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!)

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!