After a strong start, and a plan to write or post pictures a couple of times a week, I have already taken a break of nearly 2 weeks from this blog space. During that time, we moved what we have here (the suitcases we came with) from our temporary apartment to our Swedish home, took delivery of our air container (bikes! clothes! a book!), had a couple failed and then successful attempts at making and accepting furniture deliveries, and tried and tried and tried to get hooked up to the internet. School starts in 3.5 weeks, and my goal is to be settled into a rhythm by then, with all of our comforts from home finding their new places to settle in (our sea container is set to arrive sometime in August, with our kitchen gear, instruments, studio supplies, books, and so on.)

It has been 5 weeks now since we moved, and I think it’s safe to assess that things are going very well for all of us. We are learning and adventuring nearly every day, going to bed each night with new knowledge and tired bodies. There have certainly been a few hiccups, some annoyances, and a couple hurdles to get to this point, I imagine there will be many more along our journey.

When we first arrived, we marveled at how brilliantly Linus had been handling everything. From packing up his entire life into boxes he wouldn’t see for an unknown period of time, to saying goodbye to all of his friends, to traveling all the way here with nary a whine, he was an absolute trooper. Until. Until we were about to have our first meal in our temporary apartment, and he refused to use the utensils. When pressed, he said that every single thing was different here and he just wanted his forks from home.

With a heavy heart, I chewed on this for a few days (all the while making foods that can be eaten with hands only), wondering if we had made the right choice in moving across the world, giving up comfort and routine and the instant love and companionship we had surrounded ourselves with at home in exchange for adventure and new opportunities. What I came to realize was that he had moved from a 6 year old world where he was beginning to have freedoms to go out and play anytime, to make his own snacks, to invite his pals over at a whim, to having control over absolutely nothing. Well, except what entered his mouth. And so, he ate with his hands. And as he got more comfortable in this new space, he picked up a fork every now and then. And here we are in our new home, still a few weeks out from his own forks arriving, but have new ones to use in the interim. And he eats and eats and eats. (And eats! His growth chart is in our sea container, I can hardly wait to get it up and see how he has shot up!)

The heavy heart I experienced when he first refused utensils has surfaced a few times since, in times where we struggle for what would generally come very easy. When scheduling a furniture delivery takes a failed attempt, an hour on hold on the phone, and another hour on a customer service chat. Or when connecting to the internet takes day after day or waiting, and then the weekend because there is no such thing as working 24/7 here, and then another day, several phone calls, more hours on hold. Everyday things seem harder, but are just different. The hours people work are different. Every darn thing is different. It is quickly becoming obvious that our expectations will soon be different, too, as they should be. But I tell you, every forkful of food going into that boy, every delivery truck pulling into our gate, logging in to start writing today: it feels like we are getting it, and that feels SO GOOD.