Shower

1. Light the pilot light in the gas heater hanging on the shower wall.

2. Slowly turn the shower on all the way to high. Watch the pilot light through the little hole—when it bursts into a raging flame, you’re in business.

3. In order to keep yourself from being cooked alive, keep the shower on full blast. Children will wail and shriek in pain, but pay no mind. They wail and shriek in pain when the shower is cold, too. You can not win so do not even try.

4. Try not to be alarmed at the whooshing sounds. Ignore the singe marks on the wooden ceiling. You are getting a hot shower—be grateful.

Drink Milk
1. Buy a bunch of 1-quart bags of milk. Always get more than you think you will need. You will use it.
2. Get out your hot-pink, two-quart pitcher that still smells of the pineapple juice that Luvia made for you back in the beginning.

3. Hold the wobbly bag up on its end.
4. With scissors, snip off a top corner.
5. Pour the milk out through the hole in the top.

6. Repeat with a second bag.
7. Drink milk.

Wash the Dishes
1. Mound all the dirty dishes on the little piece of counter sink and in the sink proper.
2. Turn on the water (only cold in the kitchen) and let it run.
3. Dip the sponge/scrubby in the dish of hard soap.

4. Scrub a few dishes.
5. Rinse and set in the drainer.
6. Repeat until all the dishes are clean.

Bake
1. Burn everything.
2. Realize that something has got to change.
3. Use two upside down tin pans as Burnt Bottom Buffers.

4. Bake with minimal burning.
5. Gloat.

Wash Clothes

Method Number One
1. When the day dawns thick with fog, it will be a sunny, hot day. Count your lucky stars (or sunny skies) and get to work.
2. Throw all the dirty clothes in a big barrel with lots of water and detergent.
3. Attach the (non-poopy) toilet plunger to a long handled stick and agitate the clothes with steady up and down motions à la the old-fashioned butter churn method.
4. Let the clothes soak over a period of a couple hours, or overnight.
5. Periodically agitate the laundry—this is an excellent chore for naughty children.

6. Wring the clean clothes lightly. Rinse with lots of water.
7. Wring out the clothes as hard as you possibly can. No matter how strong you are, you will not be strong enough.

8. Dream out loud (i.e. rant) about having a washing machine.
9. Ponder all the North Americans who talk about “doing the laundry” as though it’s an enormous burden. Double over, slap your knee, and roar with laughter.
10. Use cheap, plastic clothespins (that fall apart with alarming frequency) to hang the clothes on the twine that has turned your backyard into one gigantic booby trap.
11. About 15 minutes later, when gravity has pulled the extra water down to the bottom ends of the clothes, wring out the bottoms of the jeans, shirts, towels, etc. Feel very smart.

Method Number Two
1. Show Luvia the basket of dirty clothes.
2. Go away for the morning.
3. Return to find the back yard full of sopping wet clothes valiantly struggling to dry in the sun.

4. Proceed as in Method One, number seven.

When we went to pick up the kids after their first day, my husband and I arrived a little early and got to watch the younger two exit their classrooms. They were smack in the middle of a mob chatting children. They stood out with their height and blond hair. 

As we left the school, busloads of children went by. They hung out the windows, waving wildly and calling to our children by name.

We went into town and headed straight for an ice cream shop. While we ate our double-scoop waffle cones, the children regaled us with tales of their day. They all loved it, they announced, their faces aglow.

The next day (well, during the night), our younger daughter contracted a stomach bug so she had to stay home, and we took the others out early so we could catch the bus to Guatemala City. They missed the rest of the week of school, so today was the beginning of their first full week.

Since that first day, their enthusiasm has been tempered by the reality of:

*getting up at 5:45 every morning
*a rigid daily schedule
*their inability to understand anything

Actually, our older son still looks forward to each day, but the rest take turns saying they don’t want to go back. Last night our older daughter was in tears. Tonight, our younger son was crying.

Seeing them struggle isn’t much fun, but I feel surprisingly peaceful and confident about our decision to enroll them. I know my children will make friends, and I think they may even grow to love the place. But in the meantime, they rotate between feeling bored, frustrated, happy, scared, embarrassed, and anxious. They are being stretched more than they’ve every been stretched before. I am so proud of them.

This morning my older daughter was anxious and drawn, her stomach in a knot. As we waited for their ride (the neighbors have offered to transport the kids every day in exchange for the cost of one tank of gas per month—they leave at 6:30 and get home at 2:15), my husband pranced around, poking and boxing at her in an effort to limber her up and get her mind off her fears. By the time the car arrived, she was breathing a little easier.

We keep telling the children that we are impressed by how hard they are working. We tell them that many adults would shrink from doing what they are doing. We point out all the new things they are learning and experiencing. We help them brainstorm ways they might deal with their anxieties. We feed them approximately five meals a day (oy). We keep the afternoons open for resting, lots of outside playing, chatting about their day, and reviewing their studies. By 7:30 at night, they are sacked out.

I expect this week will be rocky. I hope next week will be better, but I’m not counting on it. We’ll get there, though. It will get easier…eventually.

On Sunday, my youngest child turned seven.

The kids had begged and pleaded not to go to church, but we said that we’d go anyway because it’s part of our job description. It would only be a short service (yay for mass!) and then we’d have subs (fake ham on hot dog buns) for lunch and ice the cake and open gifts.

But then we got a call from some friends inviting us to attend a church outside Chamelco. They could pick us up at 8:30, they said.

Because they’d be picking us up in a jeep, I opted to wear my nice boots—no need to worry about navigating crater-sized potholes this morning! We, the jeep owners plus Stefan, another guy who works at Bezaleel, piled into the jeep and took off.

We drove.

And drove.

And drove and drove and drove.

Forty-five teeth-jarring minutes later, we arrived at the top of a mountain. We parked the jeep and set off walking, or rather, slip-sliding down a muddy, suck-at-your-shoes, clay-slicked path. Within seconds, the kids’ good shoes were caked with mud and the cuffs of their pants were smeared up nice and thick.

Oh well.

And then there was the service. I didn’t have a watch but I think it lasted three hours. At least. And it was in K’ekchi’. And they had a sound system through which to blast their heartfelt, off-key music. Straight away, Stefan, a.k.a. Mr. Smart Guy, popped in some earplugs. I pulled out the Ibuprofen and passed around pills and a water bottle like communion.

About halfway through, Stefan slipped my youngest a piece of paper.

My boy was in awe. He stared at that drawing like he had never seen a picture before, ot maybe like a child who has left all his picture books at home and had been deprived of any visual art for a full three weeks. Based on his reaction, I’d say that sketch was one of his best gifts.

When our butts had effectively melded to the wooden benches, the service was over. Back down the broccoli-covered mountain we jounced. (I have never seen so much broccoli in my life. The very air smelled of broccoli. It was spectacular. I would’ve taken my camera along if I would’ve known we would’ve been going on such an excursion.)

The rest of the day was peaceful. The children played outside while I made the requested broccoli-potato soup and strawberry cake. I used this yellow cake recipe and this fluffy frosting.

It was quite the adventure, making that cake was. I have no mixing bowl and no handy-dandy combination of electrical outlets and work space, so I took everything out to the porch and made the icing in a soup pan. I got to break in my brand new, super-cheap hand mixer. Within ten seconds I could smell it burning up.

We took it real slow and it didn’t implode.

Birthday Boy wanted strawberries between the layers, so I quick made a strawberry marmalade, cooled it, and then folded it into some of the frosting. It worked.

Gifts were a simple affair. Every time we went into town during the last couple weeks, we tried to pick up one more thing: a soccer ball, some Lego imposters, a stuffed animal, gum, a bag of marshmallows…

And then it was off to bed because the next day was the first day of school. (More on that coming soon, pinky promise!)