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!

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.