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.

When worlds collide

Five days back and no regrets.  No sadness.  No temporary bouts of depression.

Just something that must be contentment, with a slight chance of happiness.

Because to answer my previously posed questions, I felt three weeks ago like I was going home.  Then I felt like I was home.  Then like I was going home.  And now, like I'm home.

When I first referred to our return to Budapest as "going home" Joel did a double-take.  I'm sure he had no idea what I was talking about.  I couldn't possibly mean Budapest.

But I did, and I do.

I loved our time in the States.  Family and friends were like a breath of fresh air.  The grocery stores were bigger and more packed with every imaginable food and non-food item than I even remembered.  Sales people were friendly and helpful and, most importantly, spoke English.

I'm pretty sure I ate almost two gallons of ice cream and cookies for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  And I can say in hindsight, the few extra pounds were definitely worth it (and it's not coming off quickly with all the Reese's peanut butter trees I stashed in our bags).

For three weeks we lived with our children's four favorite babysitters.  Joel and I could come and go as we pleased.  No need to book weeks beforehand.

But in light of all that, and though there were tears in my eyes as we said good-bye, I was ready to come home.

I was anxious to be here.  Both nervous and excited to function as a family of four again, out on our own.  To face the challenges of daily life with a little more courage, and a little more ease.

So when we flew by our house and eased onto the runway I found myself surprisingly calm.  Such a stark contrast to our arrival five months ago, when we stepped terrified into the small airport, feeling lost and alone and utterly helpless.

And though the children screamed mercilessly from the time the plane landed and though the stewardesses were forced to carry them off in tears while we toted a ridiculous amount of luggage, it all felt strangely comforting and familiar.  I was used to the way they so easily took charge of my children.  I understood they would force on their coats, though at that point a blizzard could have blown through and I wouldn't have taken the time.  And five months ago it may have, but this time it didn't bother me.

We knew our way to the elevator and quickly found our familiar bus driver, who happily greeted our just-barely composed children.

The city sparkled in the sun and we saw it for the first time as our home and not a tourist destination.  The familiar roads and buildings, the places we've been and the ones we want to go, and finally our village, the narrow streets leading to our house, waiting just as we left it.

Yet in that strange way things morph with time, it was all a little different.  Our village seemed just slightly more cluttered and disorganized.  Our house bigger and a little more empty.  And, as Finny so delicately put it, "Our TB's not big enough!"

But in a way it's a fitting summary of our time home.  Being here changed my view of being there, and being there changed my view of being here.  It made it possible for both worlds to coexist, for the old memories and the new to stand side by side, neither forgotten in light of the other.

Now I would like to maintain the right to misery from time to time.  I mean, really, it's only been five days.  Just hoping it's misery with a little perspective... and a lot of happiness to cushion it.