Flip through the latest issue of Gulf Weekly.
I am going home. I am coming back home. I have no home. I have two homes. I am an expat mum.
I have a home in Bahrain. I have decorated it in good taste. Stocked the cupboards well with goods bought, over time, from irresistible promotions. A comfortable lounge, a cosy bedroom that I like to believe is my haven and escape, but truth be told it is considered haven by my toddler just as much. As a full-time mum playing the home-maker comes as second nature.
Unconsciously, I went about working on the house slowly but steadily.
Then why is it that on every occasion and possible break I want to pack my bags, drag the kids on long flights and just run... home.
I board every one of these flights excited and in high anticipation to be greeted with the familiar sights and sounds that welcome me to my homeland. A smile spontaneously adds colour to my face as I hear my native language rolling off the tongues of people around me. The exhausted steps of my half-asleep children fail to slow me down as I walk with electric zest to meet and greet the family waiting impatiently for my arrival.
All the love, gossip, shopping and pampering fails to keep my heart and mind in one place. There is a pang I feel, something seems to be pulling at my heart. There is a yearning to be home. However, I am home, yet I miss the home I left behind. Two weeks in the home away from home and I am craving my own kitchen, my lounge couch and of course my bedroom. I pack yet again, ready to rush home.
I am but an expat.
