International Living Postcards– Sunday Edition

Sunday, May 6, 2007

When I decided, nearly nine years ago, to move from Baltimore, Maryland, to Waterford, Ireland, I endured raised eyebrows, puzzled stares, and pointed questions: "So, you just woke up one morning and decided you wanted to leave the States?" asked one colleague.

But worst was the response from my parents. I was taking their first, at the time their only, grandchild out of the country. Supportive and sympathetic my whole life, they were suddenly silent.

My parents were to drive Kaitlin, Lief, and me to the airport for our flight to Dublin. That morning, my father solemnly slung suitcases and duffel bags into the back of my mom’s station wagon…while my mother sat on the bed in the guest room holding Kaitlin’s hand while the 9-year-old sobbed and begged to be able to stay behind with her grandparents.

For the next year, Kaitlin’s tears continued. "You’ve ruined my life, and I’ll never forgive you!" she shouted at Lief and me with troubling regularity. "I’m an American. I belong in America," she’d add as she’d storm out of our room, stomp down the hall to her own bedroom, and slam the door.

I began to wonder if she didn’t have a point, and, during that first year in Waterford, we seriously considered returning to the States at least twice.

But we stuck it out. And, six years later, now with two children in tow, we planned a second move. This time, Kaitlin wasn’t the worry. In fact, the 15-year-old was the impetus behind our Paris plans. She was delighted to be headed for the world’s culture capital. No longer preoccupied with preserving her American persona, she was ready to enthusiastically embrace all things French.

But Jack. Little Jack. Born in Ireland, happy in Ireland… If he’d been old enough to appreciate the concept, he, too, would have assured Lief and me of the permanent damage we were inflicting by wrenching him from his safe haven, the Emerald Isle.

For the first six weeks, Jack cried every morning as I walked him to the French school where he was enrolled in maternelle (kindergarten). When we arrived at the door, he’d take hold of my ankles and refuse to let go. Two and sometimes three teachers would be required to pry him free. His maitresse assured me he was fine after I left. Still, I’d walk from his school to my office with the sounds of his pleading playing over and over in my head. What in the world was I doing?

Each night, more tears. "Mommy, nobody at that school has an English voice, and I can’t find my French voice. Please don’t make me go back there," Jack would beg every bedtime.

Again, we waited it out. It took three months for Jack to find his French voice. Today, nearly three years later, he’s bilingual, embarrassed by my humble attempts to parler francais. When we go out, he speaks for me. He’s friends with everyone in our apartment building, known by every shopkeeper on our street, and doing well in second grade.

And maybe ready for another move. He’d like to learn Spanish, he informed Lief and me over dinner the other night. "Maybe we could live in Panama for a while?"

Funny you should ask, Jackson…

Kathleen Peddicord
Publisher, International Living

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P.S. Kaitlin graduates this year from the Ecole Active Bilingue with an International Baccalaureate. She’s hoping to attend St. John’s College in Annapolis starting in the fall. In her admissions essay, she put it this way, "Moving from the States to Ireland at the age of 9 was the most horrible advantage I’ve ever had inflicted on me." She went on to explain that, "If not for Ireland…probably not Paris. And if not for Ireland and Paris, my life to this point would have been far less rich." Too soon, I’m sure, to say Lief and I are off the hook for "ruining" her life, but we’re feeling far more hopeful…