Every time you move to another country you leave a little bit of your heart behind. But when you leave the country which welcomed your first child, and the nurses who so gently cared for your fragile newborn, the parks which offered him beautiful spaces to run and play, the neighbors who repeatedly let him open their letter boxes and lovingly tolerated him testing their door bells, you know that when you bid farewell to this exceptionally beautiful country you’re going to feel a big, big piece of your heart rip out. It’s highly probable that we will be leaving La belle France to move to England. I’m so upset. This country and it’s natives who let their dogs fowl the city sidewalks, who drive like maniacs, has captivated me and offered my family the most wonderful home. I am so grateful. I am so proud that my son will be, forever, a Dijonais. I do not want to leave. I feel not only my own sadness at our impending departure, but also a sadness on Matty’s behalf, and yet I do know that as long as we pack Teddy and all of his beloved stuffed animals, as long as we can find M &Ms in our new country, as long as our new city has fire engines and police cars with loud sirens and flashing lights, as long as Mummy and Papa continue to love each other and provide him with a stable family life with cuddles and kisses, that Matt will feel no pain. My sadness is my own.
Just as Matthew has an unwavering complete and blind faith in me that all will be well, I too must have faith in this journey my life is leading me on. Au revoir, Dijon. Tu va me manquer.
1.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Monday, August 8, 2011
Learning from the past
I remember when we left Edinburgh about five years ago I felt my heart brake as we drove through the city centre for the last time heading out towards the motorway. I had tears streaming down my face. I didn’t think I could ever love another city as much as I loved Scotland’s utterly charming capitol. And yet, as it turns out, I love the city which gave me my husband as much as the city which greeted my first child.
I remember our estate agent taking us on a tour of our first apartment in Edinburgh. I remember wondering if this one would be the one, I remember noting all the apartment’s pros and cons on a pad of paper. I remember remarking how the windows weren’t double glazed and that the noise from the street would be quite bothersome, but how the flat came with a laundry room which was a major bonus. We were pleased that the kitchen had brand new appliances but unimpressed how, in true British style, the bathroom floor was carpeted. Our experience was similar when we visited our flat in Dijon for the first time. I vividly recall standing in front of the entrance waiting for the agent to find the right key, impatient to see what was on the other side of this beautiful wooden door. I didn’t fall in love with the flat immediately, but I could see the potential. It was a very open plan, child friendly property. We’ve been incredibly happy here on rue de la Sapiniere. When the time comes for us to leave I imagine the flood gates will open just like they did when we left Edinburgh.
If I cast my mind back even further I remember when, as a seven year old, my family left Berlin to move to Toronto. I didn’t have a fear of the unknown, simply an ache at being parted with something I did not want to be parted from. I bent down and touched the tarmac on the runway before looking up at the stairs leading up to our plane. I recall whispering “I love you, Germany” and feeling my mother place her arm around my shoulder. Once on board I looked out of my little airplane window and I felt the tears in my eyes start to trickle down my cheeks. I was emotional even as a seven year old. My sister and my father were sitting one row ahead playing Tic Tac Tow, and I was behind her feeling the most profound sadness I’d ever felt in all of my seven years. My sister feels things deeply, and she has a sensitive and delicate heart. But she expresses herself differently than I do. I simply can’t stop myself from crying when I feel something intensely emotional. I wish there were some sort of Kegel exercises I could do for my eyes to help control my embarrassing deluges.
I know when the time comes for us to prepare for our next chapter everything will be alright. It’s just turning the page that’s the hard part.
I remember our estate agent taking us on a tour of our first apartment in Edinburgh. I remember wondering if this one would be the one, I remember noting all the apartment’s pros and cons on a pad of paper. I remember remarking how the windows weren’t double glazed and that the noise from the street would be quite bothersome, but how the flat came with a laundry room which was a major bonus. We were pleased that the kitchen had brand new appliances but unimpressed how, in true British style, the bathroom floor was carpeted. Our experience was similar when we visited our flat in Dijon for the first time. I vividly recall standing in front of the entrance waiting for the agent to find the right key, impatient to see what was on the other side of this beautiful wooden door. I didn’t fall in love with the flat immediately, but I could see the potential. It was a very open plan, child friendly property. We’ve been incredibly happy here on rue de la Sapiniere. When the time comes for us to leave I imagine the flood gates will open just like they did when we left Edinburgh.
If I cast my mind back even further I remember when, as a seven year old, my family left Berlin to move to Toronto. I didn’t have a fear of the unknown, simply an ache at being parted with something I did not want to be parted from. I bent down and touched the tarmac on the runway before looking up at the stairs leading up to our plane. I recall whispering “I love you, Germany” and feeling my mother place her arm around my shoulder. Once on board I looked out of my little airplane window and I felt the tears in my eyes start to trickle down my cheeks. I was emotional even as a seven year old. My sister and my father were sitting one row ahead playing Tic Tac Tow, and I was behind her feeling the most profound sadness I’d ever felt in all of my seven years. My sister feels things deeply, and she has a sensitive and delicate heart. But she expresses herself differently than I do. I simply can’t stop myself from crying when I feel something intensely emotional. I wish there were some sort of Kegel exercises I could do for my eyes to help control my embarrassing deluges.
I know when the time comes for us to prepare for our next chapter everything will be alright. It’s just turning the page that’s the hard part.
A low grade fever and a highly emotional mother
It’s in the most sacred moment between Matthew and I, when he calls for me in the middle of the night, when I have him in my arms breathing into my neck and when only I can soothe him, that I’m reminded in the most beautiful way that I am blessed to be this child’s mother. I can feel my heart melt. My shoulders tremble and tears fill my eyes, and I allow myself to weep these silent tears of joy. I am cradling my son and I feel so high. This love is my drug. Willie Nelson, America’s loveable Country and Western singer is with us in the back ground, and his sweet and gentle voice lift me up to a sort of heaven on earth. I am perfectly content. I lack nothing. And I feel an exquisite peace that only my son can bring me.
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