The choice to live abroad and its assorted consequences

I was chatting with my Czech teacher after a lesson a few weeks ago and she mentioned that she'd been considering moving to China for a bit, but ultimately decided to stay.

'Oh, thank goodness!' said my mother-in-law who had been keeping Smallest amused during the lesson. 'Think of your poor mother! It's much better not to go abroad. Expatova will tell you how hard it is. You made the right choice.'

This past year has certainly brought to the forefront what I've given up by choosing the path I did. Would I have chosen differently if I'd known all this eleven years ago?

There were an awful lot of big choices this year.

Smallest seems to have some issues with one of his ears, and while we're in the process of figuring out what's going on, his pediatrician was adamant that he should not be flying. I was wrestling with what to do as my dad became increasingly bed-bound - go to the US without Smallest? Not go to the US at all? Take Smallest regardless, doctor be damned?

I decided in the end to go -twice- and to go sans baby.

Fortunately, Smallest was fine, Smalls got over his envy, L probably managed stay-at-home parenthood better than me, our savings account will recover eventually, and I got to pat my dad's lovely dad-hands and sing some of his favourite tunes with him.

There were, of course, many days that I felt like I should jump on a plane to be with my parents and had to choose not to.

To go, to stay - both choices, both opening and closing ways.


There have been a lot of consequences of my choosing to live abroad - some minor (extortionately priced Cheerios, for instance), some much, much larger. I certainly didn't anticipate most of them when I packed my two suitcases and left the US for good.

I was bemoaning this fact to a very wise friend who noted that I wasn't really a special case. Everyone makes path-not-taken choices, expat or not. (Though she did say it in a much nicer way.)

There also would have been consequences for choosing not to live abroad.

And, if we're going to be assessing route-altering choices, there have been many non-expat related  choices I've had to make. University, university degree, getting married...and of course, the arguably biggest (even bigger than moving abroad), was my choice to have children (bless their cute little life-shaping socks).

Just as this year has highlighted the naivety of my twenty-year-old self and the consequences of leaving everything but the contents of those two suitcases behind, it has also helped me understand the importance of acceptance.

When I chose to get on the plane to the US without Smallest, it was a choice made out of love and made with acceptance for whatever the consequences might be. And it's given me a great deal of peace to remind myself of that.

So here's to a new year of new choices. Here's to giving up on trying to find some mythical 'right choice' - especially for decisions in the past. Here's to a future of love-based path-selection.

Saying goodbye from a distance

I talked to my dad a few days ago. I stared at him in the slightly-pixelated video on my phone. He was propped up in his hospital-grade bed, and from the other side of the ocean, it seemed so unnecessary. He looked so young. So like my dad who should live forever. Or at least past retirement age.

My family who is with him now would, of course, tell you a different story - one better grounded in the day-to-day realities of someone who is at the very end stages of a savage manifestation of cancer.

But here is how it looks from my side: I've had my suitcase sitting next to my bed, half packed, for nearly two months. I (or rather, a very helpful L) have changed my plane ticket, pushing it out to a later date. The 'in my experience, probably only two weeks left' from the lovely hospice nurse has long been eclipsed. I find myself at events that I only agreed to because I thought for sure I would be gone when they happened.

And so, even as I jump at every sound my phone makes, deceptive thoughts have started to filter in.

Smalls and I recently had a discussion that I would be going to the US soon for his granddad's funeral.

'Please can I come with you? I really want to come. I need to see how they take the cancer out of him,' Smalls told me.

I explained that this time, sadly, they couldn't take the cancer out.

But as the weeks stretch on, my belief in the inevitable is getting shaken.

Maybe it doesn't have to end this way, the deceptive hopes whisper. Doesn't he look so young in the fuzzy Skype video?

While it is breaking my heart to be so far away, I can see how I am also sheltered at this distance, only able to theoretically imagine the midnight panic attacks, the adult diaper changes, the increasing occurrences of seizures. And so I'm stewing in cocktail of equal parts guilt for not being there to help and hope that perhaps things that I can't see aren't really happening.

So, here I am, spending mornings hanging laundry with a giggling Smallest and relaxed afternoon walks home from preschool with Smalls, with the cat lounging on my lap and drinking a cup of tea with L in the last light of the day, in a bubble of nice normality.

But how to reconcile this with the unseen things happening at my other home with my thoughtful, witty, hardworking, motorcyle-riding, snorting-at-his-own-jokes dad?

Damned if I know.

'And why will you die?' Smalls blurted out during a call with my dad.

'We'll talk about this later,' I said with brisk authority.

However,  I'm really better suited to being the asker rather than the answerer of that question these days.

So, to stick to topics that I am certain about: What I do know is that my dad is very much loved and the world has been a better place with him in it.

And I can't describe how much I wish it didn't have to be this way.

Accepting a new chance

It's one of those lovely frosty-foggy days here in the village. All stationary things seem especially anchored with their bonds of ice while the heavy fog flows elusively around them.

It would be the perfect day for a walk in the woods.

However, I am currently very heavily anchored at home by my expanding belly. The belly itself isn't so much of an issue, but Impending Baby starts hinting that he would like to come soon whenever I move too much.

So, mystical walks are on hold for another week or two, until I reach that blessed 37 week mark and can institute grumpy 'get this baby out' stomps.


This period of stillness is giving me the opportunity to get very philosophical, as you can imagine...since there isn't so much else to do.

The very optimistically entitled 'Orgasmic Birth' video that I watched recently talked a lot about embracing pain and letting it flow through oneself.

And in many ways this pregnancy has been a nine-month lesson in finding my way through pain and discomfort, from the physical waves of fatigue and nausea that ruled the first five months to the emotional weight of worry and sadness as I found myself replaying the same motions and rituals of early pregnancy twice in one year.

It's a complicated complaint - two pregnancies in one year. The ache of the one that couldn't stay (for whatever unknown reason) coupled with the appreciation for the one that has stayed with us longer.

My sister, when I told her I was pregnant again, told me she was so pleased that we'd been given another chance so soon. A colleague who had been struggling to get pregnant said something similar about how I was lucky that another pregnancy happened so quickly.

This helped me re-frame this pregnancy and stop Googling 'chances of second miscarriage' (at least for a little bit), to appreciate this new pregnancy as not just more months of nausea and seemingly endless blood tests, necessitated by disappointment and failure. But its own special miracle. Its own unique roll of the biological dice. Its own promise for a new path for our family.

I still didn't officially tell my boss. It started innocently enough. 'I'll just wait until the 12 week check,' I told myself. Then, 'After the 20 week anomaly scan.' And then I was out of convenient ways to postpone going to his office yet again and telling him a second time that he would need to arrange maternity cover. But the very illogical part of my brain wouldn't let me do the responsible thing - just in case I'd have to say again that a replacement for me wouldn't be necessary.

Bless my manager who called him to make sure he was aware of the timings.

She did, however, suggest in a patient, understanding, and slightly amused tone that it might be a good idea for me to tell the students.

'I'm pretty sure they already know,' she said, looking at my unmissable bump, 'but it might be good for you to tell them about the candidates for your maternity cover that might be coming to their classes tomorrow.'

A couple of the classes actually clapped when I told them....and then reassured me that they were excited for the baby and not for my impending departure. I'm pretty sure that was the first time in my life having unprotected sex has led to applause. It was sweet, nonetheless.

I've put off other preparatory chores as well. Smalls's baby clothes are still in cardboard boxes scattered around our room. I was definitely one of the most heavily pregnant women at the hospital tour I went to on Monday. Packing the hospital bag keeps getting bumped to another week's to-do list.


So, you can see why it's very important that I don't go for lovely misty forest walks just yet.

I am getting closer and closer to embracing this pregnancy, to letting the sadness and worry flow through me. Especially on these quiet days, when I feel little knees and elbows exploring the limits of my belly.

Still, I'm not sure I've yet reached the level of enlightenment (and perhaps complete transcendence of physical realities) that would seem to be necessary for an orgasmic birth experience. 

A downside of being a foreign mother

I've spent the last week desperately looking for a lampion. And a drak.

It all started last Thursday with a text from Smalls's školka, which was a friendly reminder that at 5 pm, parents were welcome to join the kids for a walk with 'lampiony'.

This was the first I'd heard of this event, and I didn't have time to pick anything up from a shop. Also, 'lampiony' is a general word for lanterns, so I wasn't quite sure what they meant.

'Perhaps they've carved pumpkins. Or made lanterns out of glass jars. Or put candles in paper bags,' I comforted myself. And brought J's beloved flashlight just in case parents were supposed to bring something.

Ten excited kids. Three focused teachers. Ten pleased parents. Nine paper lanterns-on-a-stick with candles merrily burning inside. One little orange flashlight.

So, it turns out that in the context of easily overlooked notices on the noticeboard at školka, 'lampiony' is not, in fact, an all-encompassing word for various lanterns.

'Proč nemáš lampion?' [Why don't you have a lampion?] one of Smalls's friends asked him, while happily waving around his own one.

See, that I understood.

'Protože mám baterku!' [Because I have a flashlight!] Smalls proudly pronounced.

Because you have a foreigner for a mother, I thought.

And, of course, this should have been the end of it. I should have poured myself a lovely cup of tea when we got home and filed this away under Things to Remember When Smalls Slams Doors as a Teenager.

But, then the noticeboard at školka informed me that this week, they would be flying 'draky'.

The blessed chance for redemption!

The word 'draky' can either mean 'dragons' or 'kites'. I was relatively certain that kites were the things required in this case. We already had a kite for Smalls, but it is a cheap affair and I would put the chances of it breaking pre-flight close to 80%.

I could practically hear Smalls's friend again: 'Why don't you have a kite that isn't broken?'

No. I had to prevent this from happening to Smalls.

A new, better kite was required. One that would be sturdy, colourful, impressive. A kite that would be the envy of Smalls' friends and would convince the teachers that I am a good, if sometimes inexplicably foreign, mother.

Also, I decided, while I'm at it, he should have a proper lampion-on-a-stick.


This was, of course, never a logic-based mission. In fact, as I was going from shop to shop, a not-insignificant part of me reminded me that Smalls did, in fact, have a kite and that this really was about guilt and ego more than anything else, wasn't it?

But, sometimes we need to be a little irrational.

Three stationary shops, two book shops, two supermarkets, two toy stores, one Tiger, and three 'Vietnamese' corner shops later and I was the proud, exhausted owner of both a new kite and a lampion-on-a-stick.

I also have a much better understanding now of the goods on offer in Prague shops.


'How was the kite flying today?' I asked Smalls when I picked him up from školka.

'It was ok,' he said. 'I stepped on my kite and it broke.'

The problem with having too many homes

I've been wanting to write some funny, cheery blog post for a few weeks now, but these last few months have been a special kind of awful...and it's definitely these darker times that make living abroad seem less like a fun and crazy adventure.

Of course, one advantage of living in Not The US (as L likes to remind me), is that I have two glorious months off, and he was able to get 2 weeks of annual leave in a row, plus some working-from-home time, so we headed back to the US for a whole 3 weeks.

My goodness, things get easier in one's home country. So, so much easier. Stranger on the street says something? No worries, not only do I understand you, you grinning, loud, cat-shirt wearing person, my cultural conditioning comes surging up from the depths of my memory and knows how to answer in an appropriate way. Very American mental high fives for everyone!

All of those foods that I miss and that I meticulously try to find on dusty shelves in specialty shops or try to recreate based off of suspicious online recipes? Guess what?! They sell them in the supermarkets! Main aisle. In cans. And they're CHEAP. What a beautiful, beautiful land.

And, of course, let's say I want to talk to my dad. And it's 11 am. Miracles of miracles, it is also 11 am his time, and so, I just meander over to my parents house and have a chat.

So, going back this time reminded me very painfully of all of the things I miss now that I live abroad.

Let me tell you about this amazing place where I'm from.

The mountains, my friends, are not mere pimples in the landscape. The fields stretch out luxuriously from mountain range to mountain range. The wheat shimmers and shimmies in a wind that has traveled for miles to run its fingers through their golden stalks. The air parts readily, the sun shines brightly, my dad sits on the porch, eating his fudge-sickle and rubbing his chemo-thinning hair.

And also loose dogs circle behind you to chomp on the back of your leg, as my nearly-faded bruise can attest.

I'm pretty certain that most of what I'm feeling is expat nostalgia brought on by a heartbreaking helplessness as I watch remotely through Skype and G+ while my dad is staring down cancer. It is so terribly tempting to pack a bag and move back (We could rent my sister and brother-in-law's second house! L could work from home! I could....work in Walmart...), but I'm pretty sure that wouldn't be the right thing for Smalls and L.

And probably not for me, either. In many ways, the Czech Republic is now very much 'home' and the things that would be lost and left behind would also be painful and much missed. It is the 'too many homes' phenomenon, the inescapable flaw in this whole adventure.

Children, be wise. Fall in love with someone from your home town. Find a nice job nearby. Avoid having kids/pregnancies. Tell your parents in strictest terms that they are not allowed to get terminal illnesses. Friends will also need to be thus instructed. Also, spouses. And avoid getting too attached to adorable black kittens.

Yes, obey these instructions while wearing dog-resistant protective gear on your legs, and happiness is sure to follow.

It's not better or worse...

A colleague has a brand new lovely baby. He told me this with the freakishly calm enthusiasm that comes from waking every three hours.

Oh gods, I thought as the memories of Smalls's first few months came, er, screaming back. As it were.

'Don't worry,' I said. 'It really does get better.'

And at that moment, I really believed it.

Then, I spied the dried snot-and-yogurt smear on my shoulder that I hadn't quite managed to get out. It was the biproduct of the morning stand-off regarding the necessity of wearing a shirt (any shirt, dear child!) to skolka, which had been quickly followed by big, heaving sobs after I pushed the button to alarm the house instead of letting him. Which was followed by monster-screams when his plan of him driving and me sitting in his car seat was cruelly vetoed.

It's not better or worse, it's just different.

This is what they drummed into us, the brave, foolish, study abroad students from my very rural undergraduate university. They must have done a good job because it comes floating back to me often, particularly when I find myself comparing countries.

I spent a lot of time with this phrase bouncing around in my head this past week when I spent four glorious (and wet) days back in the UK.

It's not better or worse, it's just different.

This is of course both true and not true. (Ha, see what I did there?)

Is Prague better than the UK? In terms of the price of a pint, indubitably.

Is the UK better than Prague? The English seaside wins hands down over the Czech coast.

Other things, though, are a toss up.

The plane from Prague was delayed by a grand three hours due to a bird strike, and I was giddy with delight at hearing my fellow passengers moaning in English. We swapped information about ETAs and food voucher availability and nattered about how inconvenient it all was.

'Ah,' I thought to myself, 'This is the English and Englishness that I've been missing.'

'FIIIISHY CLIIIIIIIT,' a 14-year-old girl screamed to her friend across the very crowded bus the next day.
'If you don't wear your sodding hat, I'll pull it over your sodding head and tape it there,' a mother barked at her small son.
The pair of older women across from me had to raise their voices too, so they could tut about the younger generation and the unfair pricing in Tesco.
'FIIIIISHY CLIIIIIT,' the friend screamed back before they both started guffawing loudly.

In Prague,  my thoughts screamed to each other over all of the voices, I would have been able to read on the bus.

And whispering in the back of my mind, further adding to the noises, was a Northwestern American accent saying calmly:

It's not better or worse, it's just different. 

But that's only true on the macro scale, isn't it? The UK isn't necessarily superior to the Czech Republic (or visa versa) - which I presume was a nugget of cultural relativism that the Study Abroad Office was keenly aware that we needed to embrace.

But in the personal realm, the fishy-clit girls are probably better off in England. The Czech woman who moaned about foreigners and their pathetic attempts to speak Czech is probably better off in the Czech Republic.

And for me, personally, there are things that I prefer from all of the places I've lived. And things that I hated. And times when I was happier living one place rather than another. And times, as the posts from this time last year show, that I really wished I were living somewhere else.

But I was glad when the plane touched down in the Czech Republic, which thankfully now mostly feels like home.

And as for Smalls, he was a beautiful baby with gorgeous, tiny baby hands and toes, and the sweetest little frog-baby to ever snuggle in and give a happy, milky burp.

However, I'd take Toddler Smalls with his giggles and hugs and monster impersonations and, yes, even his yogurt-snot any day.

And not just because I'm finally getting a blessed full night's sleep.