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).

These days, I get up earlier than I did in the other house. The brightening sky lights our bedroom through the single, large window. It’s still gray outside, but the birds are singing. It will be another gorgeous day.

I pull on a hoodie and tiptoe out to the kitchen. It’s cold. I can see my breath. I slide open the metal barn door and peek outside.

I can see the moon! I grab my camera, slip on my husband’s sneakers (I’ll apologize later) and head outside.

There are dew-drenched spider webs everywhere. The valley is thick with fog.

The ground is silvery and wet. It glimmers and shimmers in the sunlight.

The workers, machetes in hand, are tromping by in their rubber boots on their way to The Big House.

“Buenos dias!” I call quietly, and they singsong the greeting back to me. Suddenly, I am self-conscious of my pajamas—black leggings and long shirt—and fancy camera, so I scuttle back inside.

Coffee time! I fill my teapot with purified water and set it to boiling. While I stir the hot water into the coffee grounds and push the water through my aeropress, I heat some milk in a small saucepan. There is no half-and-half or cream here, so it’s café con leche every morning.

It’s time for the kids to be getting up, so I turn on lights and start clattering dishes, emptying the drainer and getting out the skillets. I chop up the potatoes that I baked last night (the hot oven helped make the house cozy) for the morning’s fried potatoes and whisk a dozen eggs. There will be ketchup, too.

“Breakfast is almost ready! Get up, get dressed, make your beds, and come eat!” I holler at the children. They groan and burrow deeper into the covers. My husband joins me in urging them onward ho.

Soon Luvia will be arriving, and the day will be underway.

Good afternoon! The kids are outside playing with their friends.

My husband just set off for Chamelco in search of some electrical tape so he can fix the stove (so it will cease and desist in its shocking behavior, hopefully).

I finished mixing up a batch of five-minute bread for our supper. The house is quiet, all except for the tin roof—it makes crackling noises in the broiling sun.

Yes, the sun, oh joy! It hasn’t rained for two days and the chill and damp is finally (perhaps momentarily, but that’s okay) gone.

We are still living out of suitcases, but our made-to-order dressers and some tables arrived this morning. However, since they were made out of wet wood (much to my husband’s dismay), we have to let them dry in the sun for a couple days before using them. One of the tables went into the kitchen so now I have some actual counter space to work with and not just a tile ledge. Another carpentry shop is making us some simple chairs, a bench, and another bed stand, and once my husband gets some wood, we’ll have shelves on the walls. Bit by bit, we’re settling in.

I have so much to write about that I’m not sure where to start. Maybe a list?

*The first night in our new home, our older daughter sat at the supper table, nervously eyeing the gap that runs the whole way around the house between the walls and ceilings, her hands over her ears (her trademark “I’m scared” gesture), watching for strange animals slithering in and dropping on our heads. I, too, was/am wary of rats, mice, and possums crawling through the cracks, but I’ve made no mention of that to the children, of course. (The mouse that slipped in under the door last night is no longer of this world, glory be.)

*We are surrounded by boys. The owner’s grandsons live in The Big House: José is 12 and Fernando is 7. José speaks a little English. Both are very friendly and eager to share bikes, ping-pong table, etc.

One of the other families that lives on the farm, some long-term missionaries, have four boys that they homeschool. Their names are Jorge, Joaquin, Andrés, and Marcos. Their ages range from 9-13, I think. The boys are adopted and speak both Spanish and English. Their family runs the fish farm and they just gave us a frozen crab. I’ll boil it for supper…I guess?

*The 10-15 minute walk to Chamelco is peaceful and beautiful. First we have to walk down our long, curving, dirt/mud/rock/pothole-filled driveway, and then out through the bougainvillea covered gates. The main road is paved and lined with hedges and flowers. People are constantly walking by. Most of them are cheerful—actually, “jolly” is a better adjective—which surprises me. I expected that they would be more reserved and somber.

Later…
When I was writing, the kids came bursting through the door, wanting to go swimming. They said the pond was shallow and that the boys’ father was down there. I gave them permission and then, camera in hand, followed them down. (So much for my list.)

They—eight boys and two girls—were out on the water, boating, paddling, swimming, and yelling.

The entire pond was only a couple feet deep, thick mud lining the bottom. It’s one huge water-filled playground.

The pond has tilapia in it (and the neighbors gave us some!)—when the kids swim, the fish just hide in the reeds.

Some of the boys went to the far side and climbed the tree to jump in.

After an hour of racing, splashing, and dumping each other, the kids climbed out of the water, shivering and begging for towels. Now, back at our house, they’ve had showers.

As soon as my husband finishes fixing the oven, I’ll try my hand at some homemade pizza.