Okay, so. Parenting in Spain? A shitshow. That’s it. That’s the whole post.
I thought I had it all figured out. Like, “Yeah, I’ll move to Spain, get Albert in school, I’ll be the cool mom who knows what she’s doing with a bit of Spanish on the side.”
Ha. Joke’s on me.
Albert’s been here for six months and the only thing he can say in Spanish is “No entiendo.” Which, fine. It’s a start. But in my head, he should be chatting away in full sentences by now. Is that unrealistic? Probably. But I’m an idiot and thought somehow my child would just pick it up like I did in school with French. No. He’s not me, and he doesn’t learn like that.
And then there’s the school system. Have you ever been handed a note from the school that’s half Spanish, half Catalan, and wondered if you’ve just signed your child up for a field trip to the moon? Because I did. And then spent two hours Googling it to understand what the hell was going on.
And then there’s lunch. Oh my god, lunch. In the UK, I packed Albert a sandwich and called it a day. Here? They eat a full meal at 1pm. It’s like a full-on feast. And I’m not even close to prepared for it. I still pack him the usual bread and cheese and they look at me like I’ve handed him a bag of dirt. Seriously. No one told me this would be a thing. But they eat here, okay? Like they’re about to hibernate for the winter. They sit for hours, all relaxed and full of paella while I’m thinking, “How the hell do I do this?”
The Whole “Doing it Wrong” Thing
Here’s the deal: I’ve been feeling like I’m doing this whole thing wrong. A lot. Every time I’m late picking Albert up from school (because I’ve got no idea where the hell I’m going half the time), or when I forget his merienda (snack), I think, “Great. Another mess-up.” I look at the other moms here—Spanish, calm, collected, dressed like they just walked out of an Ad for Zara—and I wonder why I can’t get it together like they can.
But the truth is? I’m doing my best. And that’s the real answer to all of this. I’m just trying to survive. And Albert? He’s fine. Really, he is. The kid’s doing fine. He doesn’t care that I can’t speak fluent Spanish. He’s not bothered that I pack him the wrong snack half the time. And you know what? Neither should I.
The Parent Guilt
Parent guilt is real. Especially when you’re living abroad. You feel like you have to get everything right. Because if you don’t, your kid’s going to be behind, or they’re going to grow up missing something important from their home country. But here’s the truth: they’re not going to miss anything. They just need you. They need you to be there, even when you screw up, even when you can’t understand half of what’s happening. They need your presence more than your perfection.
So, I’m doing it all wrong. I didn’t teach Albert enough Spanish before we moved. I didn’t prepare him for school the way I thought I would. But I’m showing up every damn day, trying my hardest. And that’s really all you can do.
So, What’s Next?
I’m not gonna say “next time will be better.” That’s the lie I used to tell myself. I’m just gonna say: Next time, I’ll try not to lose my shit over the small things. I’ll pack Albert’s lunch with a bit more effort. I’ll make sure he’s actually eating what everyone else is eating. But I won’t beat myself up over it. Because I’m a human. I’m a parent. And this is hard. And it’s not supposed to be perfect.
So here’s the truth. I’m doing it all wrong. And I’m probably going to keep doing it all wrong. And that’s fine.
If you’re a parent trying to make it work in a new country, trying to juggle a new culture and new expectations, let’s just agree to stop pretending like we have it all figured out.
Because, spoiler alert: none of us do.
To any other expat parents out there: What’s your biggest struggle? Or am I the only one who feels like they’re always screwing up?