The Husband rings at 5:30 am 5 mornings ago. My eyes are filled with a sort of crust that indicates non-productive sleep. The 2 month old is half latched to me, half naked. The 2 year old is sleeping at our feet under an Anpanman blanket with a sombrero on her head, cherry pajamas inside out and both legs in one leg hole. The 5 year old is curled up on the floor wearing a pajama top and boots. The remains of our 'family night of fun.'
The Husband chooses that moment to tell me we're going to Brussels to live.
"Brussels. The land of chocolate. Five years."
"Chocolat? Cinq quoi?"
He switches to Spanish.
"Cinco."
"What?"
"We're moving."
"To Bogota. 5th May."
"Not anymore. We're going to Bruxelles. I have the job at the EU."
And that's how I found out my dreams of the Spanish city life were ruined by a reality of central European life.
"So we're moving back across the world?"
His answer "We're world champions at moving Ash. We just sort of say the word and things jump into boxes."

How our family doesn't own an airline by now, I don't know.