Expat Mums Blog

Home is where the heart is -- but where's your heart

“Don’t you ever miss home?” an old friend asked me on Facebook a few days ago. She was referring to Sardinia, the Italian island where I was born and lived until the age of 17. More specifically, she was referring to Nuoro, the “city” so small it is barely a city at all – more of a town, really – where we all lived, went to school, met in the evening to walk up and down the Corso Garibaldi, the main street, and then stop at the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, the square where we all went to play as kids, because our parents would take us back to where they used to hang out with their friends; the square where we also, as teens, started hanging out with our friends.

Things that you lose that you can't get back

Nothing sends fear into the heart of an expat like a phone call.  Its not necessarily middle of the night, like the stereotype.  It can be any time of day.  But there is always something slightly wrong about it.  Its before work, or mid-afternoon and the voice on the other end of the phone is beloved, but out of place.  They shouldn't be phoning you, not now, not at this time. 

And then comes the news.  And the sadness, guilt and regret breaks out of the dam that has been built up for a long time. 

It smells like childhood

The ability of scent to evoke long-forgotten memories never ceases to amaze me. Walking along, busily going about my day, I am occasionally stopped dead in my tracks by my nose. I sniff the air again to be sure and then a flash of memory (sometimes brief and hazy and at others prolonged and detailed) comes and burns itself to the back of my eyelids.

External stimuli are shut out as my mind desperately attempts to grab at the bucking legs of these memories, lassoing and then corralling them for safekeeping.

Friendships come from the least expected places

There's an apple orchard not far from here. I found it a couple years ago when we came back from California. I was driving down a country lane, the kind where if you are not paying attention you find yourself head-to-head with another car, and need to back up into a passing place. I saw a hand-written sign that said "Apples" and pulled over. There weren't many apple orchards in San Diego, and I thought the girls would enjoy seeing the origin of one of their favourite fruits.

We pulled into the farm and made our way to the old barn, a barrel of rainwater gleaming in the waning September sun and a whisper of Autumn in the warm breeze. As we timidly walked in through the open door, the heavy sweet smell of ageing fruit engulfed us.

Thanksgiving in the UK

Thanksgiving is one of the hardest holidays as an American-born expat. I’d say it is harder than the Fourth of July – it is getting close to winter and the daylight hours are waning, often pitch dark not long after school pickup.

It is that awkward time of year when the temperatures haven’t dipped low enough for Jack Frost to cast a shimmering spell over the rooftops, it is just cold and grey and gloomy.

Every year I make an effort to preserve the Thanksgiving tradition. When I was working fulltime, I would take the day off and spend it in the kitchen.

Mummy, why are we girls?

I get up early. By 6.15 I am down stairs in the living room with a laptop with a steaming cup of coffee. I try to get a good hour or so of work done before the kids get up.

But for the past week, HM (high maintenance), my 3 and ½-year-old, has woken up before her two older sisters and tip toed down the stairs with her blanket and pillow and snuggled in my lap.

I love this time with her. She looks into my eyes, revels in my undivided attention, and tells me something about her life:  The name of a new friend. A toy she wants. A declaration that she doesn’t like Cheerios.

Today she looked at me and asked: “Mummy, why are we girls?”

I could hear my husband snickering from the kitchen as he poured his coffee. I sensed that he was thrilled that it was I that was asked the question.

The last lecture -- achieving your childhood dreams

I'm known for being a bit behind in current events. I come by this honestly (my parents still don't have cable TV) but I'm sure it is made worse by the fact that my brain can only handle so many bits and bytes and mine is on overload with kid stuff.

So when my friend Charlene asked if I had heard about "The Last Lecture" I gave my usual blank look.

If you haven't heard about this, let me explain. Randy Pausch was a professor at Carnegie Mellon in the US. Diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 2007, he gave a moving "last lecture" on achieving your childhood dreams that was videotaped and widely distributed on You Tube. To date, the lecture has been viewed by more than 6 million people.

YOU HAVE TO MAKE THE TIME TO SEE THIS. It is worth all 76 minutes. It is a good reminder of what is important in life.

Note: Randy Pausch died this summer.

This post was written by Susanna, an Expat Mums Blog founder. You can also find her at her blog, A Modern Mother.