Last week I tripped and fell while running. Okay, let’s be honest, it was a slow jog. Anyway, I ran on a path that I regularly run on. I’ve run on this path for several years. I’m familiar with this path. Most mornings I turn on a podcast before pushing start on my app that tracks my kilometres. I run down the empty road with traffic lights still flashing red towards the path. It’s an old railroad track that the city has turned into a really nice walk/run/bike path. It’s lined with trees and flowering bushes. About a fourth of the way into my run, I cross a bridge that opens to a view of the mountains. It’s gorgeous and honestly one of the reasons I get up so early to run.

That morning though, I remember turning around to head back. I was laughing at something the host of the podcast had said when my foot caught on something and I stumbled and crashed to the ground.

How did I get here?

I stood up and looked at my knees. No scratches. I couldn’t believe my luck.

I took several steps. No twisted ankles. Wow, this is amazing!

All seemed good.

A throb came from my right hand.

A quick look revealed the source of the pain: a thick slice of skin between two fingers ripped off.

Really?

I squeezed my hand into a fist and jogged home – hoping I didn’t have too much blood running down my arm.

The next day I ran again and stopped where I had fallen. The section where I had tripped had changed. It went from a smooth path to slats of wood before changing back to the smooth path.

A transition.

My son leaves for university in a few weeks. I feel like my life resembles that path. I’ve been mom to this kid for over 18 years now. I’m familiar with mothering – but it’s changing. This transition feels like those slats of wood. It’s uneven. It’s loud. It’s not comfortable.

1. It’s uneven – Just as the boards are not evenly spaced, parenting during a transition isn’t either. It’s an awkward dance of letting him become an adult and still have some control. It’s knowing when to let him make his own decisions and mistakes. It’s more about coaching him and less about obedience. I’ve noticed this change in parenting a few years ago.
2. It’s loud – I feel like I’m a stomping elephant when I run over the slats of wood. That is why I run on the smooth bike path. It’s also loud in my head during this transition of parenting. The freak out voice seems to be shouting out all my fears and concerns, while the rational voice tells me that he is growing up and his decisions are not terrible. Maybe not the ones I would have made, but they are not going to ruin him. I’m reminded that I am now a coach and can only advise, but he needs to make decisions.
3. It’s uncomfortable – The uneven boards and the loud pounding make me feel uncomfortable – but I keep going as I know it is the right thing for me to do. Exercise. And just as this time of parenting feels uncomfortable with the uneven and loud feelings, it is right. He is growing up and needs to become his own person.

Transition is like that isn’t it? It feels uneven, loud and uncomfortable, but before you know it the path smooths back out and you are back to feeling normal.

So, here’s to making memories, watching him build his RAFT, and being attentive to my path as I finish this transition from mothering a kid to mothering an adult.

Transition is part of life. People move. Children come into the family. Special people and pets die. For those living overseas this rhythm of transition brings an odd normalcy, which one could easily sway or tap their foot.

In and out.

Come and go.

Up and down.  

Arrive depart.

Turn around and start again.

But, after a few years of this dance our minds stand guard. Emotions must stand against the wall and not step foot on the dance floor. Sometimes transition requires helping children through change.

If we find ourselves either in this awkward dance or stuck against the wall, what about our kids? They learn the dance early. How well they learn it or how to avoid it really depends on a few things. As parents we need to be mindful of them and how they are handling all the transitions, this includes children with special needs. My second child has Cri-du-Chat Syndrome and is mentally delayed. Though she can communicate, she is non-verbal. She has had her fair share of transitions as she spent most of her life outside of her passport country.

Her brother just graduated from high school last week. 

You can read the rest at Multicultural Kid Blogs where I am a guest writer today.

You are in the midst of building your RAFT, but you’ve always pictured rafting to look somewhat like this photo above.

It’s calm.

It’s peaceful.

It’s picturesque.

It’s, well you fill in the blank.

It’s suppose to be a time where you enjoy your friendships and your favorite places.

Your home fits nicely into boxes. The junk drawers and overstuffed closets are not to be found, for the moving fairy came and organized them while you were having coffee with the girls.

Your new destination is going to be like paradise.

My sunglasses are rose colored. I promise that the world looks SO much better with them on. I’m not joking. We’ll be driving along the coast and I’ll ooh and ahh about the ocean color or the sunset, but then I slip off my glasses and reality is nice, but it just isn’t as nice. Building a RAFT requires you to not put on rose colored glasses, but instead to be real. Doesn’t RAFTing as a family look more like the photo below?

And if you have children with special needs you are tied to them, possibly pulling them along.

Boxes are stacked all over the house.

“What do you mean you want to take ALL of your stuffed animals? Didn’t we agree that we’d only take 10?”

“What do you mean you’ll be home late again? You know the shipping company is coming to measure how much space we will need. I can’t comprehend what they will be saying while wrangling mini-you and feeding mini-me.”

Kids are crying. You are crying. You’re out of tissues.

You’ve given all your food away to friends and now you are hungry for that bag of chocolate covered almonds.

You get the picture. Nothing has gone the way you planned except that the airline tickets are set for you to leave in a few weeks. How are you going to get it all done and build that RAFT, let alone help your kids with it?

First take a deep breath, or maybe take a few. Relax.

It will get all done. I promise that the important things will get done. Remember to keep it all in perspective.

Prioritize your list of things to do and people to see.

Recruit help. Friends want to help. They can watch kids, clean house/rooms at the end, and even provide you with a meal. But, you have to let them know what would be the best way for them to help.

Have take-out more often. Invite people you need to see “one last time.” You need to eat. They need to eat. So eat together.

Keep that bag of chocolate covered almonds. Don’t give those away. You might need those.

Breathe.

Fill box and tape shut.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

*Image by judithscharnowski  at Pixabay

** Image by julianomarini from Pixabay

Sometimes your heart needs more time to accept what your mind already knows. ~ Author unknown

If you’ve heard this quote, most likely it had to do with a relationship that just ended unexpectedly, but this quote came to mind a few weeks ago and it seems very fitting to various scenarios of living and raising kids overseas.

Can you relate?

Yes? No? Maybe?

How about….

• On the airplane, seat belt clicked in place, announcements drumming in your ear, tears slip down your face as the plane begins to push away from your family and everything known.

• Or, maybe you’re the one staring at the empty seat across the table wondering if your loved one made all the connections okay and adjusting to their new home.

• Or, maybe graduation is fast approaching and you know you should be celebrating – and you are, but there are moments of grief.

• Or, maybe you just said rushed good-byes to friends who have become family…

Our heads take note of plans. We might highlight them on the calendar. We might post a countdown on social media. We might plan good-bye parties, sell our possessions, and do all the things that our head tells us to do. 

But, what about those times when it is all unexpected? Like last week.

We went to the foreign agency to renew our daughter’s passport. We donned our masks, took our temperatures, sprayed our hands and went through security. As we waited in the lobby, our daughter sat on the floor and opened the purple plastic tub full of treasures. She lined up all the small cars. She found the doctor’s equipment and checked her stuffed dog’s heart and gave him a shot. I was so thankful for the simple treasures to entertain her while we waited.

Our number was called and after the lady behind the counter looked at all the documents announced that she qualified for her first adult passport.

WHAT? 

YELLOW light – SLOW down. What do you mean “adult” passport?

While it is true that our daughter is 16, she is mentally more like a 2-4 year old. So, yes, technically she does qualify, but boy was my heart not ready.

Just a few months ago, I took our son to get his first adult passport. He’s 18 and I was totally expecting this. It was still bittersweet, mind you – but the heart was a bit more prepared. 

This was different. I went through the motions and paid the fees. 

This year has been quite the shake up. Who would have thought that life as we knew it could change so drastically. Kids are home doing what my husband at first coined “crisis school”, people are working from home, and others have been forced to leave their host countries within days. 

Just a few weeks ago as I was hugging a young lady who had just found out that she would be leaving in a couple of days, I whispered in her ear two thoughts. 

You see, even though I had just experienced this minor dilemma, I have had other heartwrenching experiences in the past that left me thinking “what now?”.

Like when my daughter almost died of pneumonia and later diagnosed with a mental and physical disability.

From that experience I knew what needed to be done. It is what I whispered in her ear.

1. Survive these next few days. Do what you have to do to pack up and say good-bye to all those people and places you can.
2. Grieve when you get to your new destination…grieve and process.

Survive and Process (which usually means grieving). 

Survive…

• Pack, clean the house, sell what you can.
• If at all possible say good-bye to people and places.
• Get through those online classes one day at a time. 

Process…

• Grieve the losses, take time to grieve
• Journal your thoughts and emotions
• Write letters to people you may not have had a chance to properly say good-bye to.
• Talk to others who may also be going through the same thing – you are not alone, I’m sure.

For me, when my daughter was going through her health crisis – I did what I could to survive each day (ate food, talked to doctors, went to appointments, and took care of my almost 2 year old son). I processed by journaling, crying and praying to God for help, and I met with other parents who had children with the same diagnosis as my daughter.

At the government building, I signed the papers and paid the fees for her “adult” passport. When we got to the car, I looked at my husband and said, “Well, I wasn’t prepared for that.” Then we went to an authentic Mexican restaurant. 

Sometimes surviving and processing takes months, maybe even years. That morning it only took a few minutes.

Survive.

Process.

And if possible, later celebrate. (I highly recommend this.)

Image by klimkin from Pixabay