My childhood home has been standing for 43 years. It has seen the marriage of my parents, the births of my siblings and I, and the birth of all the grandchildren as well as the death of my entire paternal lineage that I knew.
My own first child was born and raised here for the first year of his life. He had an amazing first year of his life here, as well as multiple trips ever since we moved abroad. Coming home has always been a treat for him. However, as he turns five now, I have come to realise that my childhood home does not have the same feel to my children. Since losing my father, I resolved to spend as much time as possible with my last living parent. As a result, I planned a 12-week holiday to spend in the motherland and in my childhood home. I also hoped for my children to reconnect with their motherland as well as long-lost relatives.
In my mind, I imagined my son running into the compound with open arms like he did before. I imagined him stomping the grounds, happy for the controlled outdoor environment that we so lack living on the second storey in our foster country.
Instead, I have been met with cries of wanting to go home, cries of wanting his father and various sulking poses. While younger kids are more adaptable, I had forgotten that my son is bigger and used to his own routines, in the comfort of his own home. It was only after he broke down and ran to the gate looking for his father that I saw it from his perspective.
While there, he has some kind of connection with my childhood home as his first home. He has his own strong connection with his childhood home. Which is the home my husband and I work hard to provide.
His home might be on the second storey with a small balcony and very limited shared garden space, but it is the place he feels the safest and in control. He thrives in his own structure and routine. Most of which he creates by himself. He has the freedom to explore and do as he pleases most of the time.
I hadn’t thought about how comfortable he was in the modest home we provided for him until I brought him into the ginormous compound that is my family home. Even with a protected compound, an area to roam free, animals and an entire swing set, my son still wanted to go home into the crammed two-bedroom apartment. The place he knows as his safe haven.
