Big news, y’all! We, the forever homeschoolers, enrolled our children in school.

I kid you not.

This was not the original plan. We had intended to continue homeschooling, with me and my husband taking turns going to work. But other expats kept suggesting school. They’ll learn Spanish quickly, they said, and they’ll make more friends. As we settled into our home and began to get a feel for our surroundings and the work we’d be doing, the idea started to appeal to us. 

We brought it up with the kids. At first, they baulked. “We don’t care about grades,” we said, “just that you learn Spanish and make friends.” Their eyes lit up.

All except for our younger daughter. She said, No way and I’m not going and You can’t make me so there.

And then I had a stroke of mother genius. The day I was to go visit the school, I told Resistant Daughter that she was the only one who could come with me, just her and me together, checking out the school. We took a tour and met with the directors. The staff oohed and aahed over her, hugged her, and told her not to be afraid. By the end of the visit she had decided that she wanted to go after all.

So last week, we set about filling out paperwork, buying uniforms and loncheras (lunch boxes), depositing money (oof!) and obtaining supplies, all under the generous tutelage and assistance of the former MCCers (who still have two children in the high school there).

All week long the girls kept dressing up in their uniforms. The excitement mounted.

This morning we woke them at 5:30. Resistant Daughter was up before us, chomping at the bit to get going.

I packed their loncheras with bananas, brownies, and cheese-lettuce-and-tomato sandwiches. I gave them three pieces of candy each: one for you and two to share with your new friends. I stuffed rolls of toilet paper in their bags in case there wouldn’t be any in the bathrooms (which is normal here—it’s BYOTP everywhere you go).

While we waited for the taxi to arrive, I took pictures.

We still haven’t worked out the transportation piece, but between buses, taxis, walking, and neighbors who also attend, we’ll figure something out.

On the way there, we reviewed basic phrases: buenos dias, lo siento, compermiso, baño, por favor, etc. We did some deep breathing. We pumped them up with encouragements.

I went with each of the children to their rooms and introduced them to the students who were already milling around. I informed the group, my eyes big, that my daughter (or son) didn’t speak any Spanish and needed lots of help. In my older daughter’s 6th grade class, the students rushed to find her a desk. When I left the room, there was a small crowd around her chattering happily.

The same thing happened with my older son and younger daughter—they were greeted merrily (though my poor son was mortified because he had worn his standard uniform and all the other kids were wearing their gym uniforms since it was gym day).

But it was a different story with the youngest. Although the kids swarmed him there, too, the girls mothering him, fixing his chair and showing him where to put his lonchera, and the boys explaining to him in clear, slow Spanish that they were going to teach him how to talk, my boy just clung to me and hid his face in my sweater. And then he broke down and sobbed. After much work, I finally got him to sit at a desk and share a math book with the boy beside him. I explained the problems and gave him some paper to draw on. Then I slipped out.

My husband was waiting out by the gate, his eyes watery. “Are you sure we can go? Can we leave him? Will they be all right?”

“Yes,” I said, laughing at him. “They’re fine. They can do this. Come on.” I grabbed his hand and drug him down the drive to catch a bus back to town.

We spent our morning visiting Bezaleel, shopping, buying bus tickets, and doing laundry. And now it’s time to go pick up the children and then go get donuts (or maybe ice cream—it’s hot today!) to celebrate. I can’t wait to hear their stories!

After that bluesy post, here’s the flipside: I’m pretty darn proud of how quickly we’ve transitioned this time around. When we signed up to go to Nicaragua for three years back in ’97, the entire first year was spent in language school, living with a different host family nearly every single week (it was as dreadful as it sounds), and then building our own house out of handmade adobe blocks. We didn’t even attempt any official work.

This time around, things are a little different. There is no language study. We’ve been in Guatemala for two-and-a-half weeks and so far we’ve had a day and a half of in-country orientation, moved to our location, started work, gone house hunting, moved, and really started to settle in.

Next week we are supposed to travel to Santiago Atitlán for team meetings and I’m dreading it. Not because I don’t want to go to team meetings, because I do, but because I hate to leave this place. It’s my home and I’m a homebody and I like it here. That I feel this way so soon after moving to a foreign country is a little bit miraculous, I think.

Which doesn’t mean this transition isn’t hard (see previous post). Some things are really wonderful and some things are really frustrating and exhausting. We seesaw back and forth between the two in a most erratic fashion. You’ll get some posts that have us soaring sky high and some posts in which we just banged our butts on the hard ground. It’ll even out…eventually.

Anyway, we didn’t get our house all by ourselves. I contacted some ex-MCCers who live in Cobán, and they, the mother of the family in particular, have gone way above and beyond the call of duty to help us feel at home. When the mother heard about our living situation, she contacted a bunch of potential landlords and then ended up meeting us in town, driving us out to this place, and helping us assess it and work out the details.

The next day we moved in, and that night she and her daughter showed up with a (delicious) ready-to-bake casserole for our supper. She had called ahead and asked if we needed anything from the store. I said, bread, bananas, and eggs, please, and if it’s not too much trouble. She said okay, and then showed up with bags of groceries: mixed nuts, tuna, crackers, cookies, cornflakes, milk, fresh vegetables, homemade jelly and bread, spices, pastries, pastas, a giant honeydew, juice, etc. There was even a basket with candles and a Guatemalan cloth for the table, and an assortment of toys for the children. I was so overjoyed and thankful I nearly cried. We feasted that night. And after our lunch of one boiled egg each, plus tortillas and salt, it was a much needed feast.

This family has continued to help us settle in. They have offered us the use of their vehicle and given us much-needed contact information, such as names of reliable taxi drivers, laundry women, repair men, etc. If it wasn’t for this family, we wouldn’t be nearly as settled as we are.

We are incredibly grateful and deeply indebted.

Transitioning to another culture is hard. Sometimes it’s brutally hard.

It’s like this: not only do I have to manage my own emotions, but I also have to help four children (and a husband) manage theirs. I (we) have to navigate the ins and outs of having a maid, figure out how to get money out of a bank and get groceries to the house without a car, learn the ropes of the buses and taxis and the layout of several different towns, feed a family, stock and manage a household, pay the rent and water and gas, learn to use cell phones and text (I am texting!)…and all of this (or mostly all) while speaking another language.

The simplest things take superhuman effort, like finding vinegar (located yesterday! in a stall in the market! score!). Getting a store to fill out a receipt can take an extra 15 minutes. Just finding a grounded extension cord involves visiting about 20 different hardware stores.

All of the children are struggling in some way or another, but one in particular (the one we knew would have trouble) is crashing and burning right and left. Her anxiety (same stuff she deals with in the States) is through the roof. It manifests in atrocious amounts of defiance and monstrous tantrums. All the kids, in fact, are coping attitudes.

Part of the problem (and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist, or child psychologist, to figure this out) is that we haven’t had a clear schedule for the last three weeks. Standard methods for discipline haven’t been an option. The children haven’t had regular chores or studies. Plus, they’ve been on overload from all the new things they are learning…

…Like how to smoosh into taxis and buses without fussing (too much).
…Like how to eat their food with tortillas.
…Like how to brush their teeth with a cup of water and take cold showers.
…Like how to put toilet paper in the trash can instead of the toilet.

It’s a lot of newness, and while often exciting and doable, new things all the time take a toll.

In the thick of dealing with a tantruming child, my typical feelings of over-whelmedness are ten-fold. Our regular support system is no longer at hand. (Yes, we have tons of support in spirit—never to be underestimated!—and there are lots of people here who are watching out for us, but it’s a far cry from the thick web of support we’re used to.) We are going this alone. That’s the hard truth.

Yesterday, for the first time in weeks, we had a regular afternoon rest time. Throughout the day, I had enough energy and resolve to follow through with discipline issues (and were there ever issues, hoo-boy). Perhaps we’re finally coming down a little bit, relaxing into this new place that is to be our home, and now, with the extra time and space, comes the payback for all the changes that we’ve gone through? Whatever the case, it’s emotionally exhausting.

The turmoil, stress, and angst is about to be increased, too (more on this soon), so we have a ways to go before we can truly settle and adjust.

But we will (I trust). And soon (I hope).