We have been in Amman for a week, and I have yet to see a cloud.
Not a single one.
The weather in Amman is a lot like the weather in Florida in that it is basically the same every day. At least, during the summer, as I am told. In Florida, every day was sunny and hot...until the afternoon thunderstorms rolled in. In Amman, every day is 95 and sunny. The sky is a perfect, cloudless blue.
In that respect, the kids could not have asked for a better summer. They have spent nearly every afternoon at the pool. The pool has been a lifesaver. We have nothing at the house except for what they brought with them in their tiny backpacks, mostly toys for the plane. Though we have a few outdoor spaces (including a giant, tiled back patio that we are in the process of converting to a roller hockey rink), they mostly just run back and forth through the house, wailing, "I don't know what to doooooooooo!!!" A giant, completely empty house lends itself well to such activity and has an impressive echo.
Despite the lack of anything to do (isn't that indicative of most summers? Isn't that exactly what kids their age are supposed to do during the summer anyway? Absolutely nothing? I argue they would be equally bored out of their minds whether they were back in Falls Church with all their toys or recently landed in the Middle East without them.), the kids seem to be adjusting well. So does Elise. We've been to the store. She's made dinner at home at least three times. We had local SIM cards for our cell phones on day two. Home internet as of today (fingers crossed). We've found the pool, the gym (Elise has even been to a spin class), a sushi burrito place around the corner from our house, the mall, gone to a movie, ordered Starbucks, spotted the dry cleaners and barber. Knock on wood...the transition is going smoothly. Too smoothly. I'm nervous.
We're at the point in our lives where we take these transitions for granted. While Elise and the kids were adjusting seamlessly, my adjustment had seams, and I didn't know why. I was nervous about work. Whenever I start a new job, I have little to no idea what I'm supposed to do or what was expected of me. Eventually, I figure it out. I've figured out three different roles now. And not only do the job capably, but have had some measure of success in each of my roles. I'll figure this one out, too. But, this time (maybe because my training was all the way back in February), I feel like I have even less of an idea of what I'm supposed to be doing.
I take it for granted that we have uprooted our lives--yet again--and moved halfway around the world to a completely strange and foreign place. We're at the point in our lives where this shouldn't be a big deal instead of one of the biggest things one can do in one's life. I miss Falls Church. I miss our backyard. I miss drinking good beer and grilling. I miss things being easy (we signed up for internet at our house. The company had to dig up the street and excavate under our building to install the cable. The guy that came over to run the cable into the apartment spoke only Arabic. But he wasn't the one with the modem. Another guy would come over with the modem. It was unclear whether he would speak English or if the wireless modem they were installing would provide coverage to more than one room. When they were done, they wouldn't give the password to Elise. Only to me.). That being said, I readily recognize the benefits of moving overseas greatly outweigh the drawbacks, and stories like getting internet installed in a foreign country make for good anecdotes in the grand scheme of things and nothing more.
Before we moved to India, I explained to Elise the move looked good "on paper". But there was nothing in writing to explain the unfathomable nature of India and the great mysteries we would face there. Jawaharlal Nehru, the country’s first prime minister, described India as a country where “one under the other, are written many facts, ideas, and dreams, without any of them completely covering that which is below.” Likewise, this move, too, looked good on paper. Moving anywhere outside of the D.C. metro area--as much as we loved the city itself--would have looked good on paper. I could've made an argument to move to Sudan after working a year as a staff assistant earning approximately 65% of what it took to support a family five in that area. But I miss Virginia. I have allowed myself to feel that. Over the course of our first week in Jordan, I have acknowledged it is okay--perhaps healthy even--that missing what we left doesn't say anything about where we are. And it's okay to both be sad to leave Virginia and excited to arrive in Jordan.
I also miss my mom. There are things I see or feel I can't always share with Elise for fear of making her unnecessarily anxious. But I could share those things with my mom when all I needed to hear was that everything was going to be okay. I could talk about anything, and she would listen. She would have wanted to hear about our move to Jordan.
I don't have that same rapport with my dad. Our conversations are short. I can talk to Elise, but life with three children doesn't always easily lend itself to quiet conversation. Moreover, I'm the one who tells Elise everything is going to be okay. Where do I get my affirmation from now? It's another transition. Not the one from the U.S. to Jordan, but the transition from consumer of affirmation to source. Doubtlessly, as adults lose parents, it is an adjustment they make, but not one I've heard a lot about. For 45 years, we've had parents to tell us everything is going to be okay, but someday we have to convince ourselves everything is going to be okay, then tell ourselves and our loved ones the same.
Not a single one.
The weather in Amman is a lot like the weather in Florida in that it is basically the same every day. At least, during the summer, as I am told. In Florida, every day was sunny and hot...until the afternoon thunderstorms rolled in. In Amman, every day is 95 and sunny. The sky is a perfect, cloudless blue.
In that respect, the kids could not have asked for a better summer. They have spent nearly every afternoon at the pool. The pool has been a lifesaver. We have nothing at the house except for what they brought with them in their tiny backpacks, mostly toys for the plane. Though we have a few outdoor spaces (including a giant, tiled back patio that we are in the process of converting to a roller hockey rink), they mostly just run back and forth through the house, wailing, "I don't know what to doooooooooo!!!" A giant, completely empty house lends itself well to such activity and has an impressive echo.
Despite the lack of anything to do (isn't that indicative of most summers? Isn't that exactly what kids their age are supposed to do during the summer anyway? Absolutely nothing? I argue they would be equally bored out of their minds whether they were back in Falls Church with all their toys or recently landed in the Middle East without them.), the kids seem to be adjusting well. So does Elise. We've been to the store. She's made dinner at home at least three times. We had local SIM cards for our cell phones on day two. Home internet as of today (fingers crossed). We've found the pool, the gym (Elise has even been to a spin class), a sushi burrito place around the corner from our house, the mall, gone to a movie, ordered Starbucks, spotted the dry cleaners and barber. Knock on wood...the transition is going smoothly. Too smoothly. I'm nervous.
We're at the point in our lives where we take these transitions for granted. While Elise and the kids were adjusting seamlessly, my adjustment had seams, and I didn't know why. I was nervous about work. Whenever I start a new job, I have little to no idea what I'm supposed to do or what was expected of me. Eventually, I figure it out. I've figured out three different roles now. And not only do the job capably, but have had some measure of success in each of my roles. I'll figure this one out, too. But, this time (maybe because my training was all the way back in February), I feel like I have even less of an idea of what I'm supposed to be doing.
I take it for granted that we have uprooted our lives--yet again--and moved halfway around the world to a completely strange and foreign place. We're at the point in our lives where this shouldn't be a big deal instead of one of the biggest things one can do in one's life. I miss Falls Church. I miss our backyard. I miss drinking good beer and grilling. I miss things being easy (we signed up for internet at our house. The company had to dig up the street and excavate under our building to install the cable. The guy that came over to run the cable into the apartment spoke only Arabic. But he wasn't the one with the modem. Another guy would come over with the modem. It was unclear whether he would speak English or if the wireless modem they were installing would provide coverage to more than one room. When they were done, they wouldn't give the password to Elise. Only to me.). That being said, I readily recognize the benefits of moving overseas greatly outweigh the drawbacks, and stories like getting internet installed in a foreign country make for good anecdotes in the grand scheme of things and nothing more.
Before we moved to India, I explained to Elise the move looked good "on paper". But there was nothing in writing to explain the unfathomable nature of India and the great mysteries we would face there. Jawaharlal Nehru, the country’s first prime minister, described India as a country where “one under the other, are written many facts, ideas, and dreams, without any of them completely covering that which is below.” Likewise, this move, too, looked good on paper. Moving anywhere outside of the D.C. metro area--as much as we loved the city itself--would have looked good on paper. I could've made an argument to move to Sudan after working a year as a staff assistant earning approximately 65% of what it took to support a family five in that area. But I miss Virginia. I have allowed myself to feel that. Over the course of our first week in Jordan, I have acknowledged it is okay--perhaps healthy even--that missing what we left doesn't say anything about where we are. And it's okay to both be sad to leave Virginia and excited to arrive in Jordan.
I also miss my mom. There are things I see or feel I can't always share with Elise for fear of making her unnecessarily anxious. But I could share those things with my mom when all I needed to hear was that everything was going to be okay. I could talk about anything, and she would listen. She would have wanted to hear about our move to Jordan.
I don't have that same rapport with my dad. Our conversations are short. I can talk to Elise, but life with three children doesn't always easily lend itself to quiet conversation. Moreover, I'm the one who tells Elise everything is going to be okay. Where do I get my affirmation from now? It's another transition. Not the one from the U.S. to Jordan, but the transition from consumer of affirmation to source. Doubtlessly, as adults lose parents, it is an adjustment they make, but not one I've heard a lot about. For 45 years, we've had parents to tell us everything is going to be okay, but someday we have to convince ourselves everything is going to be okay, then tell ourselves and our loved ones the same.
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