A Bump and a Hurdle.

Expat life has its bumps and hurdles, but there is one sure way to bring it to a grinding halt.

Get sick.

Obviously I'm not talking about a cold, or a bout of tonsillitis. You'll need a surprise illness or diagnosis to really stop you in your tracks. Something that will have you wondering if you need to go home.

I walked out of the urologist's office on Monday in a state of shock. I'd gone for something called a cystoscopy, a procedure I was pretty convinced was not going to supply me with the answers I needed. I thought I was just going through the motions, that this would be the beginning of a process of elimination.

I'd walked into the hospital theatre feeling self conscious, I looked ridiculous. The hospital gown I was wearing looked the part, but the fact that I'd had to keep my shoes on (they like you to keep your shoes on when your'e walking around the hospital) meant I was wearing knee high boots and socks. I was accessorizing with a hot pink handbag and a blue plastic bag that held my pants and scarf. I looked more like I was escaping a mental institution than heading towards a day procedure. I double checked for the hundredth time that my bottom wasn't out on display as I gingerly climbed up on the bed.

Immediately it felt like I'd joined a race, there was a sense of urgency. I couldn't help but feel that we'd borrowed the room and time was running out. Everything was rushed, questions were asked quickly. How long? How many? How come? I kept trying to add in bits of my personality but everyone seemed impatient, disinterested. There was little eye contact, people were busy with medical instruments and charts. A nurse with kind eyes appeared to acknowledge my discomfort and threw in a few comments about her son, I smiled and asked how old he was. The surgeon then told me her son was very keen to go to Dubai. "I don't live in Dubai, I live in Doha" but it was too late, the conversation had moved on. 

"This will be cold and uncomfortable". I was already cold and uncomfortable.

I looked up at the screen and saw the inside of my body, my urethra. I winced and looked away. "There's your bladder, it looks good, we can rule out cancer". More prodding, more poking and then she hit the jackpot "Hang on! Hang on! Look at this!" She was gesturing for the nurses to lean in towards the screen. "See the hole, that's a diverticulum." Immediately I could feel the excitement in the air. Initially I joined them. Someone had an answer for me, someone could finally tell me why I kept getting UTI's and what was going on. 

And then, the mood changed. I needed to know what it meant. I asked her to repeat it. She said something about an operation, about being in hospital for 4 or 5 days, about needing to have two catheters. "You'll have to leave the hospital with the catheters in, sometimes they can came out in three weeks but sometimes it takes twelve". My heart was getting heavier with each word. How was I going do this? How would the logistics work? What would I do with the little travelers? A nurse made a joke about getting shoes to match my catheter bags and I tried to laugh, but I couldn't. I just kept doing the math, adding up the days, trying to work out how, and when. This wasn't an operation I was going to zip home for. This wasn't an operation I'd be driving myself home from the hospital from. How were we going to manage this? What if it took twelve weeks?

They walked me into a recovery room and I heard someone making an appointment for an MRI. "After the MRI we'll know if it needs to be two operations or one". My legs began to shake. "You've got a lot to digest, I think you should just sit for awhile. It could be worse, I got a surprise baby at fifty" said the nurse with the kind eyes. I gave the appropriate response, shock and dismay poured from my eyes, but I wasn't being honest, it didn't make me feel any better. I could manage a baby. A baby could be done in Doha, a baby is a short hospital stay, a baby is worth the pain, the time, and the discomfort. A baby wouldn't mean ruining everyone's holiday next year. When you live overseas, a medical emergency isn't just about the illness it's about the practicality, the cost, the impact. Can we do this? And if so, where do we do this? Do we need to go home? 

When I made it back to the beach house my first phone call was to G. He was out walking the beagle. I stumbled over the words, got things around the wrong way and then sobbed uncontrollably over the phone "That's good though, at least we know" he said gently. "It's okay, we'll manage, this is a great opportunity to get fit before the operation". He was right but I still couldn't see how it was all going to work. "I'm going to ruin everyone's holiday next year". He told me I wouldn't. I couldn't see how I couldn't. 

By the time I woke up this morning G had sent me a long and detailed email with all of our options. Plan A, Plan B and C had all been thought over in detail. "Either way, we can work it out". The tone was chirpy, manageable, easy. "We'll know more after we've been to the doctor together". I immediately felt calmer. "We can work it out".

And we will. We always do. It's a bump and a hurdle, it doesn't need to bring us to a grinding halt. And I need to remember, I'm lucky that this is all I have to deal with. 

Friends, Old and New.

This weekend is the weekend for old friends. Women who stood by my side with their make-up melting off of their faces and perspiration running down their legs, while G and I exchanged our vows. It was one of the hottest days in all history in my hometown on the day we married, the groomsmen were not loving their three piece suits. This weekend I will catch up with women I once worked with, giggled with, and shared glasses of bubbles at 4pm on a Friday afternoon, "is it Champagne o'clock yet?" a voice would call across an open planned office. I have a girlfriend flying over from Sydney with a much wanted baby in her tummy, it's been a year since we saw each other last.

This weekend is a girls weekend.

This weekend we will recap on the bits we've missed, while retelling the bits we know. "Can you remember the night..." It is a time to fill in the gaps, to ask the questions that don't always fit into an email, or tell the stories that can't be written or said over the phone. I'm working on the playlist for the iPod, the taxi's been ordered, the restaurant has been booked.

I've been looking forward to this weekend for months. It's not just about being child free, it's about uninterrupted conversations and being able to steal more than just twenty minutes to talk. It's about reconnecting and refueling friendships, rather than just relying on them always being there.

On the other side of the world, G will be spending his last weekend in Doha before heading back to us here. Last night he sat at a table with some of our new friends, people who have become an automatic assumption in our lives. Names that go on lists for tickets to be bought, dinners to be eaten and reservations to be made. People that G and I have really fallen in love with. I rang G to ask how everyone was "it was so nice to be back together again, we're so lucky with the friends we've made here".

I've spoken about my friends in Doha a little too often this holiday. I've told stories of dinners and events, or how good the night at the ceildh was. Friends have politely asked "so where are they from?" or "how do you know them?" The conversation will then move on, because it has no-where to go, we are talking about two different worlds and two different lives, and over the years I have learnt that it's impossible to mould the two together. My story of the party where Andrew was practicing his childhood speech therapy exercises with his face only inches from the very English speech therapist, are really a had-to-be-there moment.

Earlier this year when I went to Jakarta, I caught up with a friend who'd arranged for a few girlfriends to come over for the afternoon. "I've asked my friend Ann-Maree to come because I think you'd really like her" the host explained, she was absolutely right. I saw Anne-Maree another couple of times while I was in Jakarta, and when she mentioned she was coming to Adelaide for a conference in July it felt perfectly natural to invite her to the beach house.

Five months and a few short emails later, the little travelers and I were on our way to pick her up. The children asked how I'd met Ann-Maree and what I liked about her. "I just felt comfortable with her immediately, she's lived in a few different places, she has two girls the same age as mine, and she's a great conversationalist. It just felt very comfortable being with her, she felt like an old friend immediately. Plus, she likes to read and she goes to the Writers Festival in Ubud, and I'd like to go there one day".

When Ann-Maree hopped in the car the third little traveler opened the conversation with "Mum likes you because you like to read".

When we were driving to the beach Ann-Maree's phone rang, it was one of her long time friends, a girlfriend she'd had for years. I listened to Ann-Maree explain where she was, "I'm with my new very best friend Kirsty" she giggled. When she hung up she explained how her friend likes to remind her just how long they've been friends for when she talks of these "new" friends.

I have old friends who have never seen me pregnant. I have old friends who never saw me juggle and negotiate through full time work and four children. I have old friends who have never seen me speak another language. I have old friends that have never seen me drive on the opposite side of the road, or barter for vegetables in arabic in the middle of a street in Libya.

I have new friends that have only ever known me to be in a relationship with G. I have new friends that never saw me as a single woman in a share house. I have new friends who have never met my parents or sister, friends who possibly are not even sure which part of Australia I'm from.

With new friends you begin from scratch and build it. With old friends you pick up where you left off. I tell the little travelers all the time that they should be excited about the friends they are yet to meet. With each move that we've made, I've expressed the same excitement as we've touched down on new soil "just think of all of those new best friends that are out there that don't even know you exist. They're about to meet you!"

In the words of Anais Nin "Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born".

This weekend is a weekend of old friends and I can't wait, the bubbles are in the fridge, the glasses will be chilled. And at some stage over the weekend when a cork has been popped, I will think of all friends, both near and far.

Cheers.

My Democracy, My Dictatorship

The third little traveler wasn't happy with a decision that had been made. As he left the room he muttered "I hate you, you're just so mean". I'd just removed the iPod from his hands and ordered him outside to kick the football with his brother. I know, SO mean.

We are in week six of school holidays (we have five more to go). G's been back in Doha for nearly three weeks now, this means there is only one name to call in the event of a crises. A crises like where's the toothpaste and we've run out of toilet paper. For the past few weeks whenever something has gone wrong, the first name to be called is "Muuuuuuuuum", you know the Mum I mean right? Not the short, staccato one syllable Mum, but the long drawn out three syllable "Muuaaaaauuuuhhhm". And then there's the questions.

"What can I have for breakfast?"
"What's for lunch?"
"What's for dinner?"
"Are we going out today?"
"Do we have to go out today?"
"When are we going to library?"
"Why do we have to go to the library?"
"Can we go to the beach?"
"I don't want to go to the beach?"
"When are we going to Granny's house?"
"Why are we going to Granny's house?"
"How come you never let us...." this sentence can be completed with any event that has recently been done, but then conveniently erased from their memory. For example, McDonalds. For if you "forget" that you've recently been to McDonalds, it obviously never happened, and if it didn't happen, it is perfectly reasonable to make a request as you drive past the golden arches.

The logic of a child.

I know it because I'm slowly becoming sucked into its vortex. The only thing keeping this house from turning into the land of twenty-four hour television and a continuous supply of chicken nuggets, is the negotiating skills of Kofi Annan that are required on a daily basis. Only Kofi never had to demand the demise of a cubby house that had been three days in the making while catching someone head first from the top bunks. Kofi never had to say "eat your broccoli now or else I will put it on your cereal tomorrow".

I began this holiday like Kofi "knowing that information and knowledge are central to true democracy" I will end this holiday with democracy being replaced by a much more comfortable benevolent dictatorship. I sprang into our holiday break believing everyone had a voice, I now think of these voices as white noise in the distance. What began as "what would you all like to do today" has been replaced with "because I said so". Oh, who am I kidding, it will simply be a strained and shouty "BECAUSE!"

This morning I was awoken in the usual way. My third little traveler aka our blonde alarm clock, wakes me each morning with a kiss on the cheek and a whispered "Morning, love you Mum" before disappearing out towards the bliss that is holiday morning television.

It appears that this dictator is not always popular, but she is loved.

Corridors with Life.

I'm at Granny Max's house. It's one of those old Australian country houses with an enclosed verandah and jarrah wooden floorboards. It has beautiful old rooms that are separated by big thick stone walls, rooms that become the home of family events. There's a dining room (Christmas and big family gatherings), a formal lounge (barely used) and another lounge with a fireplace (that's where you get banished to watch any television that Gramps doesn't want to watch). You know how some houses have an automatic feeling of home? That's how this house feel. When I think of home. This is it. It has corridors that can tell stories.

Throughout my twenties I intermittently returned here, firstly with friends from school and then work. When I did a stint of working in the country, I lived here. Taxis dropped me off here. I finished sneaky ciggies in the backyard before walking inside. Years later when I was back living in the city G and I drove here for lunch, he fell in love with the house and life my parents had living here immediately. My mother evidently muttered something to my Dad after we left about thinking G might just be the one. Two weeks later, G rang Dad and asked  if he could marry his daughter. Our wedding reception was here, within an hour a keg of beer and a case of champagne had been drunk - the party finished at 4am.

Good times.

The little travelers have had stints in between international moves of living at Grannys. This house has been littered with porta-cots, swings have been put together, bikes are kept in the shed. There is a play area on the back verandah and a dolls house that is the focal point of each trip. The little travelers love it here as much as I do, for their memories are childhood memories, memories of play, of running through corridors, of bath times and snuggles with Gramps and Granny. They know exactly where Gramps will be sitting when we arrive, they know where the chocolate biscuits are hidden and how to coax Granny into letting them use the computer.

I cannot speak about the fact that my parents feel their days in this beautiful old house are numbered. I wince when words like "downsize" and "up-keep" are mentioned. For a house that is a home remains just that, your home; so how could it possibly be someone else's?  I remain in denial my parents cannot maintain 200 roses and an acre of grass to mow. I refuse to see that their knees ache and their arthritis stabs them with constant reminders of its existence. For to accept that things are changing, is to accept that they will no longer stay the same.

This is home, and nothing will change it.

Repatriation. Are you ready?

There's a new question. The new question is really getting up my nose because I'm pretty sure there's no answer. And if there is an answer, I probably won't know it, until it becomes irrelevant.

Years ago, when living in Canada, we had friends visit from Australia. The topic of children and travel made its way into the conversation, and then more pointedly, expat children. A very good friend of mine was telling me about his own experience at a Sydney private boys school, he was talking about the kids whose parents lived overseas.

"They were just a bit weird, they found it hard to fit in"

Another good friend of mine had cousins whose parents were expats. "They came back here to go to school and found it really hard to settle in." 

I'm learning that "found it hard to settle in" is code for "socially awkward or a little bit different".

Usually once a year, on our annual trip home, I will meet someone new who will share that they know someone like me. "Someone like me?" I always have to ask to qualify. Do they mean brown hair and freckles with a seemingly constant glass of wine in their hand? No, it's not that. "They lived overseas as well". 

And that's when you know you've been lumped in a group. Whatever their friends experience or situation was, has now automatically become yours.

The first little traveler has just turned twelve. We have decisions about her future that need to be made in the next few years. She's about to start grade seven, and at this point in time she's a very happy, well adjusted, twelve year old girl. She has a lovely group of friends at school and ended the school year with a report card full of A's and B's. Yes, that was bragging heavily disguised as a blog post.

It's not all smooth sailing though. At twelve she has well and truly mastered the eye roll and on Friday night, she became so overtired and emotional that bed seemed the only option. Anyone who has ridden the 'Tower of Terror' ride at Disneyland (that's the one where the elevator takes a sudden drop), has experienced the emotion of parenting a tween. It's exciting, it's excruciating, it can be scary, it can be exhilarating. 

My mind has been working overtime over the past couple of years on what we will do for the little traveler's senior years of high school. Do we all come home? Do we consider boarding school? Do we just stay where we are and have the children repatriate for University? Part of the reason we bought this beach house was to provide the base, to make the first step of having an Aussie "home". I have read books, researched schools, spoken to other parents, and talked about it with the little travelers themselves. 

The jury is still out.

What I have realized in my research, is that conversations about what to do with expat kids should probably only be had with expat experts. For they are the only ones that truly understand. For many people our life is a little strange. I'm sure that I have many friends who feel my children are missing out by not living in a "stable" environment. An environment where the kids who lived around the corner and caught the bus with you in grade three, are on the same bus for first day of year twelve. I know what my children are missing because I've had it, and I see it when I come back to Australia. Sometimes I'm desperate for that life (usually for the first two weeks that I'm home), but for most of the time I'm perfectly okay with it. We have been blessed with the opportunities we've been given and I wouldn't change a second of it. A quick scroll through our family shots is enough to remind me that this life has been everything G and I hoped for. 

So back to the question.

Are the little travelers going to have “have trouble settling in?” 

I'm quietly confident they'll be fine. We'll have the same hiccups we've had with any other moves and yes, they will be arriving from one world and entering another, but I reckon they know what they're in for. Our summer holidays always provide an insight into what's in store. "Doha? Where's that?"

Like any parent, it's my job to make them as comfortable in their own skin as possible. It's my job to make them feel like they have a great support base behind them. It's my job to make them adaptable and open to change. This is an achievement for any parent, expat or not. And anyone, can screw it up, wherever they happen to reside.

The world has become a very small place. Email, Facebook, Messaging and Skype mean that children can now talk daily to friends on the other side of the world. They share music, youtube clips and concert snippets to remain connected. Obviously none of this substitutes for hanging out in real time with a friend, but gone are the days of arriving back in the country and having no idea what's going on. The little travelers addiction to Masterchef and Dance Academy proves that Aussie pop culture can now find its way to lounge rooms all over the world.


So, will the little travelers have trouble settling in? Maybe, possibly, hopefully not - we'll do it together like we have everything else. Our situation will be unique because it is ours, and we'll just do the best we can. In the meantime we'll just stay on the ride, exciting, excruciating, scary and exhilarating. 


I love it.

The Plan is...

If I need to settle a traveler, to calm or comfort them, the story of their birth is always a sure thing. They love it. The second little traveler loves her story because it involves just her and I. I see her eyes light up when I say "It was just you and me together in the hospital in Kuala Lumpur. We did it together. Every time I got frightened about being away from home, I just looked at you and knew we'd be okay".

She has that effect on people. You get the feeling with Annie that no-one will push her around. When she was three her playgroup teacher told G and I that she had qualities you'd be happy to see in a sixteen year old girl. That was her polite way of telling us she was determined and willful.

She's a planner. She likes structure and continuity. She needs to know exactly how it's all going to pan out and she'll be the first one to tell you if you're not following the rules. Her laugh comes from deep within, it's not a giggle, it's an explosion and EVERY time we hear it, either G or I will smile and say "listen to Annie".

Jokingly I asked her last night how she felt about the last ten years. Is there was anything she'd change? "No, you've done a pretty good job" she giggled "I like the way you've mapped it all out, let us know what the plan is".

I was horrified. Was I really that controlling? Did they feel their futures were mapped out already?

Annie made her first move at three weeks of age. She was on her third move by the time she was two. She's been to three schools and talks about her friends in sentences like these "You know Holly from New Zealand? Who used to live in Qatar? Can we go and visit her in Kenya?" She talks about the house with the sand, the house with the hot tub, the house with the pool and now the house on the compound.

"I like the way you've mapped it all out".

There was no mapping. Anyone who worked for The Big Blue (that's the company G was with for 11 years, and no that's not their real name) knew that there was no mapping. There was no strategy or plan. It always began with a rumor and ended a few weeks/months later with a farewell party.

Here I was worrying that the travelers would feel disjointed and confused. Here they were telling me they liked the way we mapped it all out.

It has occurred to me this morning that while life has been chaotic, we have always talked of possibilities and plans. How long will we stay? Which school shall we pick? Which area shall we live? I guess to a child it looks like constant planning. And they're right, there was always a choice and an element of control. We planned what we could. We took control when it was possible.

My plan for you dear Annie, is that you continue to laugh from that deep beautiful place that is your soul. I plan for you to continue to smile while you run, because you're the only person I know who does that?! I plan for you to always be by my side whether it's physical or in my heart. I plan to fix that chip on your front tooth. And I plan to let you have as much sugar as you like tonight for your birthday dinner.

I plan to celebrate our luck, for that is how we feel when we think of you.

Lucky.

Things are Changing Around Here.

“Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.” -Andre Gide


When I began writing the blog it was really just a way of communicating with friends and family about what was going on in our life in Qatar.

I think that lasted for about a month.

It wasn't a conscious decision to start writing stories, I wasn't aware they were even there, until they turned up on the page.

Over the past two years, I'm not sure I've learned that much about writing, but I've learned quite a bit about blogging and about how you can be simultaneously dying of embarrassment while bursting with pride over the fact that someone "likes" your words. I have a love/hate relationship with this blog.

When I worked in an office I was always part of a team. My favourite thing about account management was winning accounts. I loved the groundwork, the tendering, the submissions and the pitch. I loved celebrating as a team and being able to talk about what a great job "we" did.

When you're on your own in a venture, the last thing you want to do is talk about yourself. It sounds vainglorious, arrogant and egotistical. And of course the minute you do start banging on about your blog after one too many drinks at a dinner party, you wish you hadn't. It's just boring.

Why do I keep writing? I write because you're still here. I write because you send me emails telling me you feel the same way. I write because you moved from Singapore to Queensland and even though it's been nine years you still feel like an outsider. I write because you cried and you giggled when I did. I write because you've done the first day at a new school more than once, you've walked into coffee shop with no idea who you're meeting, and I write because just between you and me - I love it more than I hate it.

Lately I've been thinking about retuning to the office. The fourth little traveler finished Kindergarten this year and I've contemplated putting children on the bus and maybe not being there when they get home from school. I miss working in an office, I miss the stimulation of a really good meeting where you feel like you're making a difference. I miss placing someone in a job that they really wanted, and I miss the camaraderie that comes from walking away from a pitch and knowing you've nailed it. I miss the money. I really miss the money.

It's not going to work though. I have four children in a foreign country. They all have after school activities, they all have have places to be, and demands that need to be met. They also have school holidays, twelve weeks in the middle of the year is hard to manage will a full time job. I know because I have friends that do it and it's a bloody nightmare.

There's a little folder in my email called "blog enquiries". Every time I've received an email that started with "we've just looked at your blog and we think you might be a good fit" I've dragged the email over and popped it into the folder, hoping that all of those emails would miraculously get together and do something productive. I think that's called denial?  I've never replied (not even to one of them) because I never knew what to say. I've never been to a blog conference, I've never written a media kit. Me, an ex sales exec, has found herself in a position where she doesn't really understand how it all works.

Why?

I haven't been sure that I've wanted to go down that path. I'm not sure about sponsored posts as I don't think you guys want to read them. I'm not sure about advertising because I don't even know how I would technically make it work.

I'm going to have to learn. I need to earn some money. I need a career that fits around my children. I want to keep writing and I'm hoping that I can.

Over the past month I've been working on getting a new banner and a new look for the blog, and we're getting very close. Today I will pass over my admin details so things can start changing behind the scenes. It's going to look a little different around here. I'd like to offer up more content, more information about traveling with children, about moving, about finding yourself in a new environment and not understanding it. The one thing I've realized through writing this blog is you don't have to have traveled overseas to identify, anyone who has moved from A to B knows the feeling of being lost, and I don't just mean literally.

The third little traveler made me a bracelet last night. His timing is perfect. At a time when I'm feeling a little nervous about whether this is all going to work he reminded me that this is a new career. This is what I do, this is a small part of who I am.

I am a blogger.

What do you think? Am I crazy?

Every Detail.

For a brief moment on Saturday night, I thought I'd sliced one of my fingers off. It was one of those stupid, split second moments. The knife slipped, and immediately the blood began to flow. I could see a little blood river trickling down the side of the sink and knew a couple of the little travelers wouldn't deal well with the visual element of a Mummy finger massacre. "Can someone find me the black tea towel?" I had one of those fake calm voices.

Thankfully my sister was staying the night. I say thankfully because it meant that she could both administer first aid while pouring copious amounts of alcohol into my glass. I sat with the black tea towel wrapped around my pulsing elevated finger, waiting for the bleeding to stop. For about the first hour my sister intermittently asked if I thought I might require stitches, after the first hour we both realized neither of us could drive, and by 2am I'd forgotten I'd even cut my finger. By 3am I may have got my finger confused with my toe.

My sister and I had a lot of giggles on Saturday night, we talked about a different time. A time where we shared an address and a dinner table. A time that involved grandparents and Aunts and Uncles who argued and drank and laughed. People who are now motionless still shots, placed in photo frames. I love how siblings jog your memory. The combined moments mesh together to form one story. One of my parents more disastrous family holidays, was the beach holiday where my father became so sunburnt that he couldn't move. I have memories of that holiday but they lack detail. I remember being so impressed by the beach house because it was high, I remember my father being miserable, but I cannot place my sister in any of the memories. "I can't remember you being there at all?!" This fact had us both laughing hysterically on Saturday night.

I hate that I can't remember everything. I hate that life appears to be moving faster and that some of the memories are becoming more distant. Others are lost forever. I think about the travelers being tiny and wishing my groundhog days away. I think about my pregnant stomach and breast feeding and how both of these things feel so foreign to me now. How is it that there was a time where I couldn't see an end to their existence?

Coming home, and being back in Australia, is like an extended stay with a sibling. Catching up with old friends means reliving old stories, while (hopefully) making a few new ones. Driving past your old school, an old work place, a former favourite lunch spot will mean that memories are going to sneak into your subconscious. My weekend began early with a visit from a new friend from Jakarta on Thursday, then it was a drop in with an old friend on Friday, followed by a visit from my sister on Saturday, and a sleepover with a dear friend on Sunday. There was lots to catch up on.

It was a weekend of shared stories and giggles, new memories and old. I sat with my girlfriend yesterday while she told me about something that had happened this year, when I wasn't around. I'm a details girl so my questions involved dates and locations.

"So when did this happen exactly?" followed by "And then the next bit, when was that?" and then "how long ago did you decide..." I was catching up, putting the pieces together. It wasn't a groundbreaking life changing story, but If I didn't understand how it all played out, I knew I'd never really understand it. Does it matter though? For someone who's been away, it matters immensely.

Our holidays not only serve as a chance to catch up, they serve as a cold stark reminder of what it is that we've missed. I can balance out what I'm missing, I'm okay with it, but it doesn't make it any easier.

In a couple of years I'll forget my girlfriend's story. She will have moved on and there will be another story to tell, and maybe in the middle of a different conversation she'll mention this years events and a flicker in my mind will take me back. I'll go back to the weekend where I cut my finger and asked for a black tea towel so the children wouldn't see the blood and be distressed. I'll think about the ages of the little travelers over that holiday in 2012, how little they were, how they played on the neighbours lawn and collected shells from the beach and visited Granny.

And I'll wish that I could remember every detail.

Keep Your Eyes in the Sky

It doesn't get any easier.

Without fail G's last day in town always involves a small drama or some form of internalized tension. The tone in the house changes as his bag begins to be packed, the little travelers change mood and I begin to subconsciously make the mental list of what we thought we'd get done but didn't. And then there's the inevitable last minute drama to heighten the tension. Whether it's a flat tyre or a suitcase zipper that breaks, somehow we manage to go from a relaxed family holiday to a roller coaster of last minute jobs that need to be done.

I told myself it was going to be different this year. I didn't want to race to the airport at breakneck speed, only slowing so G could commando roll from the car to the departures terminal. I didn't want to have a petty fight about electricity bills or my annual obligatory speeding fine, or how much money I managed to spend on last year's holiday. It was going to be relaxed and chilled.

It was not.

G had three hours to get to the airport when I sent him a text from the doctors surgery. "Still not sure, possible appendicitis - having blood tests, will know more this afternoon". The first little traveler had provided all the excitement that collapsing/fainting can induce to a family breakfast. After an initial trip to the local surgery we left without any answers. Then the diarrhea began. I drove into town to our family doctor. In the midst of talking about whether we should do an ultrasound or blood tests I heard myself say "I have to take G to the airport this afternoon, when exactly will we know if she has appendicitis" I sounded like the mother from hell. Who tries to fit appendectomies in with flight times?

While I was at the doctors, G was at the beach house standing outside with the plumber, the plumber was wearing work boots, jeans and a shirt - G was wearing his Qatar Airways pajamas. It's hard to have a serious blokey conversation when you're the one wearing what looks like a grey onesie with an airplane logo on your chest. G wasn't all that fussed at the time though, the hot water service had decided all washing and bathing was now going to be done at a luke warm temperature - we wanted it fixed. Preferably before G got on a plane.

Meanwhile back at the doctors, I was busy coaxing the first little traveler into having a blood test. I know I should love her determined spirit and decisive personality, and I do, just not when she's refusing to do something I really need her to do. Finally, after thirty minutes of intense negotiations, as we held hands and stared into each others eyes I said the magic words "What colour shoelaces do you want me to get for your converse sneakers?"

We arrived back at the beach house in time to turn around and head back to the city again. It was time to get to the airport. There was one final thing left on G's to do's list that he was passing on to me, and instead of seeing it as one small thing, I saw it as the thing that was going to ruin my life. This happens every year - the one final thing, this year it was our heating, there was a problem with the ducting. Last year it was electrical, the year before that it was the gas.

It would usually be no big deal but I lose all rationality when it comes to waving G goodbye. Instead of just saying I don't want you to go, or doesn't this situation suck, I get grumpy about what's ahead. The cloud above my head became stormier as I read the instructions G had left regarding what needed to be done. I was going to have to ring A and tell them that B needed to talk to C about the warranty that A had provided and B had connected, but maybe D would agree to do the work. I decided it could wait until after we discovered if the first little traveler needed her appendix removed.

As we got closer to the airport the first little traveler joked that she wished G could break his leg so he didn't have to get on the plane. We all gave a half hearted laugh. And then there was silence while we all secretly planned exactly how we could break his leg. The second little traveler had her jacket over her face, she was in denial. The third little traveler broke the silence with "I'm going to miss you Dad". G took a deep breath and said "I'm going to miss you too mate".

We were late. As we screamed towards the terminal, G tried to make both he and I feel better by reminding me that he was going to be really busy at work, that people were away and that the "time would just fly". I pretended to agree with him and said all the cliches that we always say "it'll go so quickly". As we pulled up in the drop off zone, the travelers clambered over the seats to hug and kiss him. I looked at the sign above us and wondered exactly how many times we'd done this. How many drop off zones have we parked in while we said our one minute goodbye? We hugged, kissed, made the same dumb jokes, and then he was gone.

I got back in the car and looked at the little travelers faces. "Well guys, it's just us now - how about we plan some fun". The ideas started coming, a pajama day, a home-made ice-cream sundae bar, a sleepover with friends, a trip to the movies. Everyone began to get excited. "I wish Dad could have stayed" said the fourth little traveler "he would love the ice-cream sundae bar". Everyone decided that we could do it again we he got back.

As we hit the first set of traffic lights I noticed my phone was alight with a message "made it, boarding now".

"Keep your eyes in the sky guys, Dad's plane should take off soon".

Silence.

It never gets any easier.

What if?

Within a week of meeting G, I began what has now become a fourteen year ritual of getting ready to say goodbye. Over the years the goodbyes have taken different forms. Initially, when it was just the two of us, it was simply a matter of missing him, of not wanting to be without him.

In my first pregnancy I fell down the stairs in our apartment in Perth as we were making our way to the car. I was taking G to the airport. It was our first experience of it no longer being just about us, that there were now three of us in the equation. He wasn't just saying goodbye to me, there was someone else involved. He didn't want to leave, and as much as I kept saying that everything was fine, I was quietly running through the scenario in my head. What if something terrible had happened when I fell. What if I lost this baby while he was gone and I was on my own when it happened. Who would I call? Where exactly would I go?

It was fine, we were fine.

When the first little traveler arrived safely six months later, we were all back on a plane within eleven days. We waved my parents goodbye at the airport and began our new life in another country. Just the three of us. Each time G would travel and have to leave us, the "what ifs" would return. What if there's another coup? What if I need to call an ambulance and they don't come? What if I can't get any money out of the bank again?  What if the phone stops working for three days like it did last week? Suddenly life as a single parent in a foreign country seemed a little more daunting. There was a matching horror story in each country that involved an expat woman who was home alone with her children. The French woman who was killed in her home in Jakarta. The home invasion that went wrong in Kuala Lumpur. The car accident that wasn't an accident in Libya. Stories you were told, that somehow managed to stay stored in the back of your brain, only to be remembered at 1am when a strange noise was coming from the back yard and you were up feeding a baby.

Over the years as the little travelers have grown and faced their own obstacles, G and I have continued with our intermittent goodbyes, and the "what ifs" have stayed. What if he has another asthma attack and I have to take them all to the hospital with me? What if she needs another ear operation? What if the doctor tells me I have to be admitted for the procedure? These things have happened and we've got through them. It was fine. We were fine.

Tonight is G's last night before he heads back to Qatar for a month without us. He's taken the little travelers to swimming lessons and the library on his own today, a break for me, serves as his last fix. He's an experienced and wounded traveler, he knows he will have to hold on to today's events for the next few weeks. He will want to remember the face of each swimming instructor, the books that were borrowed from the library. He will discuss these details while on Skype with the little travelers, he will be in one country while they are in another.

It is G that will find the next month harder than anyone. He will return to a family home that is missing its vital ingredient, a family.

My "what ifs" are so much simpler here. What if the hot water man doesn't come to fix the hot water service? What if I can't find a carpenter to cut a hole in the wall. These are problems that can be solved. The supermarket is just down the road, the winery around the corner; but most importantly, friends and family are a mere phone call away.

To my gorgeous G who will worry about us unnecessarily, it will be fine. We will be fine.