A Letter to the Grandparents of My Third Culture Kids | Djibouti Jones

CC License. Photo Credit Flickr user Trusca

CC License. Photo Credit Flickr user Trusca

I remember telling you we were pregnant. We had spaghetti because that’s what you served your parents when you announced each pregnancy. I requested it, but you cooked it because I already felt sick. And so, almost before I told you, you knew.

I remember telling you we were pregnant with twins. You knew I had the ultrasound that day. I stepped into your house and said, “We have something to tell you.” The plan was to show you the videotape of the ultrasound, make you guess why our baby had two heads. But, again, you knew before I told you. You said, “Its twins, isn’t it?”

I remember you tattooing my massive stretch-marked belly with planets and stars and I remember you coming to see the high level ultrasounds and crying.

I don’t really remember telling you we were moving to Somalia. But I also don’t remember you ever saying, “Don’t go.” You had expected something like this for years, almost like you knew again, before I told you. I don’t remember telling you we were taking your grandchildren to the ends of the earth where there lots of guns and kidnappings, a place none of us could picture in our minds. But I don’t remember you saying, “Don’t go,” because you never said it.

We boxed our belongings and stored them in your basement, in your upstairs closets and empty farm buildings. We wrenched up our family and our roots. And we left.

Please follow the link below to read the remainder of this great letter!

A Letter to the Grandparents of My Third Culture Kids | Djibouti Jones.

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“The pessimist complains about the wind. The optimist expects it to change. The leader adjusts the sails.”

- John Maxwell

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