Just this very morning I was telling Craig about how different Wesley’s childhood would be from mine, at least the early years. I was born and lived in Spain until I was 8 years old, and my how things were different.
I suppose in part there will be differences from the sheer span of time of 30+ years.
But there are also the differences of living an urban life versus a suburban life, like the life we live in South Florida. In Madrid, a parent or a sibling could walk you to or from school or to a friend’s house. It was easy to take taxis or the subway (not that I did that alone so very young). There were flower vendors in the corner — I know because my mother and I would stop to buy white and red carnations to take to the nuns at school on the occasion of some virgin festival or other.
And there were other differences because, hey, we lived in Europe. I came home from school half-way through the day. Croissants were readily available (yum!) and a commonly sold afternoon kids’ snack was a baguette with chocolate in the middle: I mean, common! You don’t get that here. Craig still finds it suspicious that I drink my milk, with chocolate, hot.
And here is my son today wearing the most adorable European outfit, courtesy of his oldest uncle who still resides in Spain. A bit girlish by our American standards I suppose. Sigh. Even the fashions are different. This is a long ways away from your Gerber Onesie. Look at that collar. The buttons. So sweet. So innocent. And that’s all I can wish for my son’s childhood, however far removed it may be from mine, the son of a Spanish girl born to Cuban parents, a blue-eyed boy with a German surname we named Wesley Fox.