Over the past 7 years I have lived in 10 different homes on 2 different continents. To some this will sound like the ultimate adventure, to others it will seem like a nightmare. Even I can’t decide how I feel about it.
At the moment, having lived in temporary accommodation for over six months with a baby under one, it’s feeling more nightmarish than adventurous. My heart aches for a more permanent home, a place to unpack all our boxes and finally set up a room for my baby boy. I’m sick of sitting on someone else’s couch, using the oddly sized cutlery someone else picked out.
It feels like my life is on hold, that I can’t make any real plans until I’m sitting at my own dining room table.
Another part of me knows this is ridiculous. My happiness does not depend on a piece of furniture from IKEA. My baby makes me acutely aware that time is passing every moment and if I don’t enjoy the here and now I’ll suddenly wake up to an 18 year old son and wonder what happened.
And sometimes I can appreciate the adventurous side of it all. When my husband and I look back over the past few years there are so many stories to tell and so many experiences to remember. “Look at where we were last year and where we are now”, we often say. In retrospect our life seems so full. And that can’t be a bad thing.
I do wonder how our nomadic lifestyle is affecting our baby boy. He has moved house 3 times in his short life and it is clear that this does not go unnoticed. For the first few weeks post move he is clingy, unsure of himself. Who could blame him? Every reference point bar his parents has been changed.
Since I cannot provide him with a constant physical space to call home, I focus on making this family, this life his home. If our little family is together that should be enough. Or rather, my dream house in the perfect location wouldn’t feel like home without my two boys in it.
And then again I feel guilty about getting stressed about something as futile as the lack of shelf space or not liking the colour of the walls. I might feel displaced in our rented house but that is nothing compared to the thousands of migrant and refugee families who literally have nowhere to call a home. I often wonder how they do cope, how hard it must be to create a space that feels even just a little bit like a home in a refugee camp or when you’re being shipped from country to country hoping someone will take you in.
So I take a big breath. Everything is okay. This unsettled period in our life will soon pass and be turned into stories. And my baby is still so small that just being close to his mummy and daddy is home enough for him.
What does home mean to you? If you’re living abroad how do you make your house feel like home?
This is an original post to World Moms Blog by Julie from Portugal.