Moving to Mexico 13 months ago was not a quick decision, nor was it easy. It was 18 months from the time we thought about moving until we actually moved and it included several trips to Mexico to check things out, selling our house, quitting our jobs, and 6 months of fundraising. Our kids were just 1 and 3 years old when it all began. Now they are almost 4 and 6. Time goes fast. So fast.
And yet at times, it goes s...o...o...o... s....l...o...w. Like when we first arrived, those first 5 days seemed like forever. Now that we've been here for almost 400 days, 5 days seems like a drop in the bucket, like who can't survive for 5 days?! But during that time, it truly felt more like 5 months, not days. Our stove didn't work, we didn't have a washer or dryer, the Internet wasn't hooked up yet, and oh yeah, we found out that we really sucked at Spanish and didn't know where anything was. We also only had received 30% of our support that first month which barely covered rent and the ingredients to make quesadillas 3 times a day.
The hardest part of adjusting wasn't eating quesadillas for every meal, believe it or not. It was watching my kids transition. I can say now, 13 months out, that they are CHAMPS, but at the time, in those first few months, I didn't know. I didn't know if they would ever be my sweet kids who laughed and loved life, again. They cried about everything, they were angry about everything, they were frustrated by everything, they were hitting their classmates, and they hated Spanish--speaking it and hearing it. They wouldn't go to their class at church, they cried every morning before school, they came home with incomplete work everyday, and Olive spent more time in the principal's office and the infirmary than she did in her classroom.
I was sure we made a really big mistake moving here. I was sure we screwed up our kids for good.
I cried almost everyday because I missed my kids. I missed their smiles, their free spirits, their ability to be a good friend. I felt so unprepared and so inadequate to deal with this transition and I just knew that my kids would resent me for it. I wanted to pack up and go home and tell our kids that we don't have to do this. That it's not worth it. But it turns out that the fighting spirit I always got in trouble for as a kid comes in handy as an adult and apparently my kids inherited the same trait. Having a fighting spirit doesn't mean it was easy--it means that we just kept showing up, even when it was really hard, and eventually we all learned how to live here, 2500 miles away from all things familiar.
Many people have told us that this experience, if nothing else, would be amazing for our kids. Man, I hope that's true. I hope my kids look back at the time spent living here with fond memories and appreciation for exposure to another culture. There's a chance they won't ever do that or that they won't have those feelings for another 20 years. But whatever happens, here is what I hope for my kids:
I hope they remember the unusual amount of time we spent together as a family everyday. Someday this won't be our normal. We'll go back to the working world, they'll have extracurricular activities and want to spend time with their friends and they will grow out of wanting to play with Mom and Dad. I hope they remember all the times we spent playing hair salon and restaurant, the dance parties, and the hundreds of times we played school immediately after they returned from real school, which they allegedly did not like. I hope this instills in them that they were seen, heard, valued, and loved.
I hope they remember that not only is it possible to live with less, it's better. I hope they will have learned to be content in any situation. I hope they continue to use their creativity, not just to entertain themselves, but to add their small piece to this world. I hope they remember that most of the world lives on very little and yet is exponentially happier; I hope they remember that things are just things and they should never trump our relationships; I hope they remember that it's not just our broken and unused things that we give away, but true generosity involves a level of sacrifice, and sometimes that means our favorite toy or clothes. I hope they remember how exciting a cardboard box can be.
I hope they realize that they can do hard things because not only did they watch their mom and dad do hard things, like learn a new language in their 30s or try to order a dumb pizza in Spanish, but they did them too. They went to school even when they were left out because the kids didn't understand them. They began speaking spanish even when they made lots of mistakes. They went into their class at church without Mommy even when they felt nervous because the teacher didn't speak English. I hope they will have learned that being brave doesn't mean they won't feel the butterflies in their tummies or they won't want to throw up in their mouth right before doing something new or hard--but that being brave means they will do it anyway.
I hope they remember that loving God means loving people. And loving people doesn't look like talking about it, but it looks like doing something about it. I hope they remember that "serving God" isn't at the expense of serving their family. I hope they remember Love never looks glamorous, but that it looks more like building something really amazing, really slowly, with a lot of dirt involved. I hope they will have learned that loving people means offering grace, even when we are not privileged to know their story. I hope they will have learned that they are being passionately pursued by a loving God who doesn't care if they ever move across the world to "serve" him but that he cares about them, as is, no strings attached.
Most of all, I hope they realize that we are just two people who are doing the best we can not to screw them up completely, and that we didn't have to apply for any type of clearance to become parents--that more paperwork and scrutiny is required to become a member at Costco than it it is to have a baby and then to raise that baby. And if they forget all of the above, I hope they remember this: seriously, stop eating your scabs. Nothing good can come of that.
And yet at times, it goes s...o...o...o... s....l...o...w. Like when we first arrived, those first 5 days seemed like forever. Now that we've been here for almost 400 days, 5 days seems like a drop in the bucket, like who can't survive for 5 days?! But during that time, it truly felt more like 5 months, not days. Our stove didn't work, we didn't have a washer or dryer, the Internet wasn't hooked up yet, and oh yeah, we found out that we really sucked at Spanish and didn't know where anything was. We also only had received 30% of our support that first month which barely covered rent and the ingredients to make quesadillas 3 times a day.
The hardest part of adjusting wasn't eating quesadillas for every meal, believe it or not. It was watching my kids transition. I can say now, 13 months out, that they are CHAMPS, but at the time, in those first few months, I didn't know. I didn't know if they would ever be my sweet kids who laughed and loved life, again. They cried about everything, they were angry about everything, they were frustrated by everything, they were hitting their classmates, and they hated Spanish--speaking it and hearing it. They wouldn't go to their class at church, they cried every morning before school, they came home with incomplete work everyday, and Olive spent more time in the principal's office and the infirmary than she did in her classroom.
I was sure we made a really big mistake moving here. I was sure we screwed up our kids for good.
I cried almost everyday because I missed my kids. I missed their smiles, their free spirits, their ability to be a good friend. I felt so unprepared and so inadequate to deal with this transition and I just knew that my kids would resent me for it. I wanted to pack up and go home and tell our kids that we don't have to do this. That it's not worth it. But it turns out that the fighting spirit I always got in trouble for as a kid comes in handy as an adult and apparently my kids inherited the same trait. Having a fighting spirit doesn't mean it was easy--it means that we just kept showing up, even when it was really hard, and eventually we all learned how to live here, 2500 miles away from all things familiar.
Many people have told us that this experience, if nothing else, would be amazing for our kids. Man, I hope that's true. I hope my kids look back at the time spent living here with fond memories and appreciation for exposure to another culture. There's a chance they won't ever do that or that they won't have those feelings for another 20 years. But whatever happens, here is what I hope for my kids:
I hope they remember the unusual amount of time we spent together as a family everyday. Someday this won't be our normal. We'll go back to the working world, they'll have extracurricular activities and want to spend time with their friends and they will grow out of wanting to play with Mom and Dad. I hope they remember all the times we spent playing hair salon and restaurant, the dance parties, and the hundreds of times we played school immediately after they returned from real school, which they allegedly did not like. I hope this instills in them that they were seen, heard, valued, and loved.
I hope they remember that not only is it possible to live with less, it's better. I hope they will have learned to be content in any situation. I hope they continue to use their creativity, not just to entertain themselves, but to add their small piece to this world. I hope they remember that most of the world lives on very little and yet is exponentially happier; I hope they remember that things are just things and they should never trump our relationships; I hope they remember that it's not just our broken and unused things that we give away, but true generosity involves a level of sacrifice, and sometimes that means our favorite toy or clothes. I hope they remember how exciting a cardboard box can be.
I hope they realize that they can do hard things because not only did they watch their mom and dad do hard things, like learn a new language in their 30s or try to order a dumb pizza in Spanish, but they did them too. They went to school even when they were left out because the kids didn't understand them. They began speaking spanish even when they made lots of mistakes. They went into their class at church without Mommy even when they felt nervous because the teacher didn't speak English. I hope they will have learned that being brave doesn't mean they won't feel the butterflies in their tummies or they won't want to throw up in their mouth right before doing something new or hard--but that being brave means they will do it anyway.
I hope they remember that loving God means loving people. And loving people doesn't look like talking about it, but it looks like doing something about it. I hope they remember that "serving God" isn't at the expense of serving their family. I hope they remember Love never looks glamorous, but that it looks more like building something really amazing, really slowly, with a lot of dirt involved. I hope they will have learned that loving people means offering grace, even when we are not privileged to know their story. I hope they will have learned that they are being passionately pursued by a loving God who doesn't care if they ever move across the world to "serve" him but that he cares about them, as is, no strings attached.
Most of all, I hope they realize that we are just two people who are doing the best we can not to screw them up completely, and that we didn't have to apply for any type of clearance to become parents--that more paperwork and scrutiny is required to become a member at Costco than it it is to have a baby and then to raise that baby. And if they forget all of the above, I hope they remember this: seriously, stop eating your scabs. Nothing good can come of that.
No comments:
Post a Comment