Homesick for our France home

"Will we ever go back and live in our France house?" Katie asked me tonight, after we had read all the books and Liv had fallen asleep, as she was almost asleep herself. "You know, the house with the big shutters on the windows?"

"I think we will, one day," I told her. "And when we go back, we want to go stay at that same house."

She then told me she wanted to go back tomorrow, or at least for Christmas. And we'd have to stay at least three days, or maybe five, but definitely not just one.

And then she started to cry. Real tears. She missed her big friend Laurie, she said. Did I remember how when Jack had his big run, Big Friend Laurie gave her some bread and juice and a little candy? And she missed how the park was so close, even closer than the one here. She really missed the house with shutters, she said again, and how it had good places to play hide and seek, and the big front yard. And there were all those vineyards -- those were so pretty, she said. She missed little Penny (the youngest daughter of friends Alli and John), and big Penny (the second of four daughters of Marine, the daughter of the family I lived with in Dijon as a student).

I told her I missed France, too. I told her that I missed Geraldine, and how she would come over and we would cook together. Did she remember that? I told her I missed Alli, and the wonderful things she introduced us to (cheese, butter and wine being high on the list... although I didn't get that specific with sweet Kate). I told her that I missed how much time John and I had at home when we lived in France, how we weren't as busy and how we didn't have to go to teach at the university or work late or go into the office on weekends (she said she missed that, too).

Then she said she missed the yogurt we got there. And the croissants. And she said in Canada, she feels sick because she misses Grandma and Grandpa and Grannie and Poppa so much, but in France, she didn't miss them at all because there were always castles and interesting things like that to see.

I told her we will go back some day -- and we will. We are working on a plan now to go back for three months in May, June, and July of 2012. But those kind of far-off plans do little to help a homesick five year old on a cold winter's night.

The sobbing brought John into the girls' room. I gave a brief update... and he took Katie into his arms.

"Do you know who misses France as much as you do," he asked her, "who feels like crying sometimes because she misses friends and being in France?"

Katie shook her head no, cheeks glistening with tears.

"Your mama," he said.

"It's true," I told her -- especially when it's -25C and has snowed for a week, I muttered to John.

Trying a different tactic, I told her when we go back, everyone will be so surprised because she'll go up to her French friends and be able to say "Bonjour! Je m'appelle Katie. Je suis une fille..." and so many other interesting things.

This briefly made her cry again because she remembered how in France she forgot how to write her name in English (with upper and lower case letters) and now, she sobbed, she has forgotten how to write her name in French (with all uppercase letters). And when she writes her Christmas card to Big Friend Laurie tomorrow, she told me, she wants to write her name in French, so Laurie can read it. I assured her I remembered how to do it and could help her.

Then John distracted her with his new iPhone, which worked, although she reminded him that even though turning the phone into a flashlight was, in fact, pretty neat -- she still missed France.

We all do. It was a remarkable time. I think this incredibly busy fall has made us appreciate it all the more, those long days with few obligations, the slow pace, the food and friends and fabulousness of it all.

It won't come tomorrow, or even at Christmas. But I am pretty sure that one day, we will go back to "our" France house, the one with the big shutters and pretty vineyards nearby. It won't be soon enough for Katie -- or for me. But it will come. One day.