“Do you have both your diplomatic and regular passports?” I inquired the night before my son was set to embark on his journey.
“Mom, I’ve got this,” my 15-year-old sighed, visibly exasperated. “You know I’ve done this before.”
The following morning, he was off to Romania with his school’s baseball team, leaving behind the familiar surroundings of Moscow, where we currently reside.
He’s correct—this isn’t his first rodeo. As an international school student, he has been crossing borders without my supervision since he was in sixth grade. He’s traveled to places such as Dubai and Singapore without needing me to manage his documents or find him a restroom. Intellectually, I understand he is fully capable of handling himself. Yet, emotionally, I grapple with the realization that my once small child is now traversing the world independently.
My own first airplane journey occurred at 20, as I headed off for a semester abroad. Back then, my parents could walk me to the gate at Los Angeles International Airport and wave goodbye as I boarded.
My eldest child, however, has grown up in a vastly different environment. As the offspring of a diplomat, he holds two passports: one for international travel and another for our visits “home” to the United States. He boarded his first flight at just five weeks old. I’ve lost count of the countries he has visited—15, perhaps 20? Still, the thought of putting him on a plane alone fills me with unease. It challenges my belief that I can always keep him safe.
Children of diplomats often develop unique skills. They learn to interpret body language in ways that typical children might not, a necessity when they frequently switch schools and befriend peers from various cultures. They possess a remarkable awareness of global issues; my kids can locate Palestine on a map and articulate why it may not appear on certain maps. They can navigate the Moscow subway system without assistance and even order falafel in Arabic when in Amman or Jerusalem. I’m often taken aback by their abilities—things that, at times, terrify me as their cautious mother. I feel both pride and amazement.
Yet, there are fundamental experiences they miss. They cannot mark their height on a wall each year. They can’t name their best friend, as friendships shift with every summer move, often resulting in a best friend residing continents away. Weekend sleepovers with grandparents and cousins are a rarity, and outdoor activities like skateboarding may be unsafe due to the environment at our postings.
As I observe my four children growing, I contemplate whether the benefits outweigh the drawbacks. Certainly, they’ve stood on the Great Wall of China, dipped their toes in the Mediterranean, snorkeled in the Red Sea, and floated in the Dead Sea. They’ve sledded down glaciers, ridden camels, and marveled at the Hagia Sophia’s majestic ceiling. They’ve even met presidents and high-ranking officials.
However, they’ve also experienced fear during embassy alarms, faced emotional farewells from friends, and witnessed their father, a special agent with the State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service, confront intruders. They’ve endured challenges from peers who harbor anti-American sentiments and have worried as their father departed for Iraq, uncertain if he would return.
Is the trade-off justifiable? Will they reflect on their upbringing fondly, or will they lament the loss of a “normal” childhood? There’s no definitive answer. What I do see is that I’m raising intelligent, self-assured children who will thrive in complex, multilingual environments. They don’t hesitate to travel to Kuwait for baseball. Yet, I also recognize that I’m nurturing children who carry emotional scars, who have nightmares about losing their father, and who are all too familiar with the realities of love and loss.
As I stand here, watching my oldest son leave, I realize he is now independent, far from my immediate reach if trouble arises. It often seems that the life we lead as a diplomatic family has made my role less significant. Not so long ago, this child was flying to Kazakhstan with a Thomas the Tank Engine carry-on. Now, he has packed his own suitcase and stepped out the door, headed for the airport.
Just then, my phone buzzed with a text. “Mom, I forgot. Do I need my diplomatic passport or my regular one?”
Perhaps he still does need me after all.
For more insights on parenting in unique circumstances, you can explore additional resources like this post on pregnancy and home insemination, or check out Make a Mom’s guide for comprehensive information on home insemination kits. The NHS also offers excellent information about intrauterine insemination.
In conclusion, navigating the complexities of raising children as a diplomatic family presents both extraordinary opportunities and significant challenges. While they gain cultural awareness and adaptability, they also face emotional hurdles that require careful consideration.