This Saturday my husband and my seven year old son are heading to California for my son’s spring time visit with his father. Although I know these trips are needed for a flourishing relationship, I still can’t help but be teary eyed as the moment of truth approaches.

We have really made a life for ourselves here in Toulouse! Going to the “marche” on the weekends,taking our nightly walks and having our French neighbors over for dinner. I sometimes forget that there are other people waiting and longing for our return to America. It is so easy for me to become caught up in the reality that my oldest son is now a bi-lingual boy of the world! To see him get up every morning with a smile on his face to tackle a new way of learning and communicating is truly inspiring for me. I am in awe of him when we
take our evening walks and he can read the notices in the local bakeries or when he is able to give the hour of day to someone who requests it in French. I start to daydream about what would happen if we want to India, Africa or Asia together. How long would it be before he could master three languages and find “ZEN” at the young age of twelve?

Then I remember that he has a whole other family waiting breathlessly in California. His father, grandmother, uncles and cousins. How would they feel about him traveling the globe with me and only being able to see him on holidays or vacations? What if I wanted to travel to a so called “unsafe” region? Would he “fight” for him to come back to “safe” California? I am starting to realize that when my son and I hold hands on our Sunday walk or have our lunch together on Wednesdays that he is just on loan to me for a short spell. Then I have to give him up. France is AMAZING and it is easy to become smitten with this dreamy life. Being a blended family though has made me up wake up from my dream a little sooner then I would like.

As the tears flow on Saturday,I will be thinking to myself; is it really worth it?

Bises

This is #6 of an on going dialog of our travel which included 4 countries and a 4 year old. Please check the prior archives for the previous sagas

We were living in Saudi Arabia for a month last year. Sometime between Non-Christmas and Non-New Year and right in the middle of the Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca, my daughter and I had an amazing cultural experience which only a rare few Americans get.

I had walked outside the gym I was in but quickly returned inside to gather my daughter, Olivia. It was important to me that she not just be in Saudi Arabia but instead to experience such an amazing country. Especially in this day and age were it seems so many people judge the kingdom of Saudi Arabia and Muslims in negative way. I wanted her to be able to FEEL the difference in the air. I wanted her to sense it from her insides.

In that moment, at 6:15 pm in the evening, we both FELT something special in the air. We FELT what the difference was to be Saudi Arabian. The sun was going down and it was about 75 degrees. The sky was orange and darkening. And every mosque in the city of Jeddah was in prayer. Every mosque has loud speakers that project the prayer being said inside by a man. There are mosques everywhere, seemingly on every block in the city. And every mosque had a calm male voice chanting a prayer, almost singing. I said to my daughter “Olivia, what is that we hear?” And she replied, “they are praying.” I said “Isn’t it amazing! Nearly all the people in this city, the whole country for that matter, are all praying at the same time. They are ALL doing it. Isn’t it amazing? I really want you to listen and try hard to remember this for your whole life. This is very special.” Then I said to her “why aren’t we praying?” She replied very matter of factly “oh … that’s because we aren’t Mussie.”

Today, as I started to write this piece I stopped and sat down with my 5 year old snuggled on my lap. I talked to her about that experience. I asked her if she remembered Ghada’s gym and she said yes. I asked her if she remembered the special night when we went outside to hear all the prayers from the mosques. And she shook her head… no. My heart dropped. I wanted her to remember. I needed her to remember. I felt if she could remember and absorb this part of the whole Saudi experience it might give her a core of compassion for others who think and believe differently than she does. I needed her to remember so she would have respect for Muslims all over the world in a time where it is more than necessary. But she didn’t. So I told her the whole story, everything we said to each other on that warm Arab night. And when I told her the reply she gave “oh…that’s because we aren’t Mussie,” she said to me with her head slightly tilted and very serious….”Mom. They aren’t Mussie. They are MUSLIM.” My heart rose again and I now know she has the respect I wanted her to learn from it. She can’t remember the night but I know in my heart she absorbed the experience and the message.

It was early October. We had only recently arrived in Stockholm, but the days were already shorter than in the States. By half past six, the sun was officially gone. And every day sunset came three minutes earlier, not enough to notice right away, but quickly do and you know in 30 days we would lose an hour and a half of daylight.

By the time we “fell back” from Day Light Savings Time, sunset was right about when my kids would wake up from their afternoon nap. My kids would sleep until 3:30 or 4 p.m. and when they woke up, it was dark. Really dark. If you’ve been to Boston or Seattle, you can say you know dark, but this seemed different than anything I’ve experienced. It’s strange to see children walking to school in the dark at 8:30 a.m. and coming home from school at 2:30 p.m. in the same darkness.

Winter in northern countries means a change in lifestyle with, oh, six hours or so of daylight. While my Swedish neighbors would use this opportunity to bake and spend time together as a family, I found it strange to have it pitch dark at 3 p.m., and needed some life around me. I had two young children under the age of two. They were driven by schedule and light helped tell them determine when it was dinner or breakfast time.

We learned to adjust. They would wake up from their naps when other mothers of toddlers back here at home were setting out to do afternoon errands or playdates. I found it difficult to pack up the diaper bag and head out to grocery shop in the dark. But I did my best to reset my internal clock; or perhaps it was my mental clock. Perhaps I should have done the “when in Rome ” thing and retreated inside like the Swedes did, but I didn’t. The kids would wake up from their naps, and to help expose them (and me) to some kind of light, we’d head to the mall. Lots of fluorescent lights do wonders to help establish daylight. Why else do airports create this “hey-it’s-day-time-somewhere” feel at international hubs? We would zip to a grocery store, department store or indoor play area that was fully lit and full of life, even if only for a little while. I soon discovered we were not the only ones going this route. I actually made a few friends with this game. (Side note: I saw first hand why people centuries ago needed a winter solstice celebration in the darkest of dark days. I craved lights for six weeks.)

This was definitely a lesson in learning to adjust to what you are given–a different kind of culture shock for me. It was, perhaps, just an introduction to the next four months of snow that would cover our front yard. You can’t fight Mother Nature. I realized I had to just get in there and do what I could to make darkness fun for all of us. It gave me new appreciation for those who forged this path a century ago without electricity.

The good news is that daylight comes as quickly as it wanes. Once December 21 passes and each day gets lighter, it’s back to 6:30 sunsets sometime in March and a few months later you’re back to round-the-clock daylight. Which I have to say is even weirder than the darkness.