When it’s time to put on your big girl pants…
When my partner’s boss approached him about taking a job in Canada, his first thought was ‘she’ll never go for it’. And he was absolutely justified in his assumption. I’ve never wanted to leave the UK, to move abroad, never had that wanderlust. If I’m being totally honest, I sometimes don’t even like leaving the house.
But it soon became clear that this was not just a job. It was THE job. The one that had the potential to make his career, to allow us to provide our children with a great future, to give all of us new and exciting opportunities. How could I say no?
I spent the months leading up to our move making lists, Googling things to do in our new home town, reading comments on trip advisor and emailing day-care centres to find alternative childcare to Grandma and Grandad’s house.
Finally, we packed up our lives, including a toddler, a baby and two dogs. And that was no mean feat, let me tell you. It’s hard enough trying to leave the house with the four of them, let alone attempt to separate what needed to be packed in our suitcases, what was air freight, what was sea freight… But with a lot of help, a few glasses of wine, a wish and a prayer, we finally managed to make some order out of the chaos and flew over the Atlantic to see how they do it in Canada. I mean, how different could it be? When you are looking after babies and toddlers, I think life can be described pretty simply. To coin a phrase: same shit, different day.
Since having children I’ve never lived more than a twenty-minute drive from my parents. They still live in the town I grew up in; a town I know like the back of my hand. When I go to the supermarket I could probably shop with my eyes closed. I know when the baby groups are, which days are quietest at indoor play and the days and times that my friends are free for playdates. I have every telephone number I could ever need saved in my phone and if I’m having a bad day, if I’m happy, sad or indifferent, I can always, always pop over and see my folks.
Not any more.
I arrived in Canada with two phone numbers in my contacts list. One was a work contact, a family who also moved from the UK to Canada a few months previously. We had never met. The other was someone I had randomly met in an indoor play centre when we came to look around and decide whether to move here. The optimist in me declared that I now had two friends in Canada. The voice of doubt said ‘really?!’
We spoke to friends and colleagues and managed to get hold of email addresses for people who had lived in this area. They furnished us with invaluable information, like where to buy PG Tips (truly British tea) and how much Calpol* to bring
*It’s the British equivalent to Tylenol; I never go anywhere without it.
Gradually our body clocks adjusted to the new time zone. We unpacked, found the supermarket and the local indoor play centres, remembered to drive on the right (or wrong, depending on how you look at it) side of the road and explained for the 1000th time that this was our new home and yes, we would go on an airplane back to England some time, but no, probably not today.
We worked out how to overcome the language barrier (you may laugh, but you try going to Walmart and asking where the nappies are… diapers, diapers, must remember to say diapers…), found a formula that the boys would drink rather than spit out with an ‘ew, it’s yukky, mummy’ and then reality kicked in.
As the months have passed I have met more people. I found a wonderful dog walker, who probably got a bit more than she bargained for when she took us on (I’m not entirely sure there is any mention on her CV of being a children’s entertainer or working at tourist information). I’ve started to recognise brands, found out which supermarket I like the best. I’ve been to playgroups, met other mums, joined a yoga class…
But of course, it’s not the same.
I fully anticipated that I would get homesick. That I would miss my friends and family, would miss out on things they were doing. I knew there would be times when I found it difficult, both to be here and to not be there.
But I didn’t anticipate how hard it would be to do the simple things. To find my way around, to find a doctor (I mean, honestly, that could be a whole different article!), to work out which snacks to buy for my children.
And it’s not one thing that has the potential to unsettle me and make me wonder why we did this. It’s the cumulative effect of relearning everything you have ever found familiar. And it’s hard.
But as a wise man (Billy Ocean) once said, when the going gets tough, the tough get going. And I know that in time I will find it amazing that I ever didn’t know all these things.
And for now, I just have to put on my big girl pants and get on with it.
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