Today marks the six month anniversary of our move here, which seems significant. Half a year of driving on the other side of the road, new schools, new house, new job, new life.
We’re getting used to it, though there’s still a lot of homesickness going on and even a surprising referral to “at home” by my husband–and he didn’t mean here. (Though I am 98% sure he won’t remember the remark, I’m sure he won’t be surprised that I do.)
This week it has been colder in the UK than it has in Ohio, after a few months of milder-than-normal temps. And I have to confess to missing snow just a teeny, tiny bit. I wouldn’t mind having one decent snowfall where I could sit by a fire, drink coffee, watch movies with the kids, and watch the snow fall down quietly outside. Just one. Perhaps it’s something in my DNA, but it feels, well, wrong, to not have had any snow at all.
Last year at this time I was trying very hard not to think about this year at this time, dreading it, worrying about it, already saying goodbye in my heart to the places and people I love. It no longer feels like we are on vacation here, I am no longer waiting to pack up my bags and head to the airport. If I could go “home” tomorrow, would I? Oh yeah. But I can’t. We haven’t been here long enough to abandon ship, everything is still so new, and it’s easy enough to look back at our life in the U.S. with rose-colored glasses and blame all of our frustrations and sadness on having left. But that wouldn’t be fair, or correct.
Still, I can’t wait to have our own house again, on the same continent, to have cats once more, for my kids to be happier, and for me to be happier too. It’s still early days, as the Brits say, but sometimes it’s hard to be grateful for where we are now when we only want what was.