You'll Understand When You Grow Up

My kids are young. My older son is 5 and a half, my younger son is 4. I find myself answering their questions with "you'll understand when you're older" much too often. Like when my younger son asked how he came to be in my belly before he was born. My older son, always acting like the much smarter, much older boy said "well daddy put you in there." Then came - "how did you put me in mommy's belly?" and we had no idea how to answer that so we subtly changed the subject with "look, candy!" They sometimes tend to ask strange questions like "why do birds poop while flying?" or "do fish fart?" and at these times I'm not only shocked by the question but slightly embarrassed when my older son tells me "you're older, you should know" after I've simply shrugged my shoulders with a question mark hovering over my head. So to avoid seeming stupid every time I'm faced with a rather odd question from a rather smart 5-year old, I explain in the most intelligent-sounding way that these things shall be understood in adulthood. 

The reality is that I always HATED when my parents used this famous sentence with me because at any given age as a child I was absolutely sure that I could understand anything and that I needed to know. And I probably could, in a theoretical way. What separates theoretical knowledge from the practical kind is experience and that is definitely something that comes with age. I understood pretty much everything I was learning in college but it wasn't until I actually got hands-on experience in the subject and used the information in specific situations that I gained a complete understanding of the material I had learned. 

I understand now why my parents often told me I'd understand when I grow up. Life teaches you things along the way, and you don't need previous guidance for the lessons you'll eventually have to learn on your own and experience them in your own individual way. It saddens me to think how society and the system will, over time, destroy the innocence of my children and all other children. Their purity will be poisoned by life as they get older. It's good and bad all the same time. 

The School of Life - teaching humans how to become animals since the beginning of time. 

The First Day

It was time to start school again in September. It took me days and days to prepare for that first day in a new school in a new country with new people and hopefully new friends. My mother made sure I had everything necessary to survive the day - a pencil, notebooks, a binder, pretzels, a 2-pound sandwich, milk, juice, crackers, silverware, and of course some home-cooked goulash with mashed potatoes made from scratch instead of powder. My backpack consisted mainly of food since my mother had discovered the unhealthy eating habits of the indigenous American people and did not want me going anywhere near the cafeteria food of the school.

The goulash in my lunchbox could be smelled a mile away, of course, but as the children around me made faces, frowned, and pinched their noses, I knew it wasn't my home-cooked meal causing their nasal distress. It couldn't be! Or could it...?

I quickly learned that I could gain friends and trust from the children around me simply by feeding them pretzels. During my fat teacher's lecture about grammar I got hungry and pulled out my bag of pretzels which my mom had so thoughtfully packed for me. I slowly crunched away at my salty snack and suddenly my little classmates started facing me and finally speaking to me! "Can I have some?" Fortunately my mother packed enough pretzels for like 5 kids, so I had enough to share with my new fans. Until my fat teacher realized what was going on and decided to bring it to an end. She scolded me in front of the whole classroom and made me look like an ass in front of everyone. I have not forgiven her for it to this day. She asked me why I was giving my snack away to others and whether or not I had enough for the whole class. I didn't have enough and she knew it as well as I did. When I plead guilty to not bringing pretzels for the whole class, my fat teacher told me I should not give any to anyone if I don't have enough for everyone. She then made all my freshly made friends return the pretzels they had taken. As I watched all the sour faces bringing their sweaty little hands to my desk and dropping the partially-melted pretzels back into the ziplock bag, I could feel the tears building up in my eyes and slowly trickling down my cheek. The pretzel I had previously placed in my mouth was now drying in my throat and leaving me breathless. Not only had I lost the friends I had just acquired a few minutes ago, but I was also publicly humiliated by the woman who would be teaching me for the next 9 months. At the next recess I managed to regain my friends when they saw me taking out my bag of crackers.

After our short break, we came back to my fat teacher's class. We were instructed to fill out short questionnaires about ourselves, trade our answers with someone else in the class, and then in front of the whole classroom we were to introduce our partner by reading his or her answers out loud. My partner was Tanya. She was a very nice girl but like most children at that age - rotten and evil. Tanya thought my answers were just hilarious! But when I tried to snatch my paper from her to change my answers, she wouldn't let me. So as I sat there listening to the other students' answers, I was preparing myself for the worst. All the children in my class seemed to like pizza, spaghetti, and burgers, while my favorite food was soup! I had soup every night for dinner, and a meal was not complete without soup as an appetizer to warm the tummy. As we stood in front of the classroom and Tanya began introducing me, my knees trembled and I shook all over. Not only did she pronounce my name wrong, but everyone else thought it was hilarious that I had such a stupid name. They laughed and pointed like most rotten children do when someone is different. But the worst came when she started to tell the class what my favorite food was. And as soon as she said SOUP, the entire classroom shook with laughter. The kids thought it was so funny they decided to nickname me Soup-Girl. The humiliation I felt right then was enough to kill me. My classmates made me feel alone, scared, and embarrassed.

I never had any friends at school after that. I would show up every morning, and leave every afternoon, and during that whole eight hour period I wouldn't speak even once. Everyone avoided me, and even my pretzels and crackers weren't bait for them anymore.

Who wrote this?!

I was reading a blog posting this morning and decided to leave a comment. As I'm not a member of that blog, or user, or whatever, I was given the option to leave a comment using my Google account. As I signed in I realized the comment I posted was left by the name "Desperate Housewife." For a minute or so I stared at this wondering why on earth I was named this way. I figured the site gave out random names for unregistered users, but I realized my "name" was click-able. It was a link to a blog. MY blog?! What? 
So this is how, four years later, I realized I made this blog back in 2008, and even posted a couple entries. Wow! I can't even remember when I did this. Think back to 2008 - yeah it makes sense now. My older son was 9 months old at the time and I was fairly bored and unemployed with a lot of diaper-changing and baby-feeding on my hands. That's right! This was 9 months before I had my second child. :) 
Well, for anyone who was read my previous two posts, the situation is completely changed now. In fact, I am no longer a desperate housewife but I'm not very good at this whole blogging thing so I have no idea how to change my "name" here...
However, the title of my blog seems to suit me even better now, four years later, as now I am living the life of an immigrant in the place I had previously referred to as "home" in one of the previous posts. 
Back in 2009, after I had my second child, we moved back to Serbia - my home-country. My desperate housewife days have been over since I found a job working for the US government in my birth country. But I am still living the "life of an immigrant" because as it turned out, I became way too American over the 22 years I lived in the States to be able to completely fit in and adapt to the way of life in the country where I was born but not raised. 
So...I will attempt to now come back to this blog and reactivate myself (as if I was an active blogger before) with a slightly new topic - the life of an immigrant in one's home country. I'm an expat now. I re-emigrated.

The Beginning of the End

My father was the first to emigrate to the States. Shortly after his departure I was told my mother and I would be going to. The idea of leaving behind my life as I knew it, and going to what seemed like another planet made me so sick I started popping out red bumps all over my body in rebellion. Well actually, I came down with chicken pox. I was able to delay our trip a couple of weeks this way and managed to celebrate one more birthday in the place I knew as home.

My friends and classmates soon heard that I would be leaving and going to what all the adults seemed to think of as "a better place." We children didn't see it that way. My friends had many reassuring stories to tell me about America. The one I remember best was about the unusual security measures in the USA - upon stepping out of your home you must show your documents to armed soldier-like security guards. You are required to tell them where you are going and when you will be returning, and if you don't get back to your home within that time frame, you are shot with rifles. I tried to explain this to my mother but she didn't seem to take me seriously. It was all a joke to her! She was seriously willing to give up our freedom to some American soldier just to go live in America. Why?!?!

My relatives didn't make me feel any better either. My grandmother was so shocked we were leaving that she decided to steal our passports and hide our plane tickets. My mom tried everything to get those essentials back, but it was no use. I realized that I would never see my father again if I stayed in my safe headquarters. If I wanted to be with my daddy again, I would have to face the dangers and rifles of America. So I managed to convince my grandma to return our passports and tickets and just a few days later we were at the airport. All of our family and friends were there. Even my aunt from Italy had come to say goodbye and send us away. The tears that were shed from our eyes that day and the collective pain that was felt among cannot be described in words. My grandmother was frozen stiff as she watched us walk away into the "ticketed passengers only" area. And while I didn't black out, I can't remember anything else from that moment.

I've grown to appreciate my strange defense mechanism - my brain refuses to save and store the most painful moments of my life. These scenes are somehow discarded from my brain's file cabinet, and they can't be found even in the recycle bin. But it's times like these I wish I had a memory of those horrible occasions, one of which is that long trip to America and that first day after entering the land of the free.

I can assure you I found no armed security guards in front of our house, and there wasn't a curfew of any kind in effect. But believe me, this didn't make me feel any better or any safer. The only place I could feel good and safe was at home. And I did NOT feel at home.

If I Only Knew Then...

...What I know now....
I've heard that expression far too many times and it has almost always come out of the mouth of some 90-year old. It's like the old people's motto, and they repeat it like a broken record. Now that I think about it, "If I Only Knew Then What I Know Now" would be a pretty cool name for a retirement home. But that's not the point....

The point is...I learned the very cruel truth of this saying much too early in life. At only 25 years old, I find myself thinking the same thing almost every day. The English language (or at least the dictionary) does not contain a word which can completely express the pain and regret one feels when he/she comes to realize this cold and nasty truth. And as I think of all the ways my life could be different right now if I had known all the things I know now, I get a feeling that it may not be too late to impact the life of another person who may be headed down the same path.

I don't know and I will never know whether my life would be better or worse right now, if I could go back and make the changes I wish I could. I will never know whether those decisions were pure ignorance or pure destiny. Reality is sometimes deceiving. Maybe because each of us perceives it differently. Or maybe because we aren't really seeing the real reality of things. One thing is for sure though - even if I could go back and change my past, or even little snippets of it, what I imagine the outcome would be is far from the actual reality.

Sometimes our life ends up going down a road we didn't consciously choose. Sometimes we make huge decisions much too quickly and underestimate the consequences of our actions. And far too many times we either make the decisions for the wrong reasons, or we let the wrong reasons make our decisions. There isn't a person on this planet who doesn't have at least one regret, and who wouldn't go back in time to undo, redo, or DO something in their life. And the harsh reality is this - would it really change anything?!

The Introduction

So I've finally decided to give this whole blog thing a try. I always kind of thought blogging was for losers who have nothing else to do in their spare time...and now as it turns out, I am a lose who has so much spare time I can't find anything more exciting to do than OMG ... BLOG!!!!

I've always kind of secretly wanted to become a writer, and not just because typing is one of my many fetishes (because I do it well and fast unlike other things that should be fetishes) but also because I've had so many ideas for books and even movies, but every time I'd sit down to start writing I'd either get bored or not know what to write. Since every plot idea that ever came to mind had a beginning and a climax but somehow never an end or conclusion, I found it kind of pointless to go on and on writing endlessly only to find that there would be no end.

Well today as I accidentally came across this free blogging page, I thought "what a great idea!" I can keep writing and writing and writing without an end because the final sentence here will only be the beginning of the next blog posting. How wonderful!!! And then I got an even better idea...why not consider today to be an end, and write my blogs as stories of the past? I need to "end" my life as I know it and start something new, so this would be the perfect opportunity to make a Sex in the City type of diary, but instead of using my boring present existence which would create only blank postings, I'm going to write about my whole life before I became the desperate housewife I am today.