Everyone is having babies. I don't think that's even much of an exaggeration. I now have skype dates with 'people' who still count their age in months and whose length is measured rather than their height.
It'd be fair to say that it's freaking me out a little bit.
I can feel a strengthening tug inside me towards motherhood. Granted it may just be a longing to claim a definition that is something other than 'unemployed' (how many people get pregnant as an easier option to job hunting??), but I think it's more than that. Even Jeremy is less horrified by the whole idea than he used to be (he used to equate having children to death, so it'll take a while). But the bit that's properly freaking me out is the fact that I'm here, not there. Having children in this country feels like a root too far - one which would be harder to pull up than the others. And, for reasons related to yesterday's post, along with the fact that my mommy and I are really close, I could never imagine having children when living more than like three miles away from my mother. (OK, thirty - ninety, no J I'm not suggesting we move to Dibley). Yet here I am, feeling that tug, living in America, and I'll be 28 this year.
Like I said, Jeremy's only now starting to revise his thinking that you decide to have children once you've resigned yourself to your life being over, so I imagine there's a ways to go yet before we actually are faced with these decisions, but it scares me. There's the matter of maternity leave (so much better in England, but you have to be living there for a while before in order to be eligible) and the fact that deciding to start 'trying' doesn't mean a baby will appear nine months later. Which all seems to mean if 'we' (read 'I') want to be in England when we have kids then shouldn't we start thinking about it like yesterday?
There aren't any answers to any of these questions I know, because life just isn't that plannable; but when, aged twelveish, I mapped out my ideal life (married by 24, children by 25... I KNOW!) I never thought that moving continents would be something I'd have to worry about. (Nor did I have nightmares about my children being unable to say Worcestershire sauce.)
Ah well.
Now if you'll excuse me I have to shower and change in time for a skype date with a two month old.
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
More on homesickness
Not looking to worry anyone - generally I'm doing ok. But I find the phenomenon of homesickness interesting and it helps me to unpick the emotions so that I better understand them and am better prepared to stay strong when they hit - know thine enemy and all that...
I realised this week that my last post on homesickness only told half the story - the crying, moping, all-encompassing-glooming side. But sometimes, homesickness expresses itself in inexplicable rage and frustration. Sure there is still crying (when is there not?!) but the tears are bitter and it's less easily solved with a hug - mostly because I'm likely to punch the hugger.
The anger comes from an intense frustration at my self-perceived inadequacy and awkwardness. Angry because all the feelings of not-fitting, of loneliness and longing - of feeling like a shadow just following Jeremy around in his life - are just not me and I know that elsewhere there's a place where I feel bright and likeable and socially graceful (this may be self delusion, but it feels that way ok?!). I want to scream sometimes that 'this is not me' - this quiet shy shadow is not me. Most of the time I can push past the urge to introvert and force myself out in the open, and when I do I'm able to laugh and joke and forget my difference, but just the effort of having to do this angers me at times.
In these moments - where I feel so intensely out-of-place and so angry at this displacement when there's a place across the ocean where I truly belong - I become inarticulate and basically adopt the tactics of a small child when faced with total and utter powerlessness. I haven't yet laid down and thumped the floor but I'm pretty sure my face does go a shade near purple and feet have most definitely been stomped.
(I should make it clear here that all of the stomping is done in private and mostly inside my head. I'm not busy having temper tantrums in the middle of the street - Jeremy is the only witness and I'm so thankful that he recognises my rage as frustration and gives me the grace and space I need to calm and clear.)
There's nothing to be done but to be brave and get through this stage. If we work on the basis that the process of change is similar to the grief cycle, I figure that acceptance is just around the corner...right? (Although I have a feeling the process is not linear and these stages will reassert themselves a few times over.) In the meantime, understanding reasons behind why I want to scream sometimes means that I can move beyond behaving like a 5 year old.
Use your words Hannah, use your words.
I realised this week that my last post on homesickness only told half the story - the crying, moping, all-encompassing-glooming side. But sometimes, homesickness expresses itself in inexplicable rage and frustration. Sure there is still crying (when is there not?!) but the tears are bitter and it's less easily solved with a hug - mostly because I'm likely to punch the hugger.
The anger comes from an intense frustration at my self-perceived inadequacy and awkwardness. Angry because all the feelings of not-fitting, of loneliness and longing - of feeling like a shadow just following Jeremy around in his life - are just not me and I know that elsewhere there's a place where I feel bright and likeable and socially graceful (this may be self delusion, but it feels that way ok?!). I want to scream sometimes that 'this is not me' - this quiet shy shadow is not me. Most of the time I can push past the urge to introvert and force myself out in the open, and when I do I'm able to laugh and joke and forget my difference, but just the effort of having to do this angers me at times.
In these moments - where I feel so intensely out-of-place and so angry at this displacement when there's a place across the ocean where I truly belong - I become inarticulate and basically adopt the tactics of a small child when faced with total and utter powerlessness. I haven't yet laid down and thumped the floor but I'm pretty sure my face does go a shade near purple and feet have most definitely been stomped.
(I should make it clear here that all of the stomping is done in private and mostly inside my head. I'm not busy having temper tantrums in the middle of the street - Jeremy is the only witness and I'm so thankful that he recognises my rage as frustration and gives me the grace and space I need to calm and clear.)
There's nothing to be done but to be brave and get through this stage. If we work on the basis that the process of change is similar to the grief cycle, I figure that acceptance is just around the corner...right? (Although I have a feeling the process is not linear and these stages will reassert themselves a few times over.) In the meantime, understanding reasons behind why I want to scream sometimes means that I can move beyond behaving like a 5 year old.
Use your words Hannah, use your words.
Two American things...
1. The amount of choice here never fails to overwhelm and baffle me. Something as simple as ordering a sandwich prompts about 100 questions. Type of bread? type of cheese? you want pickles? tomatoes? peppers? They often don't even suggest combination fillings, assuming (wrongly in my case) that you know exactly what you want and have the imagination to conjure up a sandwich. I miss Pret with its pre packaged, pre-chosen, no surprises (other than the odd sneaky addition of celery salt) sandwiches.
Yesterday I was in a cafeteria, full of the hubbub of choice and I, being a wuss and unwilling to betray myself as one-who-does-not-understand-the-system-and-isn't-brave-enough-to-admit-it, gravitated towards some ready-made unappetizing-but-apparently-unthreatening wraps. But when I asked for a 'veggie wrap', thinking I'd foiled the choice-filled system, I was asked which veggie wrap I would like. There's more than one kind? I said in a panic, flailing around and looking very confused until a kindly woman behind me pointed out that the bread-wrappings of the wraps were different colours. Oh, America.
2. Yesterday I went with a friend to watch her 6 year old play ice hockey. Yup, UKers, I said 6 year old. To us mild-climate people, that's like a 6 year old playing polo, which possibly happens but it sounds improbable.
The kids were all kitted out in so much body armour they wouldn't have looked out of place on a medieval battle field. The armour, which initially looked a little excessive, turned out to be fairly key since the kids fell over all the time. Don't get me wrong, they were amazing and I wouldn't have a chance of staying upright and racing on ice after a puck while holding a stick, but they fell over a lot. Some of them seemed to use falling over as a tactical technique to trip up the other players or to push the puck towards the goal. It was pretty comical, until I remembered they were 6, but they didn't seem to mind much. Anyway, I was very impressed, and actually think that children's ice-hockey is far more entertaining than professional hockey 'cause no matter what's happening, no matter how inevitable a goal seems, it could all change in a split second as they can always (and generally do) fall over.
Yesterday I was in a cafeteria, full of the hubbub of choice and I, being a wuss and unwilling to betray myself as one-who-does-not-understand-the-system-and-isn't-brave-enough-to-admit-it, gravitated towards some ready-made unappetizing-but-apparently-unthreatening wraps. But when I asked for a 'veggie wrap', thinking I'd foiled the choice-filled system, I was asked which veggie wrap I would like. There's more than one kind? I said in a panic, flailing around and looking very confused until a kindly woman behind me pointed out that the bread-wrappings of the wraps were different colours. Oh, America.
2. Yesterday I went with a friend to watch her 6 year old play ice hockey. Yup, UKers, I said 6 year old. To us mild-climate people, that's like a 6 year old playing polo, which possibly happens but it sounds improbable.
The kids were all kitted out in so much body armour they wouldn't have looked out of place on a medieval battle field. The armour, which initially looked a little excessive, turned out to be fairly key since the kids fell over all the time. Don't get me wrong, they were amazing and I wouldn't have a chance of staying upright and racing on ice after a puck while holding a stick, but they fell over a lot. Some of them seemed to use falling over as a tactical technique to trip up the other players or to push the puck towards the goal. It was pretty comical, until I remembered they were 6, but they didn't seem to mind much. Anyway, I was very impressed, and actually think that children's ice-hockey is far more entertaining than professional hockey 'cause no matter what's happening, no matter how inevitable a goal seems, it could all change in a split second as they can always (and generally do) fall over.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)