not so painful. And actually, spring here is kind of great.

Our first visitors arrived last week, just as the weather took a drastic turn for the better. It was like seeing the city through fresh eyes, the passersby practically bouncing in their light jackets, the bustling pedestrian street littered with cafe tables, the Danube glittering in the sunlight. It all felt a little magical.

And the best part... our fenced in yard where the beasts can roam free. So when Aiden starts chasing Finny with the broom, or Finn's tantrums have me pulling out my hair, I simply open the doors and breathe a sigh of relief as the whirlwind moves outside. And by the time they return, all that pent-up energy released, I'm almost happy to see them!

As always, spring brings new life... most notedly the life of my new nephew, Gavin! Born just a little over a week ago, baby Gavin has stolen our hearts from afar.

I loved him immediately, the second I knew he was born, but I felt the distance more acutely than normal. I left my first conversation with my sister in tears, knowing that a year ago I would have been right by her side, holding that baby in person, experiencing the joy of it firsthand.

But I understand that this is life now. And that the bond of family doesn't change or lessen with distance. It was actually something of a relief to feel such love for someone I never even saw a picture of, let alone held in my arms. And now that they are settled at home we can finally be together through the wonders of technology. Watching the baby, talking to the big sister, smiling and laughing.

It's not the same, but it's something for sure. And while Aiden's desire to "rub the baby's head" may be delayed some, it won't be forever, and before long I'll have that little guy in my arms (although he may be too squirmy to stay there!).

And so goes our life here now. I imagine the warm weather will jumpstart our weekend excursions to the city, where we'll wander the streets, eating ice cream and frequenting parks. The boys will continue their bike riding and us our family hikes.

I don't think I'll ever completely stop missing home, but I like that I can still enjoy life while I do. I like building memories here. I like that our family is closer than ever. I like that the boys are learning to adapt, that they're learning about different places and different people, that they can make friends with anyone, regardless of who is from where or speaks what language.

I like sitting out on our deck in the sunshine writing this blog, knowing that a few months back I was almost too scared to go outside. The sights, the sounds, the smells... they were all so unfamiliar, and they terrified me.

But now, they feel like home. It's a different kind of home, for sure, and certainly not the one of my imaginings. But, all things considered, and albeit some tougher moments, I think, perhaps, I am beginning to love it.

What I didn't see before

So I realize these posts are getting few and far between.  I think about writing often, but ultimately land before my laptop with heavy fingers, that empty screen too intimidating to confront.

I tell my mom it's a good thing.  When time stretches out between posts she inevitably worries I'm not doing well, but it doesn't mean that at all.  In fact, quite the opposite.  I am most compelled to write when at my lowest, confused by my emotions, overwhelmed by my surroundings, or just downright in the dumps.  I'm a complainer, by nature, so when Joel tires of hearing my gripes, I turn to the blog.

But currently I am mostly gripe-free, so I suppose this should be a surprisingly pleasant update on our life here.

Shortly after Aiden's birthday our family spent a long weekend in Prague.  Joel both attended and presented at his first international conference and I fully embraced the perks of my stay-at-home mom status, tagging along with the kids as his supportive, but inevitably needy companions.

We spent some time exploring Prague on either end of our trip, but while the city held incredible aesthetic appeal in its rich architecture and beautiful, stone-inlayed streets, it was cold.  In the end my fellow complainers and I wrestled Joel into the warmth of restaurants and, ultimately, back to our hotel.

But the hotel was a treasure in itself.  Kids and hotels aren't usually a great mix.  The small rooms, thin walls, and lack of most anything fun can create a real nightmare past the initial new place excitement.  So when we decided to take this trip together, in the dead of winter, I knew we needed an exceptional hotel.  We needed... The Aquapalace.

It lived up to everything the name suggests (and Trip Advisor confirmed).  I loved the huge, delicious breakfast and small, attached play area where I could sip my coffee and watch the kids clobber one another in the safety of the ball pit.  The boys loved the wave pool, the miniature water slides, and, always, the ice cream.  Joel loved that he could focus on his conference, without worrying about us, where we were and what we were doing (I think he enjoyed the water slides a little as well).

Joel's presentation went very well.  He spoke about integrating Google Apps into classroom instruction.  About 20 teachers attended and from what I heard (via AISB attendees) it was a great success.

Our transition back from the States remains smooth.  Moments of homesick surface now and again, but I maintain a bit more perspective than I possessed in the fall, where floods of doubt and regret accompanied the most minor of setbacks.  And while life certainly is not perfect now and I've experienced my share of disappointments, I also stopped blaming Hungary.  This move.  (My husband.)

For the first time, in this past month, I experienced small moments of content.  Where I smile on my way to bed, for no other reason than the recognition that I am happy.  Truly happy, if not always, at least in that moment.

It may not seem like a monumental accomplishment, or even worth mention, but it is what I missed so much about home.  Because our first five months here lacked any of those moments.  Sure, I felt happy at times, but not content, not peaceful and assured and comfortable.  I trusted those moments would come, but I could barely understand how.  I thought those feelings were only a memory, of a happier time.

I remember, particularly in October, singing along to this song in my kitchen, knowing the truth of the words, but feeling so hopeless.

It's by Sara Groves, one of my favorite artists, and the chorus says,

From this one place I can't see very far. 

In this one moment I'm square in the dark.   

These are the things I will trust in my heart.   

You can see something else, something else.

I am just starting to recognize glimpses of the something else.  At times they are long and at times they pass by before I know what happened, but I'm glad for small glimpses.

The regrets are fewer now and I'm starting to see all we are gaining from this experience.  A closer family, committed friends, strength.

It's enough to get me from day to day.  When I'm feeling hopeless or anxious or lost, it's just enough.  Which, really, is more than enough.

On Aiden's 4th birthday

(I wrote this over a week ago, but it's been a busy one, which is why I'm just now getting to posting it.  Sorry for the delay.)

I always knew love at first sight as a rare, romantic occurrence.

It happens, sure, but certainly not for Joel and I.  No, ours was a mild acquaintance that grew to inseparable friendship that evolved into strong and honest love.

But I still reserved the phenomenon of love at first site for the birth of our first child. 

Children were my dream.  I was that little girl playing mother to children mere years my junior.  Forming babysitting clubs while still in need of services myself.

My pregnancy with Aiden was uneventful, but I thrilled at every little nudge and panicked over the mildest of cramps and slightest of temperatures.

Labor was typical.  Long and hard.  I planned for an epidural only to completely miss the window in a narcotic-induced fog.

So when I finally peered upon my slimy, purple son I was tired.  And angry.  And amazed.  And hungry.

But I was not in love.

I knew I loved him, and I managed a few drunken "That's our baby boy"'s before they whisked him off to the weighing station.

I happily watched as Joel stroked the arm of our screaming baby, saying over and over, "It's okay buddy, it's okay."

But when it came time to hold that little thing I just wanted someone to take him away and let me sleep.

Now much of those early emotions were a direct result of the late-in-labor narcotics I begged for.

But hours later after an all-too-short nap I gazed down at this little life cradled in my arms, and I felt resentful. 

I mean, I was more than prepared to mother this creature, just right after I caught up on the entire night's sleep I missed while birthing him.

In the course of the next few days I oftentimes peered into his clear, plastic cradle and literally hurt with love.  But other times it felt like spying on a shriveled stranger.  (It didn't help that the blonde-hair, blue-eyed newborn of our imaginations ended up with a flattened nose and jet-black hair, and that the first day I could barely pick him out through the nursery window.)

I cried a lot that week.  When Joel wanted to watch the football game on our tiny hospital television.  When I found an elephant ultrasound while flipping past the Discovery Channel.  When we were served applesauce with dinner (a pregnancy favorite).

Looking back I view this tearful time as a kind of grieving process.  While I thought I was bringing home a little bundle to snuggle and tote around like one of those fashionable dogs, I was actually losing a whole world that, despite marriage and my best efforts at selflessness, revolved entirely around me.

And on top of that this particular little package, while sweet and sleepy and seemingly good-natured, did little to make my heart soar.  At least not how I imagined it.

I loved my son from the very beginning, and at times I think even before that.

But I didn't realize that you could fall in love with a child as well.

And now, four years later, when I sneak into his room at night and lay my hand on the slow rise and fall of his chest, the love I imagined from day one hits me like a brick.  Knocks the wind right out of me. 

I find myself searching to both contain and express a love beyond words and actions. 

Sometimes I wonder if I could possibly love him more, only to realize the next day, as he bravely conquers imaginary fires and tells me I make the best cupcakes in the whole world, that somehow it doubled overnight.  And if it keeps going at this rate how will I even survive him leaving in just 14 short years?

In the past four years I watched him grow from a dependent little baby with spiky, black hair, to a tireless toddler with enough energy to power a rocket, to a full-blown little boy... one who thinks about other's feelings, who engages in actual conversations, who fights fires and pilots airplanes.

Any resentfulness is long gone.  In a way it is like he was always here.  I certainly can't picture life without him.  

He was our first step towards a complete family (well, second maybe, if you count marriage, which I probably should).

A family I am so happy with, so content in, we could quite literally go anywhere in the world... as long as we're together.  

And as we face life's challenges here together, I find I love him even more.  At his best, and at his worst.  And though he's only four and can completely drain me, his laughter and kindness and even his drama keep me grounded.  

This little four year-old makes the strangest of places feel like just home.