Her son had traveled around the globe before he was even born. So how do you bring up a child for whom everywhere—and nowhere—is home? Mariane Pearl raises a citizen of the world

My three-and-a-half-year-old son, Adam, means well. When he cries out, "Mama, don't go anywhere!" what he really means is, "I'll miss you." It's just a matter of reading between the lines. We have our dynamic, our shorthand, and I understand his intentions, but it doesn't always play well with the rest of the human race. Like now, when Adam smiles and points at a middle-aged man sitting next to us: "That guy has a funny face!" The man's face is funny in a sad way, and we have eighteen more hours to go by his side before our plane lands in Tokyo. Oh, I silently plead, let our fellow traveler be a father, a philosopher, a therapist, or a poet—someone able to take Adam's remark on another level. Our neighbor sighs and shifts in his seat, annoyed, I'm sure, and probably slightly depressed at the prospect of the long flight ahead.

Adam, unfortunately, isn't the only one who makes social gaffes. After we finally check in to our hotel in Tokyo, I make my worst blunder ever. "My name is Pearl," I yell into the phone at the lady in room service determined to get my name right. "Like Pearl Harbor!" I still can't believe I said that. When I hang up, Adam is sitting on the bed, naked and lost in his thoughts, staring out the window. I always told him that Japan is the country of the rising sun, and I think he wonders how we could possibly be in Japan, as it is pitch-dark outside.

Japan is our final and farthest stop on a book tour that, on and off, has lasted several months and has included stops in Amsterdam, Madrid, London, Paris, Toronto, and Berlin. On many of our trips, Adam and I have been lucky enough to travel with Anne, the most dedicated friend I have ever had, whose mission is to look after Adam as I meet with the media. One day, as we were flying from our home base in New York City to Los Angeles, Anne and I were so punch-drunk with fatigue that she started robotically picking greenish tortellini from Adam's tray and dropping them into a cup of water, before trying to swallow what by then looked like a solid block of mucus. A few minutes later, she handed me Adam's bottle, but instead of feeding him, I started sucking furiously on the nipple myself, stupid with exhaustion.

Adam and I have been traveling together ever since he was conceived one lovely Sunday afternoon in Mumbai, during the height of monsoon season; we visited seven countries before becoming two separate entities. Adam traveled in utero across Europe, the United States, Canada, to Bangladesh and Pakistan, and throughout India, including Bihar, otherwise known as the armpit of the Subcontinent. In Bihar, which is considered India's most backward state, I reported on a peace march that followed the footsteps of Mahatma Gandhi. Our mission was to walk across Bihar, stopping at every village on our way, to convince the population to give up their weapons and renounce warfare. As we advanced toward Patna, the capital, our group grew bigger. We left behind heaps of weapons at the exit of each village, mostly handmade knives, their rusty blades sometimes stained with what looked like dried blood. I would hold my tummy and talk to my baby: "Hey, embryo, I wish you could see this!"