I am not at a loss for advice. If I allow it in, everyone has an opinion. People who love our kids, people who don’t know them. People who have lived overseas, people who have never been out of the country. People who love God and understand our reasons, people who don’t get it at all. People from here, people from there. Everyone. I get it. Everyone who has had an experience, has an opinion about that experience even if they don’t realize it. Everyone has thoughts about how they and others live life even if they don’t express it.
I’ve read books and had conversations with people who raised their kids in other cultures, who were raised by their parents in other cultures, who are a mixture of many cultures. I try to hear these people and ideas in particular. I am not familiar with how my kids are growing up. I lived in the same house in the middle of cornfields, surrounded by my extended family and friend network, from the time I was born until I left for college. I have no experience with transitioning in extreme ways while I’m learning to use a toilet, feed myself, identify letters, make friends. To borrow a word from my last sentence, it’s extreme. An extreme way to grow up. An extreme way to experience life. An extreme way to learn about the world. And I know little about it. Except that I walk my kids through it every day of their lives.
Coming back to the States during the holidays sets a huge emphasis on this extremity. We came from a place where spicy goat meat, sweet rice and raisin pudding, and a set of crayons and sketch book make an amazing holiday. Now, surrounded by sparkling lights, jazzy music, plates of ‘normal’ food, mounds of presents, and a sea of faces that look too much like their own to not be familiar, my kids are learning what makes a holiday in America.
I’m reminded that they come from someplace different when Lucy looks at the Taco Bell I brought home and smiles and says ‘roti!’ She promptly dumps out all the unfamiliar ingredients from the middle and eats the flat tortilla like she would eat the flat bread our house helper makes them each week. Meanwhile, Grandpa explains to Abe and Jed how Santa gets into the house through the attic and down the step ladder. To this Jed replies, “Grandpa, people give us presents, not Santa.” And Abe chirps in, “Santa is dead.” Now, before you label me a Kris Kringle kill-joy, I never told them there was or wasn’t a Santa. I merely never lied and have let them believe what they like. They quickly put 2 and 2 together after watching a video about the real St. Nicholas. Now, they are just as excited and in wonderment about who actually gets those presents into their stockings Christmas morning. We might have to have a little chat before they see their young cousins, though . . .
So, what’s normal? What will matter to my kids? Is it making sure they get everything I had when I was a kid? Does this really bless them? Or would Lucy love to have some rice and dal -- the meat and potatoes of her birth-land? Would Jed like to continue the Christmas traditions we’ve had in our new home -- right down to the scraggly, Charlie Brown, potted Christmas plant? Would Abe like some chai with his Christmas cookies instead of hot cocoa? How do we make sure they get special time with all those wonderful family and friends who love them without overwhelming them with all the attention? How do we help them to know what real life in the States is like, not what life on Holiday Steroids is like? How do we do this trip in a way that is truly best -- for the kids?
If you’re reading this and going to see us, or have seen us already, here are some thoughts I’m having. They might be right, they might be wrong, but here’s where I’m going with it. Please forgive us. If we take a few down days, just us five, to refuel and regroup and check on where our kids are at (and their parents). Please forgive us. If our kids don’t remember all your names or hit overload during a party. Please forgive us. If our kids smile at a random Asian-decent person and call them Auntie before they call you Auntie. Please forgive us. If I seem a bit over-protective to your sensibilities. Please forgive us. We’re navigating a new culture here. We’re transitioning yet again. We’ll get there -- and then we’ll go back. And then our kids will remember parts of this visit. I pray they’re the good parts.
I want them to remember the smiles and easy conversations and hugs from their family. I want them to remember peace and joy. I want them to remember space to feel and experience all that’s new or that they remember from before. Abe and Lucy have spent more time in India than in the U.S. Most of Jed’s time in the States was before he turned 3. That is more familiar to them than this. I want them to know they are free to like and experience both places. To have favorite things about each place. To have hard things about each place. To have their own opinions about what’s best and what they like most. Thanks to all of you who love our kids, who want the best for them. We’re going to have a great Christmas! And forgive the tantrums . . .
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