A Little Red Scottish Beanie and the Winds of Change
A Little Red Scottish Beanie and the Winds of Change
Thursday, March 5, 2009
When my oldest son, now 9, was 3 years old and starting preschool on the campus of Stanford University, where my husband was attending grad school, he used to migrate immediately to a little red Scottish beanie in the dress-up bin. If he wasn't wearing it before I left, he almost always was when I came to pick him up. It was a security and transition item for him. It freed him up from being my son for a few hours (in his mind) and let him be a preschool kid and feel safe being left. When he put that on, he could be free and imaginative. I would often return to pick him up and see him obsessing over putting a number puzzle together over and over again, but the hat would be on, and even if he stayed at the puzzle center most of the free time, the hat was on, and he was a free little bird for a few hours. It became such an attachment, that as we left to move to Boston, his preschool teachers told him to take it with him to Boston. That is how it came to reside at the bottom of my toy box.
Over the years, he has put it on again here and there, but now, six years later, my second preschool-aged son wears it at age 3, not in any way knowing the significance of it. As the third child and having a very social personality, he doesn't need the hat to help him adjust. It's just a hat to him. But when I saw it on his head this morning, it made my heart go back in time to a more anxiety-filled first child going to preschool for the first time and then, following that, moving from CA to Boston. The hat was so important. I am pretty sure I need a hat like that right now. My entire family does.
You see, we just made a very difficult and painful decision to not extend our stay here on Kwajalein for a third year. It isn't painful because we don't want to go back to Boston. It is painful because we will likely never come this way or get this opportunity of a lifetime again. It is painful because life is easy, slow, and simple here in many ways. It is safe. Our children have wonderful freedoms and opportunities. They get to exchange culture and learn new things in a very different and unique environment. They have stretched themselves, and I am so proud of them. It is also painful because I know my husband would love another year to accomplish more here to broaden his career. It is painful because we have developed some wonderful friendships here. And living across the street from the waves crashing to the shore is both therapeutic and peaceful. All of my front windows and patio look out to that view. When will I get that again? It is painful because we have adjusted on some level (and now it's time to go already!). We aren't anxious to get back to car maintenance, the economy, the responsibilities of owning a home, the rat race, the constant media overload (advertisements and such), etc. I'm not even that desperate for Walmart or drive-through lattes at Starbucks anymore. I miss it on some level, but on the other, I don't. It breaks my heart to see my children now look at each event in our last five months here as a "last experience" and already anticipate goodbyes to friendships. My older son even expressed sadness at not being able to dance in the Marshallese Christmas program again this year. Apparently that meant a lot to him this year, and I might not have found that out had we not been facing his new change ahead.
But I remember well the fears and anxieties we had to conquer to approach this strange new life in the first place. I remember well the prayers, tears, and excitement of a family of five in prayer together asking God to bless this new adventure. And my heart definitely split its time between here and Boston the entire time we were here; it never fully resided here alone, perhaps because I knew an end was ahead eventually and because I never was able to fully conquer the desire to be back with loved ones back home. I cannot wait to be reunited with them in daily life. But it is the end of a chapter, and so we mourn in healthy ways until full acceptance comes. It is a process, just like getting my rusty chain back on my bike again. You can't skip steps: There is an order to things.
One of the deciding factors to our decision was that the preschool cannot accommodate my preschool-aged son because of his three main food allergies. There are no issues with this back home. The preschool my daughter attended had no problem handling food allergies. So, alas, we decided staying became a lifestyle issue for him in his growing development (and all of his friends are moving on to preschool). I'm glad the preschool here was honest about handling his safety, but not accepting him based on something that is somewhat manageable is frustrating. But again, we chose to live somewhere for a while that has limited resources. We cannot expect this to be "a Little USA." Many people here do. We didn't want to come with or adopt that attitude. We are guests of our host nation, nothing more and nothing less.
So, as we get ready for the winds of change at our house, we may each take a turn putting on that little red Scottish beanie, or something like it. Switching gears keeps life interesting, but transitions can be tough. We place our hope in the Father who brought us here and will get us home. And we ask that He helps us make good use of the time left on our tiny, remote, tropical island....enjoying experiences here and hopefully being used by Him to bring encouragement, sunshine, and love to others here who need it. In the meantime, I am thinking of asking my 3-year-old if it's my turn yet with the beanie. He doesn't seem to "need" it right now, but I think I am having a moment where I do.
Caroline, 2004
Christopher, 2005
Caroline, 2005
David, Kwajalein, 2009