A Homeschool Day

After our first training session with the swim team yesterday, this is what our Home School day looks like. What a shock to the boys' systems! Little to no activity for over a month, then WHAMMO, straight into training for an upcoming swim meet. They take their swimming very seriously here and the boys swam 4000 yards last night (that's nearly 3.7kms!). Not really a surprise that they're both shattered today.

Clicking my Ruby Slippers

Funny Go Home Welcome Mat (Photo credits: www.xpressmats.com)

Recently, I've read a few posts on home sickness and the malaise that seems to afflict more and more of us these days as we negotiate an increasingly smaller world and greater itinerancy. It seems serendipitous as I begin my own journey into new lands that these posts have popped up in such a timely fashion… but perhaps there was more design in their appearance than I'm allowing credit for. Or maybe it's like when you buy a new car - just before you buy it, you don't see a single one of the same make or model, but the second you drive your brand-spanking-new cool-mobile out of the dealership, the exact same make and model and colour are EVERYWHERE. Maybe seeing posts about home sickness and a sense of place/home has more to do with my own sensitivity to those feelings at the moment.

It's true that I'm struggling this week. The last few weeks haven't been as bad because there have been other distractions. Initially, we had just arrived and the shiny-newness of everything was charming. We approached everything with wide-eyed wonder and childish awe. LomL had leave and we traipsed about in a fog of jet-lag, insulated by a cloak of holiday-ness (that's the one you only wear on special occasions, the one that lets you feel like you can completely relax and let your guard down). We did holiday things, went to holiday places and LomL was excited about showing us all the attractions. Then he went back to work, and the boys and I were still in holiday mode. We didn't stress about school work, or even getting into a school, we didn't fight the fact that there was no routine, no plan for the day, we hadn't yet begun to flounder.

Towards the end of last week, it finally hit. That empty feeling in the pit of your stomach. The feeling that you're hovering, suspended, in limbo. You can't go back, and forward doesn't seem to have a clearly visible path.

Now you have to remember that I grew up in a migrant community in Australia. My parents arrived in Australia in their 40s and it was their fourth "permanent home". They'd spent the majority of their early years in India (yes, my mother was born in Burma and spent her early childhood there, but for the most part, she was in India and it's the place she still holds in her heart as home). They'd married in India, then set up house and had children in Singapore. Then there was the big move to Brunei, where they'd stayed for 15 years, where I was born, where they'd seen my siblings off to boarding school. That really had been the place, I think, that they'd settled in. I've never asked them, but I suspect that Brunei had been the place they had come to believe they would always stay. They had spent so many years making a home and a community there, they had become involved in community life and had strong friendships. So the move to Australia, after being so well established, to start home, hearth and community again in their 40s, was not easy. I lived that life in full Technicolour, Dolby Digital surround sound. Their sense of never fully settling permeating everything. Their longing for "home" but never really knowing where that might be, seeping into every aspect of our daily lives. I still maintain that's what gave me the itchy feet, the longing to travel that I have to this day.

The only time I ever saw them completely relaxed, completely "at home" was when they were in their own mothers' homes or their siblings' homes. There, when everyone reverted to the roles they had established in childhood, my parents became themselves. My father was the eldest brother, waited on by his sisters, teasing and laughing with his brothers. My mother, the respected sister-in-law in my father's family, was quickly dragged into the kitchen or asked for advice. In my maternal grandmother's home, the roles were similar. My mother reverted to the child she had been and I caught glimpses of her as a teenage girl, giggling and sharing secrets with her sister, adoring her mother. My father in that house, became the man of the house. He was the one my grandmother insisted be consulted over every decision, usually to the exasperation of my Aunt, who was the primary bread-winner of the household and was used to making all the decisions during the remainder of the year. Her nose would get regularly out of joint when my father arrived on holidays. It must have been so frustrating and demeaning for her. She earned the money to keep the house running, she made all the decisions when we weren't there, she had to deal with all the things that went wrong on a daily basis, yet my father would sweep in and my grandmother would turn to him for advice. He didn't do it purposefully or to slight her. It was just the way those relationships worked. They could all have been more graceful and gracious in hindsight. But hindsight is blindingly clear and free of emotions that plague the moment being lived.

So having experienced a childhood in a migrant community, where all around me were adults coming to terms with their feelings of displacement, their changing worlds, you'd think it would be easier for me as I go through a similar transition. I suppose the one advantage I have is that I know with unwavering certainty that the "home" I long for no longer exists. It has changed. Even in this short time, it has become a different landscape. I saw it with my parents. They would travel annually to India, expecting the idealised place of their childhoods, expecting that people would be the same, have the same reactions, speak in the same ways, offer the same respect. They would be annually disappointed, and strangely, a little surprised. They would return to Australia, griping about the changes, the way people spoke, the way the young dressed, the changes they couldn't reconcile, but still feeling out-of-place in Perth.

They became a cornerstone of their migrant community in Perth, more displaced people looking for a sense of belonging, a sense of family and community. This community I grew up in left me confused about identity. I didn't feel the same sense of displacement as they did. I didn't feel the same loyalties to India or an idealised life there, as they did (I suspect no-one of my generation felt that either). But equally, I didn't feel truly Australian either. I just felt different. Different to the first generation migrants I was surrounded by, and different to my Australian friends. I believe that nobody feels that sense of national identity in the core of their being until they have left the country. I know that the times when I have felt most Australian, most like I belonged, are the times when I have been away from Australia, on holidays, or now in establishing a new home. Those are the times when I have reverted to familiar stereotypes of Australian-ness, my accent growing stronger, my use of idioms growing more frequent.

But knowing that everything has changed in the place I once called home, doesn't make it easier to separate myself from it. It does spur me on to create a new sense of home here and that's a promising start. In the interim, however, it's still a matter of dealing with feelings of being adrift, harbourless and a little tossed about on unfamiliar waters, no land in sight yet, forging forward, heart in mouth and resolve firmly in hand.

Just Another Brick (in the) Wall

Old school books (Photo credit: justmakeit)

So, we've been in Houston now for one month and life is slowly starting to take shape. The house thing seems to be working out and stars are pleasantly aligning. The school thing is slightly more problematic and I'm going to have to bite the bullet soon and make a commitment to home schooling. So what's my resistance? For B1, it's chemistry. Seems like a small thing huh? Nothing too dramatic, something that could be easily negotiated. But it's my sticking-point. How do I go about accessing chemicals? How do I set up a functioning lab? How do I break him into a local school for chemistry classes? And the worst part is that I'm suffering a migraine today, so it's all just that little bit too hard, little bit overwhelming.

But that's not the only thing holding me back. In the state of Texas, home schooling is an interesting adventure. There is no registration and no accreditation. Home schooling is considered in the same vein (legally) as private schooling, and in Texas that means you can pretty well do anything you like, including nothing at all. There is no monitoring, no moderating and no registration of home schoolers. If I wanted to fill the school days with making balloon animals, that would be ok by the state. Now I know what you're shouting: but you would never do that! You'd have a riot on your hands from the kids! Both you and the boys would be bored senseless in seconds!! Yes. You're right on all counts, but here's my point, that's the home school community I'm working in; unregulated, unmonitored and in the most part unqualified. The majority of people in Texas who are home schooling are doing so for religious reasons - because the school system isn't providing enough (or orthodox enough) Christian education for their children. That's not our primary reason for home schooling. It's not even waaaaaayyyy down the bottom of our list of reasons. It doesn't even make the list.

 So? I hear you ask. Well, it raises the issue of who my children would socialise with. I don't want to isolate them here. That defeats the purpose of bringing them all the way here. I want them to make friends and build a community. But if the community of other home schoolers has almost nothing in common with us, how do I effect those friendships?

Perhaps I'm being overly pessimistic at the moment. Perhaps that's a reflection of my own lack of community here. It's hard to make bold moves like home schooling when you have no social support systems, no clue of curriculum and little idea of where to obtain resources… and you have an impatient personality. I have always been the kind of person who has an idea and wants to effect it IMMEDIATELY. The notion of slowing the pace down is an anathema.

For now, we wait to hear … and my nails get chewed to the quick… and my migraine gets worse...

Walking through the Park and Reminiscing

B1's drawing and my sewn interpretation of it

In the spirit of recent posts, I've been reminiscing again. This time on happier thoughts. It was my sister's birthday a few days ago and while thinking of what to get her (yes, the usual gift card for the bookshop was also obtained), I remembered a drawing that B1 had done of the two of us, when he was only four.

In the drawing, we're skateboarding. This in itself is remarkable given that both of us have severely injured our ankles merely walking along pavement. The very idea of either of us getting on something less stable than a motorised, four-wheeled vehicle is hilarious, to say the least. So the fact that my then 4 year old thought it was a real possibility that we would a) get on a skateboard and b) perform tricks while on said skateboard was nearing hysterically funny.

This drawing, for ever so many reasons, is a favourite of both mine and my sister's. It shows us both scooting along on our boards, (limited) hair flying, manic look on our faces, arms flailing and clearly completely carefree. It is such a lovely insight into how he saw us when he was that age - daring, risk-taking, fun, brave. So much to live up to.

The completed cushion.
I don't think I conveyed quite enough "manic"!

Since we both love this picture, and I'm in the mood for reminiscing, I thought I'd use the excuse of her birthday to make the drawing into a cushion. Of course, since I'm never one to plan too far ahead, all this occurred to me late yesterday evening. I duly dug up the picture from its safe place (it really was stored in a safe place), photocopied it and began copying and sewing it. Thankfully, B1 wasn't a master artist at four, and there weren't too many strokes to copy. I finished it off this morning, filled it and sewed it up. I hope she's as excited to receive it as I was making it.

My "Like Water for Chocolate" Moment

It was Father's Day today here in Australia. A difficult day for me. My father died 14 years ago and every year since, Father's Day and his birthday have been days on which I fall into a terrible funk. I remember him and miss him always, but these two days are the ones I set aside for truly indulging myself. I allow myself to feel completely sad and bereft, only pulling myself together on Father's Day for LomL's sake. My darling, long-suffering and patient husband knows how I am on these days. He allows me the latitude to miss my father, to feel sorry for myself and wish for what might have been. He understands, he checks on me and he leaves me alone to weep at the sink.

Usually, I skip the Father's Day gathering with the in-laws. It's more than I can handle. The blatant reminder that my father isn't here. This year, I found myself there and offering to make food for the occasion. I woke early, helped B1 and B2 to make LomL's Father's Day breakfast in bed, then got on with making pies for lunch. I was washing spinach when it happened. I made the mistake of thinking about the fact that I was making these pies for LomL's father, but would never again have the opportunity to do this for my own father. It occurred to me that I had only one year with my own father after I married. The pain was visceral. A tear escaped my eye. That one tear seemed to give permission to all the others waiting just behind. I couldn't stop. I found myself weeping uncontrollably into a sink full of English spinach.

Ironically, in the middle of my weeping, I couldn't help thinking about the Laura Esquivel novel, Like Water for Chocolate. The image of Tita, grief-stricken and weeping through the preparation for Rosaura and Pedro's wedding feast, and the magical effect of her sadness transported through the food, leapt to my mind. In the midst of my sorrow, I couldn't help but wonder if my emotions would be contained in the food.

I was too tired and caught in my own thoughts to really notice whether that was so today. I wonder still.

The Future through an 11 year old's Eyes

While driving to a friends' place for a party to meet her, her husband and their 5 month old baby girl (who all live abroad)...

B1: Amma, you know it's funny to think that one day we'll be at a picnic with Dannie and Maria and their families and I'll be there with my girlfriend and all those little kids will be just coming into high school.

Me: Really? Will you bring your girlfriend along to family picnics? (notice that's the highlight of the conversation for me, not the fact that he sees these family friendships going on forever).

B1: Of course. Why not? Is that ok?

Me: Oh yes! I'm thrilled that you'll choose a girl who would like to come to family events. That makes me very happy. I would like your girlfriend to be part of our family.

B1: Not now. I don't have a girlfriend now, but sometime in the future. When I'm older.

Me: That would make me super happy.

B1: Yeah, it's funny to think about... I'll be able to tell all those little ones what it's like to be in high school and what having a girlfriend is like.

*silence for a while*

B1: But that's a long time away. I don't really want to grow up too quickly. I really like being a kid.

Me: Oh I am glad. Enjoy every second of it. It's such a great time in your life.

This brought tears to my eyes and joy to my heart for ever so many reasons.

Amazing name change

At the end of last year, we had occasion in our house to change our ISP. With the resulting change, I had to think about what I wanted my new email address to be. I had used various permutations and combinations of our collective initials over the years, but this time, I wanted it to be more personal. Finally, I lit upon using Amazing Amma.

Amma means mother in Malayalam (my mother tongue) and in other Indian languages and I thought that most clearly reflected where I was at at this stage in my life. It's the role that most clearly defines me and about which I am most passionate. It's the role that fulfils me, stimulates me, engages me, frustrates me, poses the most challenges for me and satisfies me the most. You'd think the "amazing" is self-explanatory...and in fact, many of my friends and contacts did. But things are not always what they seem, and they are rarely straightforward in my world. I decided on Amazing Amma as a epithet because a few years ago, in an attempt to engage B1 and B2 in story telling and story writing, I had created a series of adventures featuring them as super heroes. They fought crime, evil and general naughtiness aided by their super powers (repulsive ones, of course) and their super best buddies. Every now and then though, the super boys would be overcome or undecided about what to do next, at which point, they would consult with their super mother.... Amazing Amma.

Amazing Amma always seemed to know what to do, where to go and how to approach a problem with calm, logical, practical thinking. That's the nice thing about fictional characters, they always know how to fix a problem and they never get angry or upset or lose sleep over stupid things they've said or done! I liked Amazing Amma. I think she's the Amma I aspire to be in many ways (except she doesn't have quite as much fun with her kids as I do with mine). I particularly like her calm self-assuredness. She always seems to have the right answers. I'm fairly certain that's why I used her as my email address... but, like I said before, nothing's ever straightforward in my world, so who knows?!

A new adventure

B1 and B2 started back at school yesterday. B1 is now in high school. A momentous occasion in our family, as it is in families everywhere. B2, on the other hand, has moved into his penultimate year of primary school. There was a heady mix of excitement, nervousness, jealousy (on the part of B2 who thought it was "totally unfair" that B1 got to wear a special tie and do neat stuff in classes) and hopefulness in the car on the way to school.

I was as excited for them starting this new adventure, as they were themselves. I know that B1 will thrive in high school. It feels like he's been in a holding pattern for the last seven years, waiting for something or someone to tell him it's ok to take off. Now it feels like he just got the go-ahead from air-traffic control. He was up super early, had organised lunch boxes for himself and his brother (except the sandwiches, which he left for me to do), made his bed, ate his breakfast, got dressed and was ready to go half an hour early. This was no one-of event either. This morning he had gotten himself organised and made my coffee (he let me do the lunch boxes this time).

B1 has always been an amazing kid; surprising me at every turn. He's always been involved in whatever I'm doing and always been keen to help. There are pictures in the family album of him at 2, standing on a step ladder, making salad. In so many ways, he's braver than I am. He faces the world with a mix of nervous excitement and self-assuredness. I've spent most of his primary school years worrying that he doesn't have enough (or any) friends, only to find that nearly every child in his year is saying hi or bye to him when I pick him up from school. I think I've spent more time worrying about his friends than he has. I admire him that ability to be so self-contained, so happy with who he is, so unquestioning of the love he's surrounded by.

It set him apart in primary school, I think. That was a time when being sociable and gregarious was everything. When having friends, making friends, being friends and losing friends was the raison d'etre. B2 does and will flourish in that environment. He's the gregarious one. He's the one who has inherited those traits from me; the oh-too-noisy-talker, the class clown, the joker, the performer, everybody's friend who is horribly insecure and uncertain of his own abilities. I'm grateful that B1 is more like his father in that way and terrified for B2. Insecurity has stopped me being my best, doing my best and giving my all in so many circumstances. I hope I can help B2 overcome the crippling inaction that accompanies this insecurity.

Words Said Too Much and Not Enough

There has been tension brewing between B1 and B2 for some time now and it all came to a head today. Being boys, the end result was a bit of argy bargy, but it brought to the surface some really important issues.

B2 has recently gotten into the very bad habit of telling his big brother that he "hates" him whenever B1 does something annoying. The words are spoken with great emotion but little real feeling and absolutely no thought. B2 is very quick to blame B1 for anything that goes wrong in a Bart Simpson kind of way. LomL and I have been trying to deal with it with humour, ramping up the stakes, suggesting that "of course B1 was also responsible for all the ills of the world, both world wars, the extinction of the dinosaurs, global warming and the sinking of the Titanic". This has helped B1 see that we understand that B2's claims are outrageous and unfair.

Naturally, B1 has not been dealing with the situation well. It's hard to brush off statements like "I hate you!" when they're shrieked by your baby brother. B1's level of confusion has also gone through the roof since B2 gleefully screams his hatred at him one minute then runs up and asks him to play the next. It had all gone on far too long and today I finally blew my stack.

As I was explaining the situation to B2 and making him understand exactly how B1 felt each time these barbed words were spat at him, it made me realise just how much B1 loves his brother. Despite being stung with these words on a regular basis, despite hearing "I love you" from B2 only when prompted, B1 continues to entertain his little brother, continues to play with him, continues to protect him and help him. I felt so proud of him in that moment, so proud of the man he will one day be and so very privileged to be parenting him.

Even B2 finally got it when I asked him how he'd feel if his best buddy screamed "I hate you!" at him on a regular basis and pointed out that despite this, his big brother continued to play with him, try to do the things he likes and suggest activities.

We've made a pact now. "I hate you!" is NEVER to be spoken to another person in this house again. Not ever. We're allowed to hate a particular act or a particular behaviour, we're allowed to hate an outcome or even a situation. But never, never, NEVER are we to hate another person.

The old myth goes that if you say "I love you" too much, it loses its meaning. Rubbish, I say. You can never say "I love you" too much if you really mean it.

And there's the key. Too often words are spoken without thought for the meaning behind them. One phrase, three words... I hate you...I love you...both said too much without enough regard for their meaning.