Waves

It's the day before we leave my parents' house, and I keep having wrong thoughts. Thoughts like, "What else do I need to buy before we go?" Nothing, Gina, because they have Target where you're going. "What do the kids need for the plane?" There IS no plane. "Do we need an extra box for all the stuff we've accumulated this summer?" Um, actually, that's true, we do. It just doesn't have to fit airline standards.

We're not accustomed to this new normal, when leaving this house doesn't mean enduring 24 hours of traveling hurtling through the air in a pressurized metal tube and landing on the other side of the ocean. Now it means enduring 24 hours in a car and ending up at "home."

On the packing and shopping side, this is a relief, even if it means my "I can pack this suitcase to within 1-2 pounds of 50 without using a scale out of sheer practice" skills will go to waste. But last night, Ethan reminded me that it's not just on the surface level that this requires some adjustment.

Right before bed, Ethan tends to evaluate how he's feeling and give me an update (he is currently vying for "most emotionally cognizant and articulate teenage boy on the planet"). Generally, he finds he's feeling some anxiety about the upcoming school year. This time he became aware that part of his anxiety stems from the fact that all this packing and preparing makes him feel like he really IS getting ready for that long haul to China, and it's sad that we aren't. I'm sad too.

Grief. It comes in waves, like you're standing at the edge of the ocean and you don't know when the water will come up and cover your toes, or when it will surprise you by washing up to your knees. You could stand there all day and not have it touch you, and then in a moment it soaks you.

But I feel like the tide is going out. The waves are smaller. We sometimes see them coming. They don't knock us down anymore, just get us a little wet.

So that's how we're feeling as we prepare again to head back. I'm off to make one more trip to Walmart. Until we get to Florida, that is.

Don't blame location

When Erik first told me we were moving to Singapore in 2004, I had to look it up on a map. I had an idea that it was near Fiji.

It is not near Fiji.

I quickly learned more about our new tropical island home than its location, just short of the equator and connected by bridges to Malaysia. I learned that it was the cleanest, safest, most efficient, most affluent, and most beautiful place I've ever been. What's not to love about Singapore?

And yet, through our time there, I met plenty of women who hated Singapore. Couldn't find a thing to like about it. Really? How is that possible? It's a tropical island for Pete's sake. You live where people dream of vacationing.

The reason was that it wasn't Singapore they hated. It was their circumstances. Singapore just happened to be the unlucky backdrop. These women generally were expat women in transition, uprooted from all they loved, their homes, their families, and dropped into a lifestyle quite unlike what they'd ever known. They were lost, lonely, bored. They probably would have been lost, lonely, and bored in whatever country God dropped them, but they happened to be in Singapore and so it was at fault.

I learned two things from those women - first, that every place has its ups and downs, and you have to make a choice to focus on the ups. Second, and more importantly (because truthfully, some places do have fewer ups) I have to separate how I'm doing internally from where I am or I will miss growth.

People have started asking me how we like living in Orlando, and I have to remind myself to stop and take away the lens of transition that colors our first six months there. Though Orlando has been the context for some tough moments, it is not the cause of them. When I do that, I can say that yes, we really do enjoy living there.


Blaming location misses the real issues. It's easy to say "I just don't like this place. Life would be better somewhere else" rather than to acknowledge and deal with what our circumstances are doing to our hearts. The great news is that sometimes we can't change location, but we can always change how we look at them.

Expectation Management

One of the best coping skills Erik and I learned in the early days of expat living was a simple phrase, "lower your standards!" When you read that, you have to imagine it with your best game show host voice, like you're inviting someone to an exciting opportunity behind door #1. It was all about expectations. If you expect that the bathroom you've been led to out the back door of a restaurant and down a dark alley will be a picture of cleanliness, you will be sorely disappointed. However, if you imagine that it will be a sufficient hole in the ground, you'll be satisfied. You get the idea.

It's called expectation management. The problem with expectations is that we are so often unaware of them. It doesn't occur to me that I would appreciate a toilet that flushes until I look up and see that the wall mounted reservoir in the back alley bathroom is partially missing and the frozen water within is still holding its shape. I can, apparently, flush in springtime.

I've been reminded lately how important it is to talk about our expectations.This is especially true with our kids. When we began summer vacation this year, they had an unspoken expectation that it would be like their three previous summers, when they spent all day, every day, outside with friends. Last summer I even had to call one mom and ask her if her kids could maybe not schedule the summer project involving my children quite as often because they weren't able to spend time with other kids. We were beating off the playdates with sticks.

This wasn't the case in Orlando. The kids they've met from school mostly live about an hour away, and others were preparing for long trips away. Within a few days we were all scratching hash marks on the walls. I finally realized we needed to have a talk about expectations with them, and we basically had to say, "lower your standards." It required a little more mourning of what they used to have, but within a day their "I'm bored" statements had reduced significantly. It's a process of looking at reality and making adjustments.

So often when I am frustrated with life it is because I expected it to be a certain way and it isn't. Many of my expectations are residual, left over from what I was accustomed to having in my "previous" life. It's helpful for me to take a hard look at the expectations I have and ask myself if they are realistic in this new season of life. Some of them might not be, and that's where I need to tell myself to "lower my standards." It doesn't mean I'm giving up hope. I think it means I'm choosing contentment.

The Real Me

It happened yesterday at the dentist. I was myself. I mean, really truly, like just how I would be if I were with someone I'd known forever. I was chatty. I made witty comments. They laughed. It felt comfortable, and normal, and I thought, "Hey, I'm being me! With people I just met!" This is progress.

You'd think I'd always be me - isn't everyone? - but I'm still getting there. A friend of mine here reminded me lately that when someone has gone through a major transition, you should assume for the first year that you don't really know the real them.

Ah, how true.

It was good to hear that again because I know that my traditional transition stress reaction is withdrawal. I usually don't realize I'm doing it until people make comments like, "Gosh, I thought you were so reserved and quiet, but . . . " (It's ok, go ahead and finish that thought, "but you're actually kind of goofy and don't stop talking.")

The first time I did it was when I got married, and everything in my world changed - new city, new job, new home, new roommate, new church, new friends. I met one of my good friends that year, and she thought I didn't like her the whole year. Meanwhile I was saying to my husband, "I really like her! I hope she'll be my friend!" Sigh. I had no idea.

Since then I'm at least aware of it (the first step is admitting you have a problem). I think I am doing better here, but I think it's partly because there are people I am myself with because they already know me. Or people who are just so inviting they make me want to show up all at once. There are others though who still think I'm the quiet type. Just wait, I want to say.

A person who has just gone through transition is a bit like a new house plant. You can give it the best environment, but it's probably going to wilt a little at first. Give it time. It'll perk up. Pretty soon the real Gina will show up and the "I just played Dizzy Lizzy* with my life and I can't walk quite straight" Gina will fade away. I'm still just a little shell shocked and not so sure of myself here so I shut down the non-essentials and just focus on getting through. I'm triaging. But as we say in the middle kingdom, "yue lai yue" - it's coming gradually.

Like at the dentist. The prospect of major dental work somehow drew me out. Who knew?

*Dizzy Lizzy, for the uninitiated, is a game in which you place your head on the top of a baseball bat, spin around several times while maintaining contact with the bat, and then attempt to walk toward a destination in the distance. It seems like it should be so easy but it is hard. Very, very hard. Like, "walk sideways until you fall down while your friends laugh hysterically" hard. But oh so fun.

Making Room

I went to an elementary school where we had a great deal of freedom in our desk space. I don't know if this was true in other places, but we regularly moved our desks around and formed little groups of 3-4. It was fun, but a bit of a social nightmare. I mean, what better way to shun someone than to not invite them to be part of the new configuration? I remember my friend Jenny and I moving our two desks off by ourselves once. We felt conspiratorial. I can't imagine how hard it would have been for a new kid to walk into that classroom.

Moving to a new place feels a little bit like that, minus the intentional shunning (which is a huge bonus). Every time I've moved somewhere, even when I moved back to China from Singapore, to relationships with people I already knew, there was the question, "Is there room for me?"

Because I get it - people are busy, relational energy is limited, the space I used to fill has been filled with other things. It can be hard to make room for someone new, no matter how much you enjoy them.

There's an energy in me that gets stirred up, maybe more than in other people, by situations like this. I want to be picked. I want to be worth someone shifting their desks around to make space for me. And once I get there, that energy will push me to prove to you that you made a good choice.

I know that to develop friendships here I will most likely need to take the initiative. I don't mind much - I am an initiative taker in general. Also, being an introvert, I'm not looking for a lot of people. But at times initiating wars with that energy in me. I know I could ask to be in your desk cluster. But it feels SO much better to be asked.

Last Friday I came home from my morning group feeling a little raw - a good kind of raw, because I was able to share with them some of the recent transition grief I've been feeling (ladies, you know who you are and you ROCK). I started contemplating the weekend, the long 3 day weekend with two kids and no daddy buffer, and I thought, "Lord Almighty, if I have to initiate to be with people this weekend I think it might just do me in. I mean, no seriously, God, I do not think I can do it."

And lo and behold, when I got home there was an email inviting us to join many others at the beach on Saturday. God loves me.

It may seem like a small thing, but for those of us who are new in town, it's big. I know that over time, we will find our desk space. Thank you to those who are making room for us!

Settled

One of the most frequent questions I get here is, "So do you feel settled?" Honestly, I'm not sure what being settled means. Does it mean we aren't eating off lawn furniture anymore? That everything's up on the walls? That it feels like home?

When people see our house, they are usually a little amazed that it does look settled. In fact, we usually get comments about how quickly we've done it, how they haven't finished painting the house they've been living in for 10 years, etc.

It never occurred to us not to do it this way, so we started talking about why. When Erik and I move into a new place, we unpack and settle in like we're gunning for a new HGTV show called "Instant House." When people share that they still have boxes unpacked after years of living somewhere, I am baffled. Don't you need that stuff? Usually within a week we've unpacked 90% of our boxes or more. That's just how we roll.

But we do it because we know that feeling settled in our hearts is connected to where we live. When you've moved as many times as we have (seven so far in 16 years), your sense of home gets fuzzy. It's become important to us to create the space around us that says, "You're welcome here. This is known."

Many of my expat friends embrace an opposite view - why bother settling in when you're likely to have to move in 2 years? (FYI we are not planning on moving in 2 years). It does feel like a lot of unnecessary work. But if we had lived by that mentality, we would have spent the last 13 years without ever feeling like our house was our home. No thank you.

I find it spills over into relationships as well. It's SO easy, when you've lived the transient lifestyle of an expat, to learn to guard your heart in relationships. Our kids learned it quickly. After just two years in Singapore, where life was a revolving door, I introduced Ethan to a new boy. His question to me was, "How long is he going to be here?" It can begin to feel safer, better, to choose not to settle in to relationships when the end point seems so close.

Home. Relationships. These are places where we need to settle our hearts, even if it means that just around the corner the roots will be pulled and the emotional dirt will fly. We're learning to be all in, to dive in deep, to make the most of whatever time we get wherever, with whomever.

Are we settled? We're trying to be, just as fast as we can.

You Got That Kid Americanized Yet?

I had to explain juice from concentrate to our kids today. I guess it just wasn't high on my priority list, while we lived overseas, to introduce frozen juice to them. Actually, it probably just wasn't available. It's one of many gaps they have in their "American education." I knew they'd be there; I just didn't know where. They're learning about frozen juice and soccer games and commercials and all sorts of things they didn't have in China. If only that were enough.

If only it were enough to "Americanize" them. Someone honestly asked me that question the other night, "You got that kid Americanized yet?" My response was, "He will never be American."

No, I realize our kids DO have American passports. Yes, they are American. But please understand that our kids, and any kids who have spent significant parts of their childhood outside of the U.S. will never see it the way we do, and it does a disservice to them not to recognize it.

Imagine if your parents were German, but you were born here in the U.S. Then one day, your parents pick you up and take you to Germany and say, "You're home." Would you feel at home? Even if you knew the language and looked German, you wouldn't feel it the same way.

Over time, our kids will learn how to "be" American, but keep in mind that kids who have had the blessing and the challenge of spending formative years in another culture are forever changed by that experience. They see things differently.

I guess what I'm hoping for is that people don't expect that our kids basically "get over it." That they leave behind their expat upbringing and become like everyone else. That won't happen, and I don't want it to happen. After all, aren't we who are Christians citizens of another kingdom? This world is not our home. Why try hard to make it feel that way?

My Anchor

I have this picture in my head today of me in a tiny rowboat on a vast ocean. I know I've talked about boats a lot through our transition, but it's fitting - we are on a journey. So back to my rowboat - imagine me in a tiny rowboat, riding the waves, and as I look around I see nothing recognizable in any direction. In fact, forget the boat - it's actually more like a raft, Castaway style. Except unlike Tom Hanks I have not, at any point of this move, made a disemboweled volleyball my best friend and confidante. I am, thankfully, still far from that. Praise be to God.

I think we generally try to move toward life in a swimming pool. We want something manageable, something with defined edges, something with a dimension that doesn't wear us out. The walls of the pool are the roles and relationships we form that give boundaries to who we are. We can stretch out on an inner tube and enjoy.

Any kind of transition - getting married, becoming a parent, changing jobs, kids leaving home, moving across town - will affect the roles and relationships we have. They stretch our boundaries - maybe to an Olympic size pool, maybe a lake, maybe the whole big ocean. We have to learn to renavigate, to manage this different shape. We need to find those places where we can rest, to become familiar with the edges again.

And so there's me, imagining the ocean around me with no land in sight. I long for the edges, the boundaries, the things that make me go, "Oh right, this is where I am, where I belong, who I am, what I'm capable of." My temptation is to look around, paddle frantically, screaming, "WILSON!!" I find myself looking to others to tell me "here's land." I seek affirmation, acknowledgement, value, to make me feel solid again.

But the fact is, those things we think give us definition are ultimately not what define us at all. They are merely temporary boundaries, these roles and relationships God gives us for seasons. What we need, what I need, to remember, is that regardless of the size of my current situation, my identity comes from Him. He is the anchor who tells me, "I know you. I see you. You are mine. That is all you need."

And in this, transition is a gift. It's an opportunity to have all that I might depend on be stripped away, and to be called back (more frequently than I usually need) to who I am in Him. The truth of who I am in Him is a constant, grounding me regardless of the depth of water or the distance from land.

Do you miss China?

People often ask me if I miss China. I really don't know how to answer this question, because what comes to mind is the pollution this year that has been so high it's unmeasurable by the current systems. Obviously I can live without that. I miss friends terribly, but several of them have also left in the last year as well, so I know that life there would be very different now. I confess I find America a little boring at times - I go to the store and nothing weird happens, ever. Is that enough to make me miss China? No. I can make my own weird.

We spent time recently with friends we knew in Singapore. We talked about how, initially, my friend missed it so much after moving back here that she just wanted to go back to Singapore, but the reality was, it wouldn't be the same. We agreed that what we miss wasn't necessarily the place itself, it's the intangibles.

It's things like community. I miss meeting people for the first time and being dear friends with them a month later, because that's how things work overseas. I miss bonding like soldiers during war time, hunkering down together when the waves of living cross-culturally are too rough.

It's feeling competent, knowing how to be an adult in the place where you are. I don't know how to own a house. I don't know the norms of being a parent in America. One day I will figure out this DVR thing.

It's being known and understood, having routine, being more comfortable being the only white face than looking like everyone else. These are the things I miss, because they are the things I think we all desire from anywhere we live (except maybe the white face thing. That was just our normal).

I had those things. I miss having them. I know I'll gradually get them back, over time, for the most part. So do I miss China? Let's just say "I miss that life."

Week One

It's been a week. I haven't even been sure what to write. The kids started school, which I hope will be the last major hurdle of "adjusting to life back in the U.S." I'm not saying there will be no more hurdles, just hopefully none so high as this one that threatens to pull some muscles.

Pull it has. Monday was our first at home day, and since we were jumping in to the middle of things, we didn't have quite as much as the other kids. We wrestled with feelings of anxiety throughout the day. I was trying to keep a positive outlook, but when we put the kids' books into their fresh new backpacks right before bedtime and they didn't all fit, all the wind got knocked out of my sails. Unfortunately, the kids were sailing in my boat, so we all sank a little bit.

By the morning, after a quick online order to L.L. Bean for larger backpacks, we were back on track. We were ready 1/2 hour early, God be praised! I am expected to help in each of their classrooms 2-3 times per semester and the only open day for Megan's class was Tuesday. No, I don't sit by the side of the pool and acclamate. I jump in!

It turned out to be just what Megan needed to calm her nerves. I sat in the corner and graded papers while her teachers amazed me. I saw Ethan at lunch and he was happily sitting with his best friend and some other 7th graders. All seemed well.

And then Wednesday happened, when they had to face the reality of what days at home entail, except we got to throw in things like "daddy's gone" and "we're still in major transition" to make it more interesting. Lets just say there were a lot of tears and a mom who needed a bath and a stiff drink by the end of the day. Not pretty people, not pretty.

Today was another school day, and they loved it. I dropped them off, ran some errands, came home and thought, "Wow. Now what?" then proceeded to do a little work and a little fun (hello OPI Samoan Sand on my finger and toenails). The kids came home and decided they love school and hate the work they have to do at home. I hope that evens out a little as time goes on.

Stretching emotional muscles. So often this week I just had to sit and cry with the kids and say, "Yeah, I get it. This is really hard. I think it's going to get easier. Let's remember that we're in process here ok?" But there were plenty of times I wanted to say, "I can't do this any more. I have my own mess. I don't know that I have anything to give you in yours."

Even as I type that I am reminded that His compassions are new every morning. That's what I need to remind us each day - that He sees us in our process, He cares for our hearts, He will carry us through.

Known, Needed, Have a Future

Known. Needed. Have a future.

These are three things that we talk about in our organization that we hope our staff are experiencing. In transition, these things go AWOL easily. As I look back on the major transitions of my life, I can see how most of the stress and other yuck I felt was because I didn't feel one or more of these things.

So because this isn't my first rodeo, I have been trying to be aware of my need for these things as we've moved to Florida. The problem is that awareness doesn't bring satisfaction. It just gives you an answer to the question, "Why do I feel like curling up in a ball today?" But sometimes that's enough.

Happily, I can feel these things creeping into my life in small ways: Going to a party where I actually know people and can have meaningful conversations and where I am invited to a small group. A nearby neighbor asks if her son can spend the night while she and her husband get away for some time to make a major decision. We visit our kids' school for an interview and I talk to people about when I'll be there helping this semester. Our neighbor invites us over to meet another family who has a daughter Megan's age and since we all work at Cru we have common ground.

Place where I feel known. Needed. I have a future. These are good moments.

Looking for friends

Boxes unpacked, check. (if I just don't open the office door).

Walls painted, mostly check.

Nearest grocery store, Walmart, Target located, check.

Invisible fence installed, check.

Find new friends . . . oy.

Truth be told, I am an introvert. A talkative introvert, which causes no small amount of dissonance for me, but an introvert nonetheless. I am tempted to say, "Hey, I've got a couple good friends here in Orlando. I'm calling it good!" But that seems horribly shortsighted and unsociable, so I did what I guess the average American woman does this time of year and I went to a neighborhood cookie exchange.

After a few desperate, somewhat humbling texts to a new neighbor clarifying that I did not, in fact, have to bring actual cookies (I hate sugar cookies. I'm a bar kind of girl), I headed out to the party. It was only a block and a half away, and as I walked, I pondered my emotions. I was dreading small talk and the inevitable shock and awe when I explain my life. I was nervous that I wouldn't fit in, that people wouldn't want to talk to me, that I wouldn't meet anyone I liked. I was excited that I might meet someone who could become a good friend. In short, I felt like a kindergartener on the first day of school (although I imagine the average five year old brings little to the table that evokes shock or awe).

There were probably 50 women at this event! Most of them were older than me. A few homeschool as well. Most seemed to attend this annual party regularly. Almost everyone talked about how much they love living in our neighborhood (certainly a good sign).

I walked away knowing a couple women a little more, bearing invites to a clothing swap and a regular wine and cheese chat with a couple girls down the street, and wielding a large plate of cookies. I can't say I can check the box on "new friends" (I realize now a part of me was really hoping it would be that easy) but it was a step in the right direction.

Now What?

My extended family is currently heading north through Florida on their way back to the chilly midwest, and we're left asking, "Now what?'

Up until now, we've been in a process of going somewhere. Our last months in China were preparation for getting everything from that side of the world to this one. This whole fall has been a time of waiting for all of that to get here. We were living in limbo.

But now we're here. The waiting is done. Now we're supposed to start doing life like we normally do, except I have no idea how. There's no rhythm, no routine. 

Oh sure, we're figured out a few things, like the fact that we need to learn how to stock up when we're "in town" because the nearest store is 15 minutes away. We've got running routes determined around the neighborhood which does wonders for getting us going in the morning (and for the dog!). We have food in the refrigerator and laundry running. We're functioning.

But I look at Megan's new guitar and think, "She needs guitar lessons. I don't know where to find a guitar teacher." Ethan wants to join soccer. Where? And where is the library? Our kids ask me daily, "What are we doing today?" and I don't how to answer them. Who do they play with and when? And who do I get to play with? I don't have a "this day we do this" mentality yet (and if you know me, you know that structure is my very good friend). 

Yes, it's all a little overwhelming, but nothing we haven't done before. It's just a new wave of transition, a bigger one, that will be a bit harder to ride. 

So I take a deep breath and say, "One day at a time. We're going to figure this out." 

One Week

One week ago we had just pulled up to our new home in Orlando. Over the course of seven days, we've unpacked 95% of the boxes, painted the dining room, living room, hallways, kitchen, and office, and stripped and refinished a coffee table (it was previously traffic sign yellow - not the antique yellow I had requested). We have organized closets and furniture. The chainsaw has chewed down enough trees that I'm pretty sure our neighbors to the north are a little upset with us for taking away part of their view. Three toilets (yep - all three) have been fixed, and a new pool pump and garbage disposal have been ordered. In the midst of all of that, we have fielded about 30 phone calls from companies who are super happy to welcome us to the neighborhood and would like to sell us a newspaper subscription or security system or water testing. Most importantly, the trampoline is assembled.

There's still a lot to do - more rooms to paint, pictures to hang, rooms to organize, a yard to tame. I can't help feeling like I am squatting in someone else's house and at any moment they will return and demand to know what we are doing here. If they do, I hope they like the paint job. I know I do.

Thoughts on Unpacking

Thoughts going through my mind as we try to organize our belongings into a home:

I'd like to ___________ (hang the shower curtain, assemble the bed, dry my hair, etc) if only I could find ______________(curtain rings, the set of screws, my hair dryer, etc.)

Hey look - that fits perfectly there!

Where are my indoor shoes?

Hmm . . . where on earth are we going to put this piece of furniture?

Hey! That thing!

Wow. Our master bedroom is stinkin' huge.

Where are my indoor shoes?

It's amazing how fast our dog can run when given the chance.

I love Target.

Where did all this stuff come from?

I still need my indoor shoes.

Torn

I am torn.

We spent a few days at the beach attending a debrief conference for people from our company who have returned from overseas stints. It was all a bit theoretical for us because we haven't landed in our "planting" spot yet where we'll have to try to figure out where to buy food and make friends and tame our wild yard.

But not wanting to miss out on the opportunity to hear from God, I tried to pay attention to my heart. As I did I realized I was feeling a new feeling about the whole transition: guilt.

That surprised me, until we had a session on grief and loss and they reminded me that it is one of the stages of grief. But still, guilt? I didn't see that coming. I'm more of a denial or anger stage kind of girl myself.

Why do I feel guilty? Well, I'll tell you. I feel guilty because I think the US is awesome. I can plug my computer in to ANY outlet in the house. That's big, people. No hunting down an adapter these days. The shower has consistent water pressure and temperature. Have you ever thought about what a gift that is? I do, every day.

And where we're going to live is practically tropical! I've done tropical before and it's not shabby. Sure, it gets hot and humid but who cares when you have a pool? And . . . and . . . and . . . I could go on and on.

Why feel guilty about that? I feel guilty because I know that my friends who I left don't have a lot of these things. Why do I get to have them? More than that, several of them are going through difficult things and I am not there to walk through those things with them, and I hate that. I'm here enjoying sunshine and raspberry m&m's. There's a strange feeling as though I have abandoned them, betrayed them even, by leaving. I remind myself that this is where God has led us, and that He has kept them there, but I feel guilty all the same.

Hey - no one ever said feelings were rational. But there they are.

So I am torn. Torn between wanting to enjoy these beautiful gifts God is giving us, hopes of good things in this new life, and the separation I feel from my friends who do not have what I have, who in fact have difficult things. Torn between loving the family and friends we have here and those we have left behind. It's one of the by-products of moving people don't always mention - the fact that you don't get to keep all your heart with you as you go. Parts will be left in each place, and it's possible for one part to feel something while another part experiences something completely different.

Will it ever be put back together? Probably not. But I choose to see it not as fragmented but as stretched to a greater capacity. Yeah, I'm going to call it that - not torn, but stretched.

My ET Reaction

You know the part in ET when they go trick or treating and ET gravitates toward the kid who's dressed like Yoda with his little "Ooooo!" sound? Yeah, that's me these days. Let me explain.

While I feel like I am adjusting to the States and don't feel nearly like the alien I anticipated, there's an involuntary reaction that takes place whenever I am near or see anyone Asian. I call it my ET reaction. I want to move toward them, listening for their language. Often I am disappointed - they are Korean or Japanese (nothing against Korean or Japanese, but I can't speak their languages). When I do hear Chinese, my heart skips a beat. I want to jump in and be part of their conversation, but it's usually about something ordinary like the cost of the item on the shelf. I also find that people are weirdly shocked when I speak Chinese with them in America. I imagine they don't have a category for that.

So I'll just be content to move closer and smile and let it remind me of a place I love. And I'll try not to make that noise that ET makes, because that would be creepy.

A New Normal

An angry outburst. Wild energy. Quick words to cut down a sibling. Yet another crazy game sure to end with tears or yelling.

They might all seem like normal child behavior, but I have no gauge for normal these days. We have no normal right now.

So I remind myself to stop and ponder what lies beneath the behavior. I wonder what emotions are tucked away in a corner of their hearts, needing to bring drawn out in more positive ways. I remember that without other playmates as outlets, they have only each other for entertainment. It can't be easy, and it can't feel right. I know I need to step in more as buffer, comforter, companion. I try to weave these things together into a basket of grace for the kids and me, to help us as we try to define a new normal.

Reverse Culture Shock

Every good expat has heard of the dreaded Reverse Culture Shock. That's where you go back to your home country and think, "This is weird! I don't get it! I feel like an idiot!" and other unpleasant things like that.

I came back to the States fully expecting that at some point we would have this. I've had it before - those moments where I was paralyzed in the bread/toothpaste/deodorant aisle incapable of making a decision because there were so many choices. The awkward times when I hand the clerk my credit card and then am informed that I can (and should) do it myself. I still forget that, and for the record, I don't like it.

This time I feel like all those potentially odd things that are different from Asia, to this point, don't strike me as anything but quite pleasant. I like that there are lots of choices. I like that driving doesn't feel like a test of my survival skills. I like that there is no one else on the streets in the morning when I exercise. I could get used to all these things.

But yesterday I hit my biggest moment of reverse culture shock. I went to IKEA.

I have never been to IKEA in America, only in Asia. So I was quite frankly weirded out by seeing prices in US dollars. It felt eerily empty. At no point did I feel like I was swimming against traffic. There wasn't a single Asian person anywhere. I kept thinking, "Look at this - it's all the same stuff. They brought it all from China." (Yes, I realize this is not true). Actually, it felt like I was still in China and just happened to go to IKEA on Foreigner Day.

Megan's cluing in to the reverse culture shock as well. In the bathroom the other day she said, "Mom, this toilet is really small. The toilets at Nonna and Babba's are really small too. Wait - maybe ALL the toilets in America are small compared to China!" and continued on in this vein for awhile, supposing that people would think she was weird because she's been using big toilets.

So we realize things are different, but so far we're generally of the opinion that they're good. I just don't think I'll go back to IKEA yet. That was weird.