My house is eerily quiet, my eyes are swollen, there is a new pot of marmite in the cupboard and I have an abnormal amount of washing to do (that's laundry, Americans - I'm not abnormally dirty...). This is the aftermath of the first visit of my family since my moving and marriaging.
It was wonderful to see my mum and sister- as they walked blearily through the arrival gate at Logan, I felt that part of me that's only fueled by family take a breath.
The week was emotionally charged but full of love and at least one lasting legend. Being chased by a squirrel from a park is likely never to be forgotten (seriously, I threw water and flip-flops at him and he kept advancing). I'd needed desperately to be around people who I could be completely normal and relaxed with - people who I could suspend politeness and just be me with (of course I can do this with Jeremy, but the more the better) - and I got it. What a treat to be able to growl at people who talk to me before my morning coffee, instead of feigning pleasant wakefulness.
The week also had its disappointments. These by no means defined the week but it's these I'm going to write about because they seem to be key to the expat experience.
Because when you gather up all that missing - all the longing for hugs and implicit understanding, all the wished for confidences over tea and biscuits - when you bundle it up and lay it at the door of a week-long visit, asking the visit to be the golden family sustenance to nourish you through the upcoming months of missing, you are guaranteed to be disappointed.
Add to the mix a basement spare-room so heavy with humidity it almost squelches, a husband bent double in agony with a back-problem and a dependence on public transport and you have enough niggles to ensure moments of tension and misunderstanding. These moments are of course part and parcel of family dynamics - particularly my family as we're very good at sharing our emotions. The problem comes when you pair them with the bundle of need and expectation, and you're left with a frustrating feeling of the visit being somehow incomplete or imperfect. Like half a sentence left hanging in the air.
Somehow we are going to have to work out a formula for visit success. In it will likely involve some heavily managed expectations and a dehumidifier. Ultimately though I have to accept that in moving to America I have changed how I can be with my family. I no longer have access to un-pressured family time, and resenting that isn't going to help.
That said, every now and again I'm going to have to shut myself in a room, stamp my feet and shout "it's just not fair". This may be the norm for the near-future, we may have to work out techniques to manage it, but man it sucks sometimes.
Final Fantasy
"Hans, can you find out how I change the cloudy mirror to the celestial mirror?"
"Sure - you go find a man at the campsite and tell him where his wife is. Then you go back to the woman but the boy will have gone. Then you go up the glowing path to find the boy and the mirror will change"
Unless you too have a husband / partner who is prone to video-game addiction, you are probably wondering whether a) Jeremy and I have moved to Avatar land or b) we've lost our tenuous grip on reality.
But no, alas, while I'd really quite like to live in Avatar-land, in actual fact I'm sat on a sofa googling cheats for my husband.
For the past few weeks, since some dear soul at Jeremy's geek-filled workplace lent him a stack of games, Jeremy has been transfixed. I go to bed with the music to Final Fantasy playing in my head. At least, I think it's in my head, but it also might just be audible from the next room because for the past two weeks I can't remember going to bed at the same time as Jeremy. I also can't remember waking up and him being there. In fact, it's entirely possible that he hasn't been to bed at all.
I'm not sure what the correct plan of anti-final-fantasy attack should be. My options as I see them are:
a) pinch him whenever he plays as a subtle aversion therapy so that he ultimately associates it with discomfort.
b) feed the games to his worms as some sort of modern-take-on-a-greek-myth revenge.
c) find out as many cheats as possible and wait until he falls asleep (assuming he does sleep) and then subliminally communicate them (he only intentionally cheats when he's exhausted all possible options) so that he wakes inspired and actually finishes the damn game.
I have a feeling that the latter is the only real option available to me, since from past experience I know that until he finishes the thing, there'll be no distracting him.Plus I'm not 100% sure worms eat CDs...
Do you think it's a sign that the honeymoon period is over when your husband tries to get you to go to bed early (alone) so that he can play his video games?
That was a rhetorical question.
"Sure - you go find a man at the campsite and tell him where his wife is. Then you go back to the woman but the boy will have gone. Then you go up the glowing path to find the boy and the mirror will change"
Unless you too have a husband / partner who is prone to video-game addiction, you are probably wondering whether a) Jeremy and I have moved to Avatar land or b) we've lost our tenuous grip on reality.
But no, alas, while I'd really quite like to live in Avatar-land, in actual fact I'm sat on a sofa googling cheats for my husband.
For the past few weeks, since some dear soul at Jeremy's geek-filled workplace lent him a stack of games, Jeremy has been transfixed. I go to bed with the music to Final Fantasy playing in my head. At least, I think it's in my head, but it also might just be audible from the next room because for the past two weeks I can't remember going to bed at the same time as Jeremy. I also can't remember waking up and him being there. In fact, it's entirely possible that he hasn't been to bed at all.
I'm not sure what the correct plan of anti-final-fantasy attack should be. My options as I see them are:
a) pinch him whenever he plays as a subtle aversion therapy so that he ultimately associates it with discomfort.
b) feed the games to his worms as some sort of modern-take-on-a-greek-myth revenge.
c) find out as many cheats as possible and wait until he falls asleep (assuming he does sleep) and then subliminally communicate them (he only intentionally cheats when he's exhausted all possible options) so that he wakes inspired and actually finishes the damn game.
I have a feeling that the latter is the only real option available to me, since from past experience I know that until he finishes the thing, there'll be no distracting him.Plus I'm not 100% sure worms eat CDs...
Do you think it's a sign that the honeymoon period is over when your husband tries to get you to go to bed early (alone) so that he can play his video games?
That was a rhetorical question.
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