The scene from my bedroom window a mere ten minutes after dialing 9-9-9.

It’s 2:30am, and I just had my first personal experience with the UK’s Big Brother-esque camera network.

I was sitting in bed working on my computer when a burgaler alarm from across the street sounded. I looked out my window to see a man trying to break into the business. Despite the alarm’s persistence, he just stood toward the side of the display window shaking back and forth, as if he’s trying to shake something free. I picked up the phone and dialed 999.

“Emergency services, how may I help?”
“Uh, yeah, I think I’m watching a burglary.”
“Fire or police?”
“Police.”

The phone beeps a few times, then:

“Police department.”
“Hi, I believe I’m watching a man attempt to break into the building across the way from my bedroom window.” I tell him the address. I describe what the man is wearing.
“One moment please, I’m going to patch into the cameras.”
He put me on hold for about 20 seconds. It had been about 45 seconds since I made the call, and already I see a van marked Heddlu (Welsh for ‘police’) speed by, passing the man who is now casually walking away.
“Alright, I’m —”
“He’s walking northbound!” I say with the adrenaline of someone on COPS.
“Where?”
“North! Towards Cowbridge Street!”
“Alright, I see him on camera. The police are apprehending him now. Thanks for calling in.”

Two more police cars met the first at the roundabout as I gawked out my window. I watched the female police officer pick up her phone and make a call. My cell phone rings. Eerie. She wants to know precisely where he was breaking in, so I guide her from my bedroom window. She points a flashlight on the building while I, from across the street guide them on my phone — further left — she moves the flashlight beam left, now up — she moves the flashlight beam up. There. That’s where he was standing. Apparently the guy was attempting to work out early in the morning and started shadowboxing, using his reflection in the window as a makeshift mirror. When he accidentally hit his reflection, he triggered the alarm. The police officer sounds sceptical when she tells me his alabi, but his story must’ve checked out, because as I write this the police are gone and he’s back at it, shaking back and forth in front of the window.

I may have given the guy a fright, but it was worth it. Civil rights and privacy concerns be damned, that camera system is cool.

Much like Shredder became Super Shredder in the (classic) Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 2, arguments with family members can have the same effect.

They’re like real fights, but a whole lot less fulfilling. Arguments have a life of their own. I’m not talking of one-off, who-ate-my-pizza-arguments, but sustained arguments that carry across weeks, months or years. These kind of arguments go into hibernation, tricking you into thinking they’re not there while they gestate, like the supervillan that is killed at the end of the movie only to come back in the sequel bigger, stronger and with some extraneous new superpower.

In this case, the supervillan is my mother’s increasing unease with me living overseas. The first time I brought up that I wanted to move abroad was on I-94, driving back with my parents from visiting my sister in college. The idea was met with a collective shrug, they were unsure if I’d ever actually put my money where my mouth is.

Then I moved. Times were rough, early on. I was unable to find a job, then unable to find happiness in my job, and my parents invited me to come back home a mere month after I’d moved abroad. It was a gracious invitation, but one I declined. I wasn’t ready come come home yet. I would power through the malaise.

A year and a half later, I’m on the verge of finding some real success in my career. Suddenly, my life abroad has the potential of becoming a lot less temporary. I’m also about to go home for a visit. Cue the supervillan’s return. It starts small. I mention a possibility of getting a permanent job, but instead of a congratulations I get a half-hearted, “Oh.”

As for my return home, I’m starting to plan where I’ll be spending my time. My parents live in southern Minnesota, my sister lives four hours north in Fargo/Moorhead and all my friends live an hour and a half away in Minneapolis/St. Paul. In planning my two and a half weeks at home, I can’t seem to reach an amount of time to spend at my parents’ house that will please my mother. It’s is not an easy thing to get upset over. I love my mom, I want to spend time with her and it’s flattering and a bit ridiculous that we’re reduced to negotiating something I want so much anyway: spent time at home.

It’s not an unusual situation, from what I’ve heard. Expatriates I’ve spoken to universally report friction with family members for their choice to live abroad. It’s ironic then, that the quarrel seems to come up the most when it shouldn’t: When we’re making the effort to go home.

So that’s what led to a recent Skype-argument with my mom, an argument about as satisfying as wet socks, because there’s no way to reach a satisfying conclusion. Like that classic Mitch Hedberg bit, I felt like I was fighting in a tent. What was I supposed to do, walk out and slam the flap? How are you supposed to express your anger in this situation? In my case, I raised my voice and felt guilty about it afterward. I’m not sure there will ever be a resolution to the on-again/off-again fight until I move home. Fight isn’t even the right word for it, since it’s ultimately bickering because I love my mom and she loves me. But in the meantime, I guess I’m stuck with the unflattering, occasional Skype fight whose only solution is the digital equivalent of slamming the tent flap, clicking the “End call” button.

Have you lived away from home for an indefinite period of time? How did it affect your relationship with your family? Leave your feedback or advice in the comments section.