Maybe being different isn't so bad

One student, Patrick, was from Moldova, a country I'd never heard of, let alone could place on a map. Patrick was bright, enthusiastic, and articulate. I was convinced my father liked him better than my brother and me. The two of them would energetically discuss politics, economics, and religion, while my brother and I slumped silently over our plates and counted the minutes until we could go back to watching TV and talking on the phone.

But during the summer, I still had to spend vacations living in cramped faculty housing in Amsterdam, Berlin, or Cambridge, England, when I'd rather have been hanging out at the beach with my friends back home.

For a long time, I blamed my parents for breaking up my budding romance with a neighbor boy. While I was dragged off to some country where they'd never heard of MTV or flavored lip gloss, he got back together with his old girlfriend.

It wasn't just the constant travel that put me off my parents' lifestyle. It was also that we were poor.

Or, at least, I thought we were.

Our modest house was furnished with brick-and-board bookcases and hand-me-down furniture. Our cars were older-model sedans with cracked vinyl interiors. Of course, I didn't particularly notice – or care – until I got to high school and made friends with kids who got new Jeeps for their 16th birthdays and lived in sleek, white-carpeted condos.

When I was applying to college, I had to ask my parents how much they earned. I was shocked at their response, which was more than I thought teachers made. My mother explained that it wasn't that we couldn't afford nice furniture and new cars, it was just that she and my father preferred to spend their money on travel and education.

That was cold comfort to a teenager who'd rather have had her own wheels than spend a month being dragged through every museum in London.

In retrospect, I should have appreciated the experiences my parents provided our family, not to mention the time they spent with us. Instead, I wished for the thrilling liberty of my latchkey friends.

But somewhere along the line, my parents' views rubbed off on me. I majored in French in college and spent time abroad – even though it wasn't required for graduation. When I got married, my husband and I didn't go to some luxury Caribbean resort on our honeymoon – we went hiking in Costa Rica. And I admit, I'd rather save up for a vacation than buy a new coffee table.

We welcomed our first child a few months ago. For the nursery theme, I passed up Mickey Mouse in favor of the worldly French pachyderm, Babar. I registered for some multilingual "Baby Einstein" DVDs and a special German baby carrier.

Papa's thrilled about being a grandfather. I hope we'll teach this child that in our family, different is OK. And I promise not to trick him into speaking a foreign language on weekends.

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