April update: Easter, grumps, and the little wins

Hello! As I slowly work on all of the travel posts I need to do (they seem very daunting… so much to remember and write about and so many photos to sift through), I thought I would just do a quick check-in about what’s happening with us lately.

The past few weeks have been filled with several highs and a few minor lows. We had a lovely Easter weekend. The boys were off school Good Friday and Easter Monday, and Tim was off work too since those are official bank holidays. Part of me thought, “Time off!? We should GO SOMEWHERE and see all the things!” but I was easily convinced to enjoy our time at home. Our bank account reaffirmed this was a good idea.

The weather all weekend was beautiful – sunny and warm, in untypical English fashion. We worked around the yard, getting out and repainting the patio furniture we shipped, before going to a local pub for dinner. We sat outside and ordered our food while the boys played on the nearby cricket pitch and climbed trees. Of all of the things I love about England, near the top are the family friendly pubs where the kids are encouraged to run and play while the adults hang out and talk.

Later that weekend, Nate had a friend’s birthday party, and we went to another friend’s party on Easter Sunday, enjoying the weather and company and the tradition of the egg hunt. Chocolate eggs are big here, coloring Easter eggs not so much.

 

We also attended the local church’s Easter Sunday service. Not knowing what to expect, I said to Tim, “Let’s get there at a decent time. I really don’t want to be late.” Tim has a different version of late than I do (a little late is not late), so we wound up parking as the church bells were ringing at 9 a.m. By the time we walked to the large wooden church door, the church bells had fallen silent.

Tim pushed the door open and we walked into the tiny church, directly into the sanctuary. The service had started, the pastor waved us in, people had to shuffle around to fit us in a pew, and everyone looked at us. It is a small church, and people seemed very aware we were new. It was exactly how I hadn’t wanted it to go and made me a bit uncomfortable.

But the feeling didn’t last long. It was a short service – I think they share the pastor with other nearby churches so she had to go elsewhere – but the Easter message was effective and accessible, and there were many components that were the same or similar to what we were used to. After the service, many members greeted us as we huddled in the middle of the church with coffee and biscuits. There was one other family we recognized from school so we chatted with them a bit. Overall, it was a positive experience in a beautiful church, helping us feel a bit more that we’re part of the community.

I can’t believe we have lived here eight months. Time seems to be passing quickly, and we continue to do well here. However, I’m not sure when the “honeymoon” period typically ends, but I have felt more homesick recently.

I find myself scrolling through photos of the past few years, at family events, when the boys were younger, activities at school and with friends. We miss our families, and seeing our nieces and nephews, who are growing up so fast. We miss Jack terribly, though he is doing great at my parents’ house. I miss the quick pop-in visit from a friend, long and meaningful conversations with dear friends, and talking about Grant with the people who were by our side each step of our journey.

Social media can be a wonderful thing; I love sharing what we’re up to occasionally, and seeing what our friends and family members are up to as well. It helps me feel like I know what’s going on and that I’m not so far away. But it also makes me very aware of what we’re missing, and I sometimes feel a pang of jealousy wishing we were part of it.

In that homesickness, it can be easy to pick up on the negatives. Last week, I headed into a nearby village to run errands. I first stopped at the gas station because I really needed to break change so I had a £5 bill. I gathered a few things to purchase and made my way to the front. I stood in line, I thought, casually perusing what was on the shelf next to me as the cashier helped someone. When that customer left, I stepped up.

The cashier glared at me. “You weren’t in the queue,” she said, refusing to scan my items. “What?” I said, confused. “Um, yes I was.” I looked back at the man who had been behind me. “Sir, wasn’t I in front of you in the queue?” I said, looking for the assurance I was certain he would give. He shook his head grumpily as the cashier sighed. Baffled, I picked my stuff up from the counter and went to stand in back of the growing line. The man walked up to the cashier and said, “I have no idea what she was saying.” They both tsk-tsked me, as I waited my turn, again. In the end, I didn’t even get the £5 bill I needed in change. The cashier dropped five single pound coins in my hand; I was too nervous to say anything else.

I then drove to a different part of town, keeping an eye peeled for parking because it is very hard to find. Finally, I found a roadside spot and pulled in, careful to leave enough space for the car in front of me but close enough I fit in the lines. I began to gather my things, still perplexed by the random situation at the gas station. I barely noticed the man get in the car in front of me, as I got out and started to walk down the sidewalk.

Then a car horn blared. I looked back. The man in the car in front of me was laying on the horn while gesturing with the other hand to my car. I walked back and looked. Instead of, you know, rolling down the window and asking politely, he continued to gesture for me to move my car. I looked at space between our cars – a few feet, more than I usually get when pulling out of a spot, I was certain. I looked at him and shrugged. He honked and gestured again, so I relented and hopped in my car and backed it up a little bit. He drove off in his fancy car without a second thought.  I started to cry.

I recognize – even more so while writing them down – that these are dumb, meaningless events. A blip on the radar of an average day. But that day, they felt big. I drove home  with tears streaming down my face, cursing all the rude people, the stupid narrow roads that force you into the hedges anytime you pass someone, the race track not far from our house that just that day, was testing motor bikes which may be the most annoying and loud whining hum sound ever. I felt frustrated.

Most of all, I felt tired of feeling different, and even stupid. There are so many unspoken norms in a different culture, and you don’t realize what you don’t know and when you’re about to do something dumb. Tipping etiquette. Saying too much or saying the wrong thing. Having to ask for help at the school Easter bingo night, because even bingo is different here. I open my mouth, and immediately, people know I’m not from here. (I also recognize that I am privileged in that it’s my accent that gives it away, and how much harder it also becomes by “looking different,” whatever that may mean in the beholder’s eyes.) 

So, I wallowed for a bit that day, and then kept going. I went for a walk. I picked up the boys and chatted with the lovely mums who have become friends while the boys played with their buddies. I complained to Tim, and now you all, ha, but I’m over it. Maybe next time, I won’t let it phase me, or maybe I’ll gesture right back. 😉

I’ll end on a high note. Tim took Bennett to a birthday party yesterday at a trampoline park. We had been trying to convince Nate to learn to ride his bike without the training wheels for the past few weeks. We had shipped over their bikes, but our driveway is rocky so they don’t get to ride often. A recent try at the park resulted in a few falls, and Nate couldn’t be bothered with trying to learn again. It’s not that he was upset; he just didn’t want to put in the time for something that didn’t come easily. He told me he’d learn “maybe when he was six.” (Very unlike Bennett, who set a goal to learn by his 5^thbirthday and practiced diligently to do just that.)

I convinced him that he should try again, and then we could surprise Daddy when he got it. We went to the nearby wooded area that has some dirt trails, which I figured would be softer to land on in case of falls. I huffed and puffed carrying his bike while he sauntered behind me. We worked for a couple of hours, with lots of  “breathers” and “rests” and playing with sticks. But eventually, he started to get it…and then he got excited. He even devised a plan to tell Tim that he didn’t know how to ride a bike and then he would show him that he did and say “TRICKED YA!” He nailed it.

There’s a lesson in persistency and trying, even when things get tough, that I should connect to my own experience in a meaningful way here…but it’s just too obvious, right? And this quick update has become an unintentionally long confessional. So let’s just end with this.