renovation gene at all. When I went to inspect the new empty house we had just bought and much to my amazement discovered an entire new kitchen had been installed, my first thought was: “My God, we’ve been robbed!” Closely followed by: “Wait, we were robbed and before the thieves left they installed a new kitchen? One with Italian appliances and a Nespresso machine?”
“If your mother had brought you to us at Christmas, you would have seen the snow.”
Hats and gloves in Singapore… who knew it was possible? Or desirable?
It’s day three of the kids’ three-week winter holiday from school and I’m utterly knackered (a word I picked up during my years in Dublin that perfectly illustrates my state of mental exhaustion). There are only so many times I can edit a letter to Santa. A puppy under the tree? I don’t think so – more like a dictionary.
It can be fun as long as your mother doesn’t tell them about all the snow that is falling where she lives. Or the snowmen they could be building and snowball fights they could be having if only you had brought them there.
“Don’t forget I’m in touch with the Easter Bunny.”
It is especially helpful that your mother (though travelling around 13 hours – counting only the plane ride, much more if you clock the hours needed to get to and from the airport) brings those huge chocolate eggs for your children that you used to get as a child in Verona and which are nowhere to be found in Singapore.
“Your mother is just like her father.”
I recently realized just how much I really am my father’s daughter. And it’s not just my love of quotes, Russian literature, lists, punctuality, dislike for the phone, morning moodiness, editing prowess, or even desire to read the weekend edition of the Financial Times (undisturbed and in front of a cup of coffee). Well, that too. But it was something more abstract. When my mother came to visit she watched me with marvel as I tried for the tenth time to get through to a travel agent on the phone, finally resorting to the military alphabet: “I said I-T-A-L-Y. India Tango Alpha Lima Yankee.” Wow, you really are like your father.
Being the only daughter of a Special Forces Green Beret was not always easy (push-ups were at a premium in my house). I recently saw a documentary on the strict upbringing of Mormon teenage girls. The similarities with my own childhood were uncanny. Even though it is almost a requirement for all expats to live far away from their parents, on Father’s Day I remember my father as the only dad who came to every ballet performance when I was a little kid dancing in the Arena, for buying all my fellow ballerinas their own can of Pringles (that makes 18) because I mentioned they liked them, for not getting mad at me when he saw me riding on a girlfriend’s motorcycle, for not laughing when I suggested I could possibly get a PhD, instead finding it an excellent idea and supporting me 100% (that would be monetary, yes, but not only), for always picking me up at the airport, for helping me take my first walk after I had a caesarean, but most of all, for being an amazing grandfather to my two devilish expat kids! So now I embrace the Pa in me, I listen to Johnny Cash, I ask the kids capitals of random countries on our morning rides to school, and sing to them the words he sang to me as a child: “One hundred men will test today. But only three win the Green Beret.” Adding, “You know, like your Nonno Mario.”
“When I was your age I had a dog.”
Seriously? Like they needed any more ammunition when bombarding me with requests to get a dog. The following is a sample of a recent conversation with Alexander on this very topic:
“Why can’t I have a dog?”
Well, let’s see, you really wanted to get a guitar and then you lost interest.
“But that’s because I wanted an electric guitar and you got me a classical one.”
You wanted to do wushu and then you quit, tennis and then you quit.
“But
“If your mother had brought you to us at Christmas, you would have seen the snow.”
Hats and gloves in Singapore… who knew it was possible? Or desirable?
It’s day three of the kids’ three-week winter holiday from school and I’m utterly knackered (a word I picked up during my years in Dublin that perfectly illustrates my state of mental exhaustion). There are only so many times I can edit a letter to Santa. A puppy under the tree? I don’t think so – more like a dictionary.
It can be fun as long as your mother doesn’t tell them about all the snow that is falling where she lives. Or the snowmen they could be building and snowball fights they could be having if only you had brought them there.
“Don’t forget I’m in touch with the Easter Bunny.”
It is especially helpful that your mother (though travelling around 13 hours – counting only the plane ride, much more if you clock the hours needed to get to and from the airport) brings those huge chocolate eggs for your children that you used to get as a child in Verona and which are nowhere to be found in Singapore.
“Your mother is just like her father.”
I recently realized just how much I really am my father’s daughter. And it’s not just my love of quotes, Russian literature, lists, punctuality, dislike for the phone, morning moodiness, editing prowess, or even desire to read the weekend edition of the Financial Times (undisturbed and in front of a cup of coffee). Well, that too. But it was something more abstract. When my mother came to visit she watched me with marvel as I tried for the tenth time to get through to a travel agent on the phone, finally resorting to the military alphabet: “I said I-T-A-L-Y. India Tango Alpha Lima Yankee.” Wow, you really are like your father.
Being the only daughter of a Special Forces Green Beret was not always easy (push-ups were at a premium in my house). I recently saw a documentary on the strict upbringing of Mormon teenage girls. The similarities with my own childhood were uncanny. Even though it is almost a requirement for all expats to live far away from their parents, on Father’s Day I remember my father as the only dad who came to every ballet performance when I was a little kid dancing in the Arena, for buying all my fellow ballerinas their own can of Pringles (that makes 18) because I mentioned they liked them, for not getting mad at me when he saw me riding on a girlfriend’s motorcycle, for not laughing when I suggested I could possibly get a PhD, instead finding it an excellent idea and supporting me 100% (that would be monetary, yes, but not only), for always picking me up at the airport, for helping me take my first walk after I had a caesarean, but most of all, for being an amazing grandfather to my two devilish expat kids! So now I embrace the Pa in me, I listen to Johnny Cash, I ask the kids capitals of random countries on our morning rides to school, and sing to them the words he sang to me as a child: “One hundred men will test today. But only three win the Green Beret.” Adding, “You know, like your Nonno Mario.”
“When I was your age I had a dog.”
Seriously? Like they needed any more ammunition when bombarding me with requests to get a dog. The following is a sample of a recent conversation with Alexander on this very topic:
“Why can’t I have a dog?”
Well, let’s see, you really wanted to get a guitar and then you lost interest.
“But that’s because I wanted an electric guitar and you got me a classical one.”
You wanted to do wushu and then you quit, tennis and then you quit.
“But
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