I A strong lockdown memory of a 6-year-old daughter standing in a kitchen bench chair covered in flour and looking closely at the iPad screen either on the top of her mother’s head or on the tiles on the kitchen floor. There is. Skype-scones, we called it. However, sharing the technology of 6 and 75 years old in different time zones and trying to cook together was not seamless. There were seams and tears – often mine.
Stuck at my home in Melbourne, I stared at a photo of my friend’s children on social media, squeezed my nose into my grandparents’ window, and wanted it. When this is over, we want the knowledge that those grandparents’ hugs were not just thousands of kilometers away, but just a threshold.
Still, the blockade is over and I haven’t seen my family yet. I tried it in January. After booking a flight to Perth, Western Australian Prime Minister Mark Magawan announced a sudden border closure and we were once again devastated. Now Perth has another turn of blockade. It reminds you that there is no immunity anywhere.
I think it took more time than some to understand that the deployment of Australian vaccines meant more travel delays than in many other parts of the world. Even in the absence of community infections, slow deployments can miss travel bubbles and continue to suffer from regular blockades, perhaps for years, longer than many thought.
This contemplation turned me all around. I question my decision to leave home 11 years ago.
I came to the city I really want to live in. I started my family here. I fostered a successful career here. I rarely looked back on what I left behind. There is also a reason that I was not a mother when I left it. I was able to get up easily and go home. I wasn’t tied to school semesters, increased costs, childhood illness, and reduced accommodation options associated with my increased menage. And I knew I could come back at any time.
Before moving, I spent every Wednesday dinner time at my Italian father’s house on “Spaghetti Wednesday”. It wasn’t always spaghetti, but it was always Italian and usually what my nonna was cooking. The smell of her cooking locks me in a special kind of Terra Farm. Childhood in two different cultures, and everything that goes with it. Those smells reached my dad’s hallway every Wednesday, at which moment I was the daughter of an immigrant.
And now, for my dad making the famous spaghetti, his brown-skinned hands stirring the sauce, his scented house like garlic and rosemary, the sweet garden outside, and his daughter. I’m wondering how to fill that gap. I.
Before Covid, my mother often came here, our spare room was called Nonna’s room. At some point in 2020, it returned to a spare room. When I noticed, my heart ached a little. Covid stripped the nomenclature that gives our home warmth and meaning, and tied it to the family without it.
And the day came when my daughter refused to look up the iPad on Skype-Scone’s time. I will not forget that day in a hurry. It was the first time in 11 years that I felt like I had made the wrong decision. I did something wrong by myself, my daughter, who lives far away from my family.
I went upstairs to talk to my English partner about it, but then I saw him in his usual chunky position at a too small desk in a makeshift bedroom office .. I calmed the rising tears and quietly went out again. His family is all in the UK, including two young children. His heart always hurts. I knew it. I went downstairs, cleaned up the scone tools and turned on Netflix. As a couple who were always telling our truth, we vaguely realized that this was a dangerous area. But the story of his children became more and more painful for him.
I didn’t blame my daughter for opposition to Skype Scones. Isn’t it the same? It is not possible to reproduce kneading the dough with Nonna’s busy hands. Just as you can’t recreate the Italian feel of my dad’s house. he.
I have always experienced separation. My Italian family in Italy. Divorce of my parents when I was a teenager. My move to Melbourne with my own divorce and the consequent shared care of my daughter. Washington’s parents, Canberra’s sister and nephew, Queensland, Tasmania, and New Zealand’s aunt and uncle. But this is not the case.
I know my experience is not unique. Mixed families are part of an expansive and globalized world. One-third of Australians were born abroad.
But the world is now in a big, fat hurry to vaccinate itself. Except for Australia. My partner still doesn’t know when he will see his children again because he doesn’t know when he will be vaccinated. He is stuck here on an unvaccinated island.
This new type of separation I feel has an unprecedented sparseness. It makes me nervous, sad and afraid. But to unravel our lives here, to persuade my ex-husband to do the same, is now unthinkably huge.
So we are waiting. My partner and I are doing our best to share our inner world, our sadness and hope, without burdening each other. My dad sent me a picture of his rich garden, and my mom and I are doing what mom and daughter do – annoying each other, sometimes crying, and Nonna’s room I hope to reappear in my house someday.
My daughter refused to Skype with her nonna. Now I question why I moved so far away | Family Source link My daughter refused to Skype with her nonna. Now I question why I moved so far away | Family