Tag Archives: Parenting

Waiting for you in the sun

Here are the things you have missed:

The first moment of grief. You weren’t there. And suddenly the whole future without you was there. And we had to face it. And it was hard. And I had to say goodbye without you to give me a comforting hug afterwards.

You weren’t there to tell when I got pregnant again. Or to tell you it was a girl.

You didn’t visit me in hospital. You didn’t squeeze my hand and tell me it would be ok.

You didn’t get to see my son meet his little sister. You didn’t get to see those first little cuddles and kisses.

You weren’t there to call when I was still sick and the baby was crying and her brother got angry because she was sucking up all my time and energy. Oh, there were so many other people to call, I know. But I wanted you.

You were holding my eldest when he smiled the first time. But you’ve never seen my daughter smile, never seen the way she wrinkles her nose in glee. Or heard the way she laughs when she knows she is being cheeky.

You haven’t seen my son ride a bike. You didn’t get to visit a castle with him and his Grandad, and watch them fire cannons and shoot arrows at imaginary baddies. It would have made you smile.

You didn’t get to bake a cake and give my daughter a beater to lick and see how happy it made her. I remember you giving my son one for the first time, and you took a photo of him all grubby and happy. And it is a precious memory and always was, because even then we knew the memories were running out.

You miss so much, you miss every day. You miss the tears, and the laughter. You miss the falling over and kissing scraped hands and knees. You miss scolding kids who won’t brush their teeth, or put on shoes. You miss sibling fights, and afternoons cuddling on the couch watching TV. You miss first steps, and counting to ten, and learning to write his name, and favourite books, and drawing, and nursery rhymes, and skype, and building duplo, and having tea parties, and wiping runny noses, and doing the same puzzle over and over, and the piles of washing, and 829 family dinners. You miss all the minutiae of life. Because, of course, you are not alive.

Life goes on. It is full and rich and full of wonderful moments. But if I were to write it in a book every page would have one letter erased, the space where you are missing.

By missing you I keep you with me, safe in my heart. In that way my children will know you.

I hold my daughter and sing her the same songs you sang to me.

I stroke my son’s hair as he lies in bed.

I tidy up, and clean, and cook dinners, and wash clothes, and when I feel like my children take me for granted I think of you and know that that is ok. Children should be able to take their parents for granted.

I get out your old cookbook and we bake. I feel the words you wrote underneath my fingers. And it tastes like my childhood home and you are there.

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Stuck in the middle

The other weekend we went blackberry picking on a path near where we live. Like we might be the type of family that lives knee deep in Lego and laundry, watching TV in a super-urban apartment, and goodness knows what Janet Lansbury would make of the way I snap at the kids sometimes, but, whatever. We are also the kind of family that makes foraged jam. So wholesome.

I concentrated on filling up my ice-cream container while my husband helped M, who was very proud of the ten or so berries that ended up in his bucket. We left A buckled in her pram for safety’s sake, and as long as I fed her a berry every now and again she was happy. Until she wasn’t. And just then a family boated past us on the river, having a family sing-along.

Dammit. This isn’t wholesome family fun. Family sing-alongs while you boat is wholesome family fun. I’m doing this wrong. What must they think of the crazy woman standing in the blackberries while a toddler yells in a pram.

The yelling turns into crying.

I try to extract myself from the bush – cursing myself for wearing a skirt. And realise my jacket is snagged in many, many places. Turning to deal with that, my hair gets snagged by more thorns. I remember a recent episode of Peppa Pig, the one where they go blackberry picking and Mummy Pig gets stuck in a blackberry bush.

I have turned into Mummy Pig.

Dammit.

Mummy Pig just wants wholesome family fun. She just wants some fruit. And five minutes to pick berries without having to stop and admire a four year old’s basically empty bucket, or be yelled at. She just wants jam and maybe a crumble or two. Why does she have to be judged for her food choices? Why does she have to have her dignity stripped away by a blackberry bush – let’s all come laugh at the fat pig stuck in the prickly thorns! Why does she have to involve the whole family and share when all she wants is a fucking dessert? It’s not all about you Peppa!

Somehow I ripped myself free.

Or did I?

I came home to see the always excellent Andie Fox (@bluemilk) retweeting an old post because the same old tired arguments about mothers keep happening.

We will know we’re living in a world of equality not when just as many men as women are staying home making jam and looking after babies but when women can talk about their life making jam and looking after babies without everyone freaking the fuck out.

Because maybe the blackberry bush I am actually stuck in is a metaphorical one; a thorny tangle of attacking mothers for the choices they make. It seems in these days of information overload, we can’t just make a decision. We are expected to have thought about it – to have done our research. Then everyone gets to analyse our decision, and journalists write crappy clickbait articles about the mommy wars. But these choices (if we actually get a choice) aren’t about society. They are just the choices that we make for our life. Choosing jam doesn’t mean giving up on gender equality. But it is hard when you are in the thick of it to know if what you are doing is right. So does picking blackberries make me a better mother? Or does being mired in domesticity mean I am a poor role model? Or does it tell you nothing about me other than the fact we have blackberry bushes nearby and I like to cook?

And to eat.

So I made crumble. And I made jam. And my children and I shared licking the spoon and got happy, sticky, jammy faces.

Conclusion: It’s just fucking jam. Stop overthinking things.

There’s nothing to it really

The kids are waiting and I’m rushing frantically to get us out the door, when I reach my hand into my bag and – keys? Where the heck are my keys? I’m sure I picked them up already, I’ve seen them this morning. Did I put them in my bag already? Not in the usual pocket evidently. I have to stop and sit and rifle through my bag to find them, and as I do so I’m reminded of something I read recently; Marie Kondo, of the KonMari method recommends you empty out your bag everyday.

I want to weep.

Whether from frustration or hilarity I’m not sure. This happens to me often. I live on the fringes of emotion. With certainty though, the one emotion this idea does not fill me with is joy. Joy is the central emotion to KonMari.

Hug an item and ask yourself – does this item spark joy? If not throw it out. If so keep it. Keep less. Keep it organised.

I imagine myself moving through my house asking if items spark joy. But soon I find myself floundering, emotions are too complex for black and white decisions.

Does my toaster bring me joy? My kettle? Hmm – coffee, ok I’ll call that one joy if we have to, but usually I would call it ‘necessity’. What about the toilet brush? I can’t imagine hugging it, let alone joy sparking during the process. But I definitely want to keep it. The thought of going through my sock and underwear draw is too daunting. Yes, I know they have holes, but you know, only small ones. And as for the patented Kon-Mari fold to keep them organised after my clear out, who is going to convince my husband to change his folding method? Folding and putting away laundry is his job, and I’m not filled with joy at the prospect of changing that.

Apparently it is possible to do KonMari with kids. You just have to get the whole family involved! I take it Marie Kondo has never actually asked a pre-schooler to part with a crappy art project. Or a toddler to part with the cigarette butt they picked up in the playground. I wonder how much joy she would find in my son’s enormous stick collection, but at least sticks have to stay outside. And if I were to ask myself how I really feel about their toys, my emotions, once again, are quite mixed. I love the peace and quiet I can get when my son is absorbed in building with duplo. But I do not find joy in the individual pieces scattered across the floor to tidy, or step on. Those corners hurt! Speaking of stepping on, there are those toy cars which always seem to end up in the hallway or next to my daughter’s cot – like a slapstick routine just waiting to happen. But watching A ‘vroom vroom’ them back and forth definitely makes me smile.

See, my feelings are just too complex, my attitude to ambivalent. I can’t be bothered with frantically tidying, but I do feel weighed down by the mess. I know I could just have less toys, or we could just discipline the kids to put everything away after each game. Besides, less toys implies my children are playing with toys, and not just the contents of the kitchen cupboards. That is A’s favourite game. Rifling through the bottom drawers, finding her cups so she can pretend to drink and then throwing containers across the floor. All those ice-cream containers are fun to stack, and useful reused as storage. Do they bring me joy though? They did, temporarily; a sugary consolation for a draining bedtime “routine”. Although now they are more a reminder of why I haven’t lost all the “baby” weight…

Maybe my daughter was born to KonMari and that is what her unpacking is all in aim of. ‘De-clutter’ she cries as she flings lids out of cabinets. ‘This crust does not bring me joy’ she declares as she drops it from her highchair. And so when I imagine having my handbag-box neatly organised on the table, ready to pack my bag again in the morning, I also imagine I would find the box empty. Credit cards tucked under the couch; tissue packets emptied and tissues shredded (joyfully I’m sure); cell-phone locked out, or worse connected to emergency services. Someone with an organised handbag-box is probably a somebody without sticky toddler fingers prying into every nook and cranny of the house.

I’m sure there is a way you can do it. I’m sure many families do make KonMari work for them. I’m sure if I just set my mind to it I could clear out the house, convince the kids to leave my things alone, reduce clutter and live the minimalist life that will make me a superior person.

I imagine the house: toys in their proper place every night; kitchen cupboards organised so well that not only do they shut, but nothing falls out when you open them; a tidy handbag-box, bag emptied of crumbs and receipts and lip balm that never, ever gets worn; clothes stacked with precision and joy in my dresser. Serenity abounds.

The only thing is, the woman who does all these things doesn’t feel like me. I can’t imagine my family living in that house.

So I guess for now I’ll just be me, in the mess, looking for my keys.

filled with the gladness/ of love for one another

A few weeks ago, as we left my sons daycare, another boy approached my 14 month old daughter and abruptly shoved her, knocking her onto her back. My husband and I were shocked, and our Danish is never quick so neither of us stumbled out anything more than ‘Nej. Nej.’ But I saw my son move in front of the boy ‘That is my little sister’ M said in Danish, hands on hips ‘ You must not push her’

I was impressed. Not just with his big brotherly instincts, but also to see his non-violent conflict resolution skills were better than I had expected.

At home we have the usual amount of sibling arguments for their age. M loves to build elaborate duplo constructions. So does A, but her contributions tend to be bashed onto the top, bringing the whole structure tumbling down. We do an odd shuffle around the floor, me trying to keep A away and distract her with her toy, only for M to decide whatever we have looks interesting and so, to come grab it. What I never expected is how when they do play together the game gets very physical. They really are like two puppies, nipping at each others’ tails.

The other week they invented a game where A lay on the bed and M jumped over her or, at least, mostly over her. Knees into chest seemed to be ok, as they were both shrieking with laughter. That is until the inevitable head clash; I held one sobbing child on each knee until the tears stopped and no sooner did that happen than my daughter threw herself down on the bed, looking at her brother with a big grin. He bounced back to his feet.

* * *

I’m the youngest of three so I don’t remember what we were like at this age. I only remember us as older children. My oldest sister always seemed so grown-up. No matter how much I grew I couldn’t catch up. Starting high school I felt like I was in her shadow. But I idolised her too, choosing subjects she had studied when she had started. My middle sister had that ability to play part of the older wiser sibling unit, only to flip and play annoying younger sibling with me. And we were annoying. Especially that time we watched Lady and the Tramp and we imitated the actually quite racist cats ‘We are Siamese if you please, purrrr’ . I say ‘that time’ but it was many times. Heck I can hear her finishing that sentence as I type.

giphy

I’ve always felt lucky to have grown up with my two sisters. So I did want my son to have that. Perhaps a pregnancy barely a month after my mother died was less than ideal timing. But, for all the difficulties of the last few years of our life, I know this is one way my family is very blessed.

The Christmas before my mother died my sisters and I re-staged some of our childhood photos. The photo with my sisters dressed as clowns, me standing proudly next to them in a onesie and gumboots. My sister reading with great concentration an upside down picture book. My other sister with ham on her head – at a wedding! The time I thought lifting my skirt to cover my face while I sat on a chair would be less embarrassing than a photo of me sitting in a chair . My mother loved it, she laughed and laughed.

I wonder, did I know what we were giving her then? Not just a laugh, or a trip down memory lane, not just a thanks for the good times. It was also an affirmation that all that work, every sibling squabble she had soothed, every frustrating afternoon, had been worth it. Here were her three children, together, with bonds that hold them close still.

* * *

My children love to bounce on our bed. They turn the radio on, A bouncing her knees while M jumps around. A few days ago M reached out suddenly and pushed A. I started to intervene, but then I realised she was laughing. Laughing and laughing as she fell through the air and then landing -whumpf- on the soft bed. Then -whumpf- M lands next to her. Their eyes are sparkling as they turn towards each other.

This. This is the start of something wonderful.

Because you’re worth it

I’m celebrating a very important milestone.

Uh, no not my 10th wedding anniversary. Although that is very important. Or my son’s fourth birthday. Or my upcoming birthday. No, I’m not talking about those.

I’m celebrating going a whole year without washing my hair.

I mean, a whole without washing it with shampoo I mean. I’m not that gross.

Or maybe I am that gross, as that is basically how I managed to start.

Look, when you have two kids, and one is a tiny screamy baby, and you are still very sick so you never go anywhere, and when the baby naps you just kind of fall into a catatonic state, it is hard to find the energy to actually wash your hair. And so I would leave it for days when my husband was home, which basically meant washing it once a week. I’d heard of people who gave up shampoo and I knew that there is a period like a ‘withdrawal’ where you try to cut down your shampoo, and your hair and scalp react to having less soap, less frequently, and I’m like ‘hey, that’s basically what I’m doing anyway’. So I decided to give not-shampooing a try.

Before I get to the methods and results (I’ll leave you hanging as to whether I look amazing, or whether I look like a freaky birds nest nightmare just a bit longer) I think it is worth going into the whys. I’ve been following Lucy at Lulastic and the Hippyshake for a while, and had read about her No-Poo (as some people delightfully call it) life for a while. There are lots of reasons that people have for going No-Poo, environmental factors like reducing waste being a major drawcard for me. I’m no chemo-phobe, ok? But it does seem to me we don’t need to be pouring all these industrially manufactured chemicals into our waterways all the time. Some of these are having really nasty effects, like microbeads. Also, everything I use comes in either cardboard or glass, unlike plastic shampoo bottles. Finally I really dislike the beauty industries marketing to women that we need to be more. We need to be shinier, thinner, whiter, smoother. And it is an industry based on lies. I can’t fight this huge industry, but I can choose not to buy into it.

But I didn’t want to be, you know, smellier.

This is where the aforementioned blog really came into use. Along with continuing my, ahem, minimalist regime I started to use a combination of baking soda and apple-cider vinegar on my hair when I did wash it. And you know what? It was good. Like, it looked clean. The basic principle is baking soda massaged into hair and scalp for a clean, and then the vinegar works as a conditioner. A note of caution, you do have to be careful not to do this too frequently. For every blog about giving up shampoo there is one about why baking soda is terrible for hair, and how over time it will damage your hair. And it is true. That is actually the beauty of this routine for me. I wash my hair much less often. I only use baking soda and vinegar on the weekend. And instead of being a not so hot mess by the time Friday rolls around, mostly I look just fine.

I’ve always had very very fine hair that is prone to looking limp. I’ve always needed to wash frequently. No matter what shampoo I used – if I used a really good one I could go two days looking ok; with a supermarket cheapie, I’m looking lank after one day. Not having to wash my hair when I shower has worked out really well for me.

These days tiny screamy baby is not so tiny. It might come as a shock to some people, but it is still tricky to find time for a decent shower. I do make time. I haven’t completely given up on personal hygiene. My basic weekday routine is to hop in our shower with the bathroom door open and I have as long as it takes her to find me to wash myself.

I’ve got some great ways to extend the washing time. Like place the most interesting, noisy button pushing toys strategically on the pathway from lounge to shower so she stops to play with them en-route. Like a mini obstacle course. Or to play peek-a-boo around the shower curtain. The days her brother is home, or sometimes when I need to even if he is not, the TV can distract her a bit. But ultimately a full hair wash is risky and prone to interruption.

Now I admit, if I was working I would have to make more time. But I’m not. If it looks a little limp I’m probably not seeing anyone important enough to worry. But what about those days when even I need a mid-week pick me up? I’ve already mentioned you shouldn’t over use baking soda and vinegar. Turns out they are only the start of your pantry solutions for hair care. Careful though, contrary to what my kids think you shouldn’t just pick up any old food and smear it on your hair. So to help you all out I thought I should taste-test test wash my hair using some of the online solutions. Here goes:

Honey
Sounds sticky right? But the trick is to mix the honey with hot water, allow to cool and then massage through hair and scalp. It feels (and smells) sugary, and a bit viscous, but not sticky. My hair feels soft afterwards, and looks clean. Over the last year this has become my favourite alternative wash. Honestly, it is the best thing I’ve done with honey since toast.

Cocoa Powder
This was a recent trial, after seeing the suggestion on Lucy’s latest haircare blog. Obviously I’m not making a nourishing chocolate drink for my hair. The idea is to use this as a dry shampoo, kinda like how the professional kitchens I’ve worked in throw salt on the floor to soak up grease. Why cocoa? Well I have dark hair. If you are blonde use something that matches eg cornflour, or a redhead could try cinnamon.

So that’s her theory, how did it go? I probably used a bit too much powder, you really only need a teaspoon or so. And brushing it out, which I did bent over my sink left it quite messy. But, it wasn’t so messy I couldn’t do it with a toddler hanging out at my knees, and when she wandered off I could go after her and come back to the sink after a couple of minutes without leaving a dust trail behind me. My hair did look less greasy afterwards, and it was quick. On the whole I’d do it again, it looked fine. Well, fine enough that I took my new passport photo that afternoon. However, there was a slight chocolaty aroma when I showered the following day. So perhaps not a great one pre job interview on a rainy day. Although there are worse things to smell of, right?

Egg
Speaking of smelling, that was probably the number one thing that put me off trying this. Even though I remember reading about egg-masks for hair way, way back in high school. Well, the smell and the mess. But again thanks to Lucy’s suggestion to whip the egg white I was able to get over my fear of the last one at least. I’m not going to lie, this is my least favourite of the washes I’ve tried so far. I’m not sure if it was just because I felt a bit too much like a walking pavlova – actually I’m pretty sure that is part of it – but it is also the most expensive alternative, and the most time consuming which negates my whole reasoning for getting into this situation in the first place.

On the other hand, nobody has said since ‘what happened to your hair?!’ In fact nobody has said anything like that to me all year while I’ve been secretly not washing. I don’t go to fancy hair salons, so it is pretty normal for me to get a haircut without a wash, but none of the hairdressers have batted an eyelid over the cleanliness of my hair. Even when I’d most recently washed with honey. My husband claims to not have noticed the cocoa or egg or honey until I confessed just the other day. And maybe he is unobservant. Or maybe it is because my hair looks great.

Or maybe that is wisdom learnt from ten years of marriage.

Breast vs Bottle

A mother’s group I am part of has had a few ‘debates’ recently about formula vs breastfeeding. I say ‘debate’ in inverted commas, because I really don’t think it is a debate. Ever.

I think that if you have ever had a hungry baby in front of you, at that point there is no ‘debate’ to be had. It is not a ‘choice’, because the alternative is a slow death from dehydration and starvation. How can we portray that as ‘choice’?

I breastfed both of my children, but not exclusively. Breastfeeding is hard. It takes work, and I’m not saying the solution to every problem is to just throw your hands in the air and say ‘oh well. Here’s a bottle.’ But see how thorny this issue is that I feel the need to clarify myself so much?

What I want to say is this: breastfeeding is like a ladder. It always takes work to climb it. But everyone’s ladder is different. Some are steeper. Some have rungs further apart. Some are slippery. Some have broken rungs. So we all need to think about how someone’s ladder differs from our own.

As part of that ‘debate’ I got a little piece of knowledge shared with me. That you never need to offer formula straight away, because you only know you aren’t producing enough milk once you’ve tried. Here is what my own personal experience tells me that is – it’s bullshit.

When my daughter was born I experienced a uterine inversion. That means my uterus came out with the placenta. It is a very serious medical emergency, for many reasons, one of which is that it is typically accompanied with severe haemorrhaging. I lost 3.7L of blood in a very short space of time. Post-partum haemorrhage is directly linked to delays in producing breastmilk. I faced a number of barriers to starting milk production. I was separated from my daughter immediately following birth, I was anaemic, and my body was so short of fluid following the haemorrhage that it didn’t have any to spare for her. Lastly hormone changes after birth that trigger milk production can’t occur because there literally was not blood flowing through my body.

My daughter was hungry and eager to attempt breastfeeding, in fact she latched perfectly. But when my body could not even produce colostrum until day three (really) it was no surprise. We began supplementing early on, and despite this at her first weigh-in at two days old she had already lost 9% of her bodyweight. We increased the amount of formula, as 10% loss is considered a danger zone. Tell me, what would have been gained by waiting and seeing? With me that sick in a hospital bed, listening to my daughter screaming with hunger, unable to produce milk to feed her, and starving her to the point we risked her health. Why should we have sat there thinking that milk would come eventually, when given the specifics of my case, things were going exactly as medical professionals expected. We can all speak in generalities, and discuss WHO guidelines, but guidelines cannot be written that cover every individual case. And, as Monty Python said, we are all individuals.

For me, there was no debate to be had. No choice. No regrets. I will never regret that my daughter was fed formula for her first meals. I am grateful to the nurses who bought it to her. I am grateful I gave birth in a hospital where formula could be supplied by hospital staff.

So that is why when people say ‘oh I’m sure you made an informed choice’ it comes across as patronising. It literally doesn’t matter whether you have read a million studies comparing benefits of formula vs breastfeeding (which frankly aren’t as one-sided as many people seem to think, because any study like that is inherently fraught with difficulties). And that is why people object when people say ‘it needs to be considered carefully, like any medicine’. Formula is not medicine. It is consumed like food, and metabolised like food – because it is food. Someone might have an allergic reaction or intolerance, but that can happen with breastmilk. It is regulated to make sure it meets nutritional standards, but it is not, and should not be, restricted like a medicine.

I am glad I was able to establish breastfeeding eventually. Not because I think my daughter will be healthier for it, but because bottle-feeding is a pain. Seriously: sterilising, getting the right temperature, and most importantly, you need one hand to hold the baby and one for the bottle, so unless you have three hands you can’t use the TV remote at the same time. Rubbish!

Even at the time ‘resorting’ to formula was the least of my concerns, so I’m pretty thick-skinned about my experiences and what someone else might think of them.  But I’m not writing this to defend or explain myself. I just want people to remember that nothing in life goes as planned. A lot of people are absolutely convinced they will breastfeed and then they can’t. And it is devastating for them. Careless words can really add to that pain. Especially when you are in those first weeks of newborn life and just trying to cope. There are some people who seem to think it is just a matter of trying harder (not just feeding – conception and birth seem to bring this out too), but it is much, much more complicated than that. There is a portion of all of this that is just luck.

So if you won in the biology lottery, remember the ladders. Remember that if the bottom rung is missing, like mine was, no amount of oatmeal or fenugreek or pumping or lactation cookies is going to be the answer. And remember some people can do everything right, and find they just can’t get to the top.

I write a lot about not judging others on their parenting journey. But, I’ll admit this – when I see someone standing on their non-slip safety step-ladder, giving themselves a clap and saying ‘it’s so easy. See how I did it!’ while the rest of us wobble around on rickety splintery wood that stretches into the clouds…

That is when I feel a bit judge-y.

#Iamanimmigrant

I wonder.

I wonder about those who cannot walk in another person’s shoes. Those who only see the opportunities taken, but cannot see the price paid.

I wonder about those who feel so threatened by people like me they can only respond with hate. Oh, I know, not really people like me. I am the right sort of immigrant. But, I am still an immigrant.

I wonder if they have ever thought what that would entail.

I wonder if they have ever walked off a plane, out of a railway station, and looked around, lost, no landmarks they recognise. And not with the excitement of a few days to bumble around a city, but with the knowledge this is your home now. Find your way, make it work. This is where you stay.

I wonder if they have had to register people’s surprise, when they open their mouth and begin to talk. Oh, you’re one of those.

I wonder if they know how it feels to stand in a queue, at the shops, the post office, mentally rehearsing the conversation you need to have once it is your turn. Hoping it stays on predictable tracks.

I wonder if they have ever felt the hopelessness of not being able to make yourself understood. I wonder if they know the moment the conversation moves beyond you; if they have ever felt that blank stare on their own face, searching their mind for words and grammar they don’t have, only for it to be met with a flicker of irritation.

I wonder if they know how exhausting even a trip to the supermarket can be. What it feels like to stand in front of all the cleaning products, trying to guess from the pictures which is the one you want. How bewildering the selection of flour can seem. How sometimes you buy something and get it wrong, or you don’t buy, only to find out later you were looking at the right thing after all.

I wonder if they know how it feels to be the person who spends too long reading the signs: the notices up at daycare, the notices to residents of your apartment block. This is, I suppose, what it is like to be functionally illiterate, lacking the access to information everyone around you takes for granted.

I wonder if they know how unpredictable the world can seem, when all the little social rules are so clearly ingrained, and yet so impenetrable to you. That nobody ever knows you didn’t know until too late. The sort of clothes your children are supposed to have, what to take with you to parties, what foods you are supposed to eat and when. That every public holiday is a surprise.

I wonder if they know what it feels like to have a child more fluent in the local language than you. The pride, mixed with frustration at not being able to follow them into conversations they want to have.

I wonder if they realise that these language problems are fleeting and generational. Adults will manage and muddle through and if allowed children will integrate easily. Bi-lingualism is not a threat. It is a skill, an asset, a bridge between worlds.

I wonder if they know the nagging question I ask myself. Is it worth it? So far from ‘home’, from family? Do the benefits outweigh the costs?

I wonder if they understand that we make new homes. We grow to love places that were not ‘ours’ to begin with.

I wonder if they know the doubts. The way parents question themselves, as they watch their children assume a new identity. Will they be accepted?

I wonder if they know how it feels to watch their child play with their friends; the funny-sounding parents as important as who does or does not have a cat, less important than who does or does not like to dig holes with you. I wonder if they know how it feels to think that all it takes is media hype and careless words for your children to discover that they were not welcomed after all. Merely tolerated.

I wonder how it would feel for that toleration to disappear. To find decency is no longer required. To find yourself put up for public judgement and the verdict is you are not welcome.

I wonder.