Moving Across the Pond

We moved out to live in San Francisco from the U.K. a year ago, arriving in torrential rain—where was all the famous Californian sunshine?—overburdened with way too much luggage and high expectations.

There were three of “us”—me, my 13-year-old daughter and 11-year old son—and we were merging with three of “them”—my soon-to-be husband, his 15-year-old daughter and 19-year-old son. Oh, and a mad dog! Quite a household, as you can imagine.

During the first month, it was absolute chaos. In order to accommodate so many extra people into his existing home, my fiancée had to build a new bedroom for his son. It was sort of like a shed on the side of the house that we have since nicknamed “The Shack.” His daughter redecorated and moved into the dining room and my kids moved into theirs—empty, apart from peeling paint and a single bed. So, out we rushed to Ikea and back we staggered with half the shop, all beautifully flat-packed for us to put together at our leisure. Finally, after much swearing and cursing, a week or so later my kids had new beds to sleep on, new wardrobes to hang clothes in, and new desks to work at, while I ended up with blisters, cuts, and bruises. I vowed never to set foot in “that” shop again!

Next on the agenda was enrolling them at school. I had no idea about the education system here and was in for a bit of a surprise. School had already started. There were semesters, not terms as in England and earlier starts. And weekly performance grading. Gosh, the weekly grading—how intimidating was that to kids used to a completely different system? And I won’t even go into the mountains of homework.

Once they were both safely at school, I had to work on organizing my wedding. According to the very strict immigration rules, we had 90 days to be married. Otherwise, my whole visa application would be voided and my children and I would have to leave the country. We arrived at the beginning of November so needed to be married by early February. In between these dates were my husband’s birthday, my daughter’s birthday, my son’s birthday, my stepson’s birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s! When on earth was I going to find the time and energy for a bloody wedding?

The only thing I insisted upon was a honeymoon. I desperately wanted to spend time with my husband as this was the whole reason for moving out in the first place. Therefore, we needed someone to look after all the kids in our absence (and, no, bringing them with us was NOT an option!). Who could we ask to take on this mammoth task? Who could be trusted to look after three headstrong teenagers and one homesick boy? And was I a monster for wanting to go away and leave them in the first place?

Suddenly I had a brainwave. My sister had lived in California for 12 years; she moved back to the U.K. a year ago. She knew and loved my kids, was familiar with the country, could navigate the roads—yes, she’d be perfect! There was just one small, niggling doubt. How would my husband’s kids react to her being a Buddhist nun?

After the initial shock and surprise, everyone was soon on board. Which left me precisely two weeks to arrange our wedding. Amazing what you can do when you have immigration officials breathing down your neck. Two weeks later we were married with all our kids and quite a few friends present, in a hilarious ceremony presided over by one of my husband’s best friends, with gorgeous food at a local restaurant.

And then, finally, finally, the honeymoon! A whole week away, just the two of us, no kids, no work, no school runs, no arguments, no organizing, just us, on a plane to…Hawaii!

Ahhh, sometimes dreams really do come true.