Coming home to America.

This time last year, instead of being in the sunshine-y state of Utah in February (WHAT?!?!) I was freezing in Romania, trudging back and forth in thick snow, walking to the orphanage. I think about my kids a lot.

There are still a few stories I wanted to share. Thoughts that were part of it- perhaps the hardest part- that need to be a part of the story.

So- let's start, (or end?) with coming home. I'm gonna post the thoughts I had when I first came home. America is.... so weird.

The food is huge. Way too much. Way too huge or portions. Grocery stores are like malls. Why do we need so many brands of peanut butter?

I have way too many shirts. And clothes in general. And blankets. And books. All I really need fits in a suitcase. So why do I keep all this extra stuff?

My house is a mansion. All I really need is a small apartment with crooked pipes. Didn't my parents know that? So how come I got my own room growing up? Romanians couldn't even comprehend my living situation. It's too out-of-their-experience. It wouldn't even make sense to them- to have so many acres, so many animals, so many rooms and kitchen cabinets full of food and heaters and plumbing and two ovens.

And how come pizza doesn't have ketchup on top?

And at fast food places, how come I have to clean up my own mess? Shouldn't the employees do that?

Why are all the cashiers so nice to me? They don't have to ask me how my day is. All they have to do is frown, grumble about my lack in having exact change and make the transaction. :) And I'm pretty sure that deep down they really don't care about me anyway, so how come they pretend? Customer service is huge.

Roosters say "cockadoodle doo" here instead of "Crookidee croo", and dogs say "bark" instead of "hum hum!"

It's weird to not have to plug a converter into my electronic stuff.

I miss the Romanian advertisements down the sides of my facebook page and in between youtube videos.

My cool Romanian scarves don't seem to match here. They don't belong in America. They belong in Romania.

I don't blend in wearing big black leather boots anymore. I look too classy. Everyone here is in tennis shoes, t-shirts, and jeans.

But I can't comprehend wearing different clothes.

My siblings have no idea how big their vocabularies are, how grown and strong and healthy they are. How much technology they have. How much their parents love them.

 

I can't stop looking at pics of my kids, and I eat Milka caramel cream bars to wallow away my sorrows. It's hard to do nothing here when I know I could be doing something there. It should get better when I start school next spring.