A Mother's Day Confession

Happy Mother’s Day!

Confession: I am terrified, absolutely sh*t scared, at the thought of ever becoming a mother.

There is this common misconception about me, fueled by thousands of pictures of me cradling tiny infants in my arms, that I am dying to have children. That I need to be a mother. That there is this empty space within me that can only be filled with a child of my own.

7 years ago, that may have been true. I loved children. I had dedicated myself to working with them; had professionally committed myself to nurturing and supporting them. I could think of no greater joy than someday having my own.

...And then I began to work with moms.

What puts me off of motherhood is not that mothers are chronically exhausted. It is not that they have a tremendous amount of things to do while simultaneously caring for a small human being who seems bent on its own destruction. It is not the diapers, or the tantrums, or the atrocious teenage attitude (sorry, Mom!). It is not the 24 hour schedule or lack of appreciation that so many internet campaigns and mommy blogs decry that frightens me.

It is the pain I have seen on the faces of mothers when a hurt beyond their control befalls their child and they can do nothing to stop it. It is the acute realization of how woefully little say I will have in what happens to this tiny being that means more to me than any words could possibly explain.

Though I do not know their faces, I love my future children so much; these unborn, protected, beautiful shining beacons of innocence and potential floating somewhere in the ether, waiting for their moment of self-actualization when they will take form and be named and begin trudging uphill alongside the rest of us in this overwhelmingly beautiful and awful journey that is existence.

I love them so much that I want to keep them where they are simply because I can keep them safe there. 

Say what you will about the joys of holding your baby in your arms. I’m not yet confident in my ability to survive the experience of spending the remainder of my life with my heart walking around outside of my chest on its own two legs with a strong-willed and defiant (if maternal temperatment is any indicator) mind of its own.

I am terrified to be a mother because I don’t know if I can handle that, and am perpetually in awe of any woman who can. Mothers wake up every day, love something outside of themselves beyond measure, and manage to muddle through hours of work or housework or errands without having a full-blown panic attack over whether or not their little one (or big one) is going to survive another day.

Admittedly, the past few years have been a little tough for me, as a woman and future mother. Beautiful, rewarding, enlightening, but tough. I loved and let go of the most amazing little person I’ve ever met. I’ve worked with moms going through the kinds of maternal hell most of us shudder at the very thought of. I’ve said goodbye to little babies I loved very much, knowing that the pain I felt at their loss was negligible compared to the pain their loving mothers felt. 

If I seem overly focused on the ‘worst case scenarios’ of motherhood, it’s because I’ve been deeply affected by seeing them played out by characters I’ve come to know and love. Motherhood is beautiful, but fundamentally terrifying.

So rock on, moms. Each and every one of you is far tougher and stronger than I. I will continue loving your children and being a part of the ‘village’ that nurtures them; laughing with you at their adorable antics, celebrating their accomplishments both big and small, and sharing in your sadness and pain when life is hard, or cruel, or unfair to them.

And to my own mom, who not only nurtured me when I was teeny-tiny but stayed strong for me throughout my own years of sickness, pain, and self-destruction; who spent countless nights sleeping beside me to make me feel safe, secure and loved; who took time off of work and drove hours each day for months at a time to get me the care I needed to get through my darkest days; who bore so much pain in birthing and raising me and worrying about me, only to have me grow up and give her more grief and worry by stubbornly moving thousands of miles away to follow my dreams- thank you. 

Today and every day, I have nothing but respect and admiration for you all.

Love is Hard

Beto at Casa Jackson, 2012.
Photo ©Joseph Labelle

 In the midst of a busy Tuesday morning at Casa Jackson, the doorbell rings. Half-sitting, half-standing at the computer, I am sifting through a pile of to-do lists, community nutrition education materials, and volunteer applications when I realize that I should probably let whatever parent or visitor has arrived inside.

I walk briskly to the door, opening it with my standard “Yes I am a foreigner, please don’t be frightened, your children are safe here” smile and soft-spoken Hello, welcome, please come in. 

A petite knob-nosed woman, clad in flip-flops and a worn, stained tee-shirt over her patterned skirt steps inside. With civility, warmth, and almost flourish, she introduces herself and her companion. As she speaks, a vague memory of this face resurfaces.

Good morning, I’m the mother of Alberto, and this is his aunt. I am here to visit my son.

So many emotions are rocking me, I don’t even know which to go about hiding first. I take a deep breath, smile a little too widely, and greet her enthusiastically.

How wonderful that you’re here! He’s growing very well... a very smart and beautiful little boy. Please, come in, come in.

As I feel my mouth move around these words, my heart drops to my gut and I feel it pulsing and throbbing there. An inner protest begins to mount, quietly at first, until it crescendos to the pitch, volume, and frequency with which my little Beto, her little Beto, the two-foot-tall miracle at the center of it all, demands my attention whenever I need to speak to a tour group or important guest... no no no no no NO NONONONONONONONO. 

I want to cry. 

******************

In the year that I have been with my little boy, I have only once met this woman. She comes to Antigua weekly for a food distribution, only ten minutes down the road. She does not visit him; she does not call. His father, during Beto’s intake, informed the nurses that ‘If he dies, he dies. We’ve got other ones.’

Beto’s older brother died in Casa Jackson a year before he was admitted, 6 months younger yet weighing still more than Beto did upon on arrival. There are now three children, including Beto, left. I wonder how many he would have to lose before their individual lives begin to hold value.

His parents informed the hospital months ago that they don’t want to take Beto home. ‘You can keep him,’ they say. They do not try to explain or justify their choice. They simply let us know he is ours to care for now.

Two weeks ago, the nurses asked me if I will take Beto in when he leaves the hospital. I am scared; I am overwhelmed. I am unsure if I am ready for such a big step. The association’s lawyer assures me they will help work out the legal issues surrounding him being placed in foster care with me. 

I have said yes. I am scared, but I am happier than I have ever been. It is a new level, a different plane of joy. I am realistic about the sacrifices and challenges ahead. There is nothing I wouldn’t give up to keep this little boy safe, happy, and loved forever. 

Beto and I talk often about the fun we’ll have soon, when he can leave the hospital and come home with me as he begs to do each evening. We make plans together. He asks me if he’ll have to come back to the hospital to sleep. I tell him no. His face lights up and he squeals in delight. He wants Elmo pajamas, and bubbles, and to eat chicken soup with rice for dinner. He has asked for bedtime stories, and crayons, and to ride in a car from time to time. He wants to go to the zoo. 

******************

As his mother and aunt dress themselves in the requisite hospital top and surgical mask, I rapidly ascend the stairs. I find Alberto on the third floor, playing with a new volunteer. He is standing, digging through a toybox, and as he turns, I have the joy of watching his face at the moment he realizes I’ve arrived. He shouts my name and shuffles over to me in his pink pants and tiny Crocs, arms outstretched, giggling.

In one quick motion, I lean down, pick him up, and smother him with hugs and kisses in my arms. 'Good morning, sweetheart! I love you!'

We greet each other as we do each and every day; gleefully and without abandon, relishing those brief moments each day where we belong to each other, and only each other, before babies must be fed or diapers changed, before scheduling or emails or program planning steals me from us.

I kiss his nose and forehead repeatedly as I try desperately to feign happiness and excitement. He hasn’t seen her in so long. Will he remember her? Will he be nervous to go to her? Will he choose her over me?

I grapple with a rising jealousy; a fear that for how inseparable we are, for how he sees me as “his;” for how his sun rises and sets over my shoulder; for all of that, I fear that he will be thrilled to see her. That he will cry when she leaves as hard as he cries when I leave. That when she leaves, he will repeat her name as he does mine: 'Amy Amy Mama Amy Mama Amy...' 

I may be his mama, but I am not and will never be his mother. I cannot fight biology. I love him beyond measure, but it is not my love or my body that brought this shining little light into existence.

How much easier this love is when it’s just the two of us, the other babies, and my humble little staff of nurses and volunteers. It hurts then, but not to this depth. 

It hurts to hear him cry as I sit in my office, knowing that he wants only my arms to comfort him, torn between the ‘greater good‘ of completing whichever priority on the current mountain of tasks must be done for the day and the good that is most crucial to me- that of his comfort. Of his well-being. 

It hurts to leave him behind each day, to eat dinner alone, wishing only that I could make him a grilled cheese cut into hearts for supper before giving him a long bath in which he can splash and play, and then tucking him into bed and reading his favorite books. It all hurts... But this, this is new.

'Beto, your mom is here to see you. How fun! You’re going to play with your mom... You’re going to say ‘hi mama!’ and give her a big hug. Are you excited?'

My heart begins to criss-cross with hairline fractures as I watch my little boy processing this news. He is not happy. He is not sad. He is quiet and somber, and peers quite seriously and intently into my eyes as he slowly nods. I pull him to me again and rest my lips on the top of his head, square in the center of a whorl of soft jet black hair, pressing down the cowlick that persistently pops up after bath-time.

I walk down the stairs with him. As we round the corner of the stairwell, his mother is ascending from the first floor. We come face to face. I smile and give Alberto one final, reassuring squeeze before passing him to her, arms open, awaiting this child that is rightfully hers. Alberto looks quizzically at me as he goes to her, but does not resist, and in that moment I know he remembers.

She holds him at her hip, facing her, and he stares up at her with his Very Serious Face.  He is not speaking. He is not smiling. I feel like I’m gripping a live wire with both hands, tension coursing through my body. I am sick. I need to step away before I give in to the urge to rip him from her arms and sob desperately 'mine mine mine.' 

I go to the laundry room and begin putting away a basket of clothing, taking deep breaths as I fold bibs and onesies and tiny sweaters for premature babies. I feel indescribably guilty. This woman, this poor woman who has faced more hardship in her life than I can ever begin to understand, it is this woman who I want to edge out of her own child’s life- for his safety, to be sure, but still... As a woman, a future mother, a human being, we are too close now. She is not That Woman Who Almost Let Him Die and Has Abandoned Him... no, she is, once again, his mother.

And me, who am I? Who am I to bear this massive responsibility; this right to say which poor, uneducated parents deserve to keep their child and which do not? A young foreigner, not even a parent myself, who tries desperately but will never truly grasp the suffering my patients’ mothers have endured. As I pair tiny socks, I begin to drown in the shame of my own righteousness.

I hear footsteps behind me, and before I see or hear him, I know he is in her arms, looking for me. I turn and see his thin arm outstretched, index finger pointed at me, face growing more desperate. He is seconds away from crying. His mother walks towards me, irritated. I put my hand up to his cheek and he grabs it with both hands, entwining his fingers with mine, and pulls me towards him.

'Beto, it’s time to play with your mother... I’ll be here after, I promise. It’s time to visit with her now. We’ll play together later, sweetheart, later.'

It is not his tears or his cries that ruin me in this moment. It is the way he clings to my hands, clawing at them as I free one finger at a time, only to find another trapped in his tiny hand.

It is the look on his face; this confused, sad, desperate look. It is the pain I see in his eyes, the betrayal he feels right now. I am his security blanket, his comfort... and I am walking away. 

He is staring at me with wild eyes sobbing, arms outstretched, calling to me- ‘mama amy mama amy amy mama.’ 

I smile and apologize to his mother.

I go downstairs, sit in my office and pretend to work. I pull up documents and schedules and to-do lists and I try to make sense of them. I am emotionally dizzy, spinning with this horrible heartache and these empty arms and this sickening guilt and shame and the rising fear that she is here to take him home. 

I am not a ‘believer.’ I find myself praying for the first time in years. Dear God, don’t take this child, don’t let this child die like his brother, don’t take him from me...

An hour after arriving, she leaves. I hear the heavy door click shut behind her and walk up the stairs to find Beto sitting on the mat in front of the nurse's station, a blank stare on his face. He looks at me as I kneel down in front of him.

He crawls onto my lap, wraps his arms around my neck, and sighs one word onto my chest. 

'Mama.'

Beto celebrating his 3rd birthday at Casa Jackson, 15 months after arriving near-death.

Fighting Adult ADHD... and Child Mortality in Guatemala's Q'eqchi' Community (at the same time)

Beto was 22 months old and weighed 13 lbs upon
admission to the hospital for acute diarrhea and a parasitic infection.
Access to clean water, waterborne illnesses, and malnutrition
are closely linked in the developing world.

My family and friends have heard me lament about my ceaseless struggle with (rampant) adult ADHD- a puzzling misnomer, as ADHD begins in childhood. Despite years of learning to force productivity from a brain as rebellious and petulant as a 16-year-old girl, I still flounder every time I’m faced with a structured task or a deadline. My ADHD is both the biggest challenge I face in my career, as well as the greatest strength I bring to the table. 

Thanks to my ADHD, I monitor traffic through 8 different train stations within my brain, each consumed with a different problem or potential project, watching hundreds of thought trains come and go, directing the most coherent, promising ones to the next track for further consideration. Due to the sheer number of thoughts I can have simultaneously, I can multitask, problem-solve, and brainstorm like a boss.

This week, however, it's been a burden. Despite my excitement and dedication to ADAWA (our website and Facebook page have finally gone up, take a gander!), I am having a hard time slowing the thought trains down enough to record the information they’re carrying. And I need to. I really, truly need to. Because the task I’m working on is important, and relevant, and a small but critical first step towards reducing rates of child mortality and improving health in our region.

During the first week in April, I’ll be delivering interactive workshops to different audiences in Santa Lucia Lachua. Due to low literacy amongst participants (save for formally educated health workers) and their primary language being Q'eqchi', the workshops need to be highly visual to ensure participants leave with a good understanding of the information they have asked me to present. As someone who relies heavily on the written word to express myself, this poses a great challenge for me and my disobedient brain. 

Last night, as I sat with my laptop, fighting to keep my eyes, thoughts, and typing fingers at least loosely united, twenty tabs open to gather various bits of information, my eyes fell on the following statistic:

“2,195 children die daily from diarrhea- that’s like losing 32 school buses full of children each day.”


32 school buses full of children die every single day, because they lack access to clean water and a $3 course of antibiotics. This is like the entire elementary school population in my small town passing away in one day- three times over. 

How many of those children are coming from our little corner of Alta Verapaz, where entire Q'eqchi' communities lack access to clean water and the knowledge needed to prevent their children being infected by contaminated water? Judging by the statistics I received from the oil company’s part-time doctor- yes, believe it or not, in Santa Lucia Lachua the local oil company is the good guy, and currently runs the only clinic in town- a lot. Of the 75 children seen in January, over 50% were seen for diarrhea, amoebas, and parasitic infections.

It’s amazing how one sobering fact can refocus a runaway mind so quickly. I was humbled, reminded that while this workshop may be a struggle for me to develop, it is pathetically small compared to the struggles faced by the women I will be delivering it to. Women who routinely lose their infants and youngest children to something entirely preventable. Women who are doing their very best to keep their children healthy, knowing how deadly ONE bout of a common childhood illness can be. Women who want to learn how to protect their children, and are hoping I can teach them.

While my brain may go awry from time to time, it’s "aha" moments like last night's that help me keep all those trains on track. The simple act of teaching women how to protect their families from waterborne illnesses while helping them gain access to cleaner water saves lives. 

Since I began in nonprofit, many have told me "I could never do what you do."  Days when my brain is on the fritz, I really don't feel cut out for it either. But the reality is that simple measures save lives. All the time, effort, and investment is worth it. Healthy communities that aren't fighting to survive preventable illnesses have the energy and attention to devote to their own long-term, sustainable development. Our communities want to- and we want to make sure they're able. 

In addition to delivering health education, our BIG goal for this year is to put a well at each of the 34 schools in our area, and get a water filter into every school and home. Wells ensure that kids no longer have to drink from contaminated rivers at lunchtime, and that each community has a well for public use. Filters ensure that the water they drink will no longer infect them with deadly waterborne illnesses.

If you happen to be interested in helping us, we're gratefully accepting donations for the well project. $125 purchases all materials needed to construct one well, though any amount is greatly appreciated. For a 'newly minted' project such as this one, even small amounts make a big difference. In keeping with our commitment to foster collaboration and teamwork throughout the region, communities that have already built wells send teams to teach, mentor, and assist other communities as they build their own. 

Thanks again to all who are taking the time to read these posts. Some days it's a struggle to sit down and write them, but knowing that even a handful of you are following along helps me wrangle my brain train into the station. :)

So About This Whole Moving Home Thing...

The sound of howler monkeys and the singing of the evangelical church next door compete until the rain begins- a steady, roaring downpour that lulls me to sleep almost instantly. I wake hours later to the same sound, content beneath the canopy of my mosquito net, and listen to Aura and Doña Juana's sing-song banter in the next room, separated from us by a plank wall that stops 5 feet below the corrugated tin roof, punctuated by the slap-slap-slap of their hands forming the first batch of the day's tortillas.

It is my third morning in Santa Lucia Lachua and I am already in love.

The past two days have been inspiring in a way that gives new meaning to the word. I am honored and humbled to work alongside a true visionary; a man who works tirelessly from morning until night, without pay, to organize and uplift not just his community but the 33 other communities that fall within ADAWA's area of influence. He is a hard worker who spent years rising hours before dawn and walking from the highlands down to the campo to put in hours of backbreaking labor in the fields, so that someday he could realize his dream of owning enough farmland to provide security for his family. 

He is a devoted father to his 10 children, all of whom have attended not just primary school but university (which is no small feat or expense in this poor, rural community located far from the department capital), and a loving abuelo to his 3 grandchildren, who will receive the same opportunity in the coming years.

In addition to being a devoted community member and family man, Don Ramiro possesses a deep insight into the challenges faced by his community and region, one of the most marginalized in a country notorious for socially and politically oppressing the indigenous community. His counsel is worth its weight in gold for Tara and I, the two young gringas who stand heads above most of ADAWA's 400 members and struggle to understand, let alone speak, the halting, guttural Q'eqchi' that is the native (only) tongue of most members. 

His fellow community members find him as indispensable as we do; his advice and mediation are sought in almost every dispute or disagreement that arises between communities (of which there are many). In the first 48 hours following our arrival, Don Ramiro had 3 meetings with a nearby community who has blocked a public path that crosses onto their land for a mere 15 feet, preventing some members of Santa Lucia Lachua from reaching their own fields further down the path. He has arranged, attended, and translated a 3-hour-long meeting with 30 local health workers for Tara and I's benefit, and spent every meal collaborating with us on future plans for this fledgling association that is truly unlike any I have encountered in my three years of exposure to Guatemala's NGO scene.

                                                *******************************

          When I arrived back in Antigua in September, I wasn't sure if I wanted to stay. I simply knew that I wasn't feeling happy or productive where I was (living and working back home), and that the winter was fast approaching. Antigua was the last place I had felt genuinely happy, and thus seemed like the logical place to return to in search of the feeling. I missed having not just a 'job,' but a purpose- a project to throw myself into with complete and utter abandon. I missed the exhaustion and exhilaration of attacking an insurmountable challenge. I missed my work.

I returned to a slightly different Antigua than the one I left, which is not uncommon in a small town whose fabric is unraveled and rewoven every three to six months with the ongoing exodus and arrival of old and new faces. My closest friends remained, but without a real job to anchor myself to, I felt the strain of the late nights, partying, and constant comings and goings of the people I interacted with on a  daily basis. For all my excitement to return, I found myself paralyzed with fear to jump back into the professional arena, no longer romanticizing or amnesiac about the severe emotional toll that the trauma I dealt with on a daily basis in my previous position had taken on me.

After several months of feeling lost and unhappy for various reasons and a particularly rough holiday season, I made the decision to move back to the states. I accepted that my life was heading in a different direction and that perhaps it was time to shelve the dreams I had held for so long in favor of a more 'logical' path. I enlisted the help of my boyfriend and planned a surprise visit home in January to ease my homesickness and make the announcement to my family in person. I was incredibly excited to be coming home, ecstatic that I could soon begin seeing my loved ones on a regular basis again, rather than every few months, and cease feeling like I'm missing out on so many precious moments in their lives.

A few weeks before my scheduled departure, a friend mentioned in conversation that she had begun working with an association up in Alta Verapaz. As she shared details of this new endeavor, her excitement was palpable, and after listening to her for several minutes it was easily apparent why. Knowing my background in community health, we discussed the possibility of me visiting the area and planning a nutrition workshop prior to my departure. I walked away from that conversation feeling refreshed, light, energized. I felt like myself again.

Over the course of the next few days, as we continued discussing the details of this project, I became more and more captivated by how unique and unconventional it was. I walked away from each conversation with my head spinning with ideas about how to apply my experience in pursuit of the association's goals, and began to feel that familiar pull to dive in, headfirst, and submerse myself in it.

After a genuinely heart-wrenching week of indecision, I accepted and admitted to myself and my loved ones that I simply could not pass this opportunity by. I could not leave Guatemala. For all the fear and self-doubt I have carried with me over the past several years, I still believe in myself, my abilities, and my dreams. Above all of that, I believe in Don Ramiro and I believe in the vision that he and his community share for their future.

For those that were eagerly awaiting my move home this weekend, having patiently said goodbye to me countless times and tolerated several years of long absences, I am sorry to let you down. I think most of you have already accepted my lifestyle, although I still struggle to accept that the pursuit of my dreams prevents me from partaking in the daily life of so many of my loved ones.

I have never been more excited, or more proud, to be a part of anything as I am to be a part of ADAWA. The potential that this project has is immense; the model, inspiring. There will be innumerable challenges, but I genuinely believe in the power of this community to organize, empower, and develop themselves from within, when given the support they are so earnestly seeking.

MANY more details to come over the next few weeks... I hope that with each update, you'll grow to love this project and our community as much as I do. Thanks to all who followed my last endeavor so closely, and also to my family and friends back home for continuing to love and support me from afar.

B'antiox, everyone ('thank you' in Q'eqchi'). Another adventure begins :)

November 2nd, 2011

I am sitting on a plastic chair in a small, lemon-yellow room. The sunlight fades outside and slowly, darkness falls like a blanket over me and the baby in my arms.

He lifts his head up momentarily, eyelids heavy from the combined exhaustion of spending a night in the street outside the local fire station, and his constant, anxious crying for “mama.” He creeps a tiny hand underneath the bottom of my mask, settling it underneath my chin, and drops his head back onto my chest. His other arm finds its way around my neck, in my hair, and he rubs it between his little fingers and settles into  my arms.

I rub his head, rub his back, pat his bottom and rock him gently. We sit, quiet, save for his occasional weak moans and choked murmurs of “mama.” I can’t even begin to process what this little baby must be thinking. At a year and a half old, he is old enough to know his mama. Old enough to look for her in every face that enters his room. Old enough to remember her and want her arms around him for comfort, not those of a stranger. Old enough to be scared and confused and traumatized, not just due to the physical experience of being abandoned and the loss of his familiar caregiver, but by his thoughts and confusion surrounding it all.

I put my hand to his cheek, feel its fullness in my palm, and try to imagine what sort of horrible circumstances or tragedy must have led his mother to abandon this beautiful, sweet, perfect, loving eighteen-month-old boy outside of a fire station several hours away. We pass two afternoons like this before he’s comfortable enough to sit within arm’s reach of a volunteer or nurse and play with another child.

How Can I Describe...

What it feels like to be here, doing this; this work that I love, in a place that I love?

I can't. Every day, I gleefully pass through another unexpected moment in which I am struck with the realization that yes, this is real, and yes, this is my life now.

It's the little things. The little things that seem surreal in the most delicious, indulgent way. Listening to a friend's iPod over the speaker system at a popular restaurant so we can hear our favorite songs by one of our favorite bands from back home. Splashing around for hours in a swimming pool in a gorgeous hotel with eight friends-- in the unforgiving rainy-season downpour. Buying tortillas from a stooped-over little woman passing by my doorstep carrying a massive basket on her head. Serving drinks behind a Guatemalan bar, listening to live Guatemalan music, with Guatemalan friends. Telling a joke that garners a genuine laugh-- IN Spanish. Sitting on my roof after a long, crazy night out, staring over the tops of volcanos to the lightning storms flashing in the distance.

I strongly suspect that the magic of the moments aren't entirely attributable to Guatemala's whimsy and charm. For the first time in my life, I truly feel at peace with where I am, what I'm doing, and, for the mot part, who I am. It's amazing the ease with which you can surrender yourself entirely to each moment when you suddenly find yourself inexplicably free from the weight of your own expectations, disappointments, and past failures.

Here, I just am. I am Amy. I am happy.

Not to say that I don't have moments where I'm stressed, frustrated, anxious, down, despondent, disillusioned, or dissatisfied. I've had plenty. I'll have more.

I think I said it best in my journal entry last night:

"There are headaches and frustrations, but...


I'm happy.


It is not a constant state of mind or an emotion. It is this overarching, all-encompassing sense that finally, I am where I belong, doing what I am meant to do."



*******************************************************


My work has been keeping me incredibly busy. There are most definitely not enough hours in the day to accomplish the many things I want to accomplish each day. There are the day-to-day responsibilities of giving tours and orientations to new and prospective volunteers. Supervising and providing feedback to volunteers to ensure the kids are being safely cared for and supported by the many, MANY people we trust to come in any given week and care for them, with what I feel is woefully minimal preparation (not for long!).

There are the administrative tasks to be completed, which involve tracking down information in medical records written in my non-native language, updating several databases and writing bios and providing information about the kids for our various websites, maintaining the schedule (a complex feat in itself at times), and trying to meet the needs and requests of the staff at CJ and ANA (Casa Jackson and Nuestros Ahijados).

There are the therapeutic moments and purely indulgent playtime I try to cram into my day, between communicating the nurses' requests to the volunteers, picking up any slack due to low volunteer count (hello sweeping, mopping, and laundry in between diaper changes and paperwork), etc.

There are the countless hours I've spent so far developing and writing strategic plans for a new volunteer program structure that benefits the children more fully, and uses the volunteers more effectively. There's the plans for in-house and post-discharge therapeutic services that our director wants to provide; the plans for overhauling the 2nd and 3rd floor play spaces to be more stimulating, motivating areas where our patients can safely explore and play.

There's the sponsor-a-crib program that is in development; the plan for improving the system in place to connect patients with additional medical services and procedures they need that needs to be written (by me); the training material to teach longer-term volunteers about early childhood development, developmental stimulation, and therapeutic play. The internship program that I need to develop and have ready by October 1st when my first "official" intern arrives.

There is the added mental challenge of switching between my native language and my non-native language throughout the day; of standing amongst nurses and staff members and trying desperately to follow and understand what the hell is going on. Of trying to express myself clearly and articulately, when I don't possess the words to do so. Of having a volunteer arrive and speak ONLY Spanish, and suddenly find myself having to translate the general orientation and training into Spanish without a dictionary, google translate, or the like.

I am exhausted. I am drained. Sometimes, after particularly hectic days, I find myself forgetting Spanish by 5pm. The easy banter I sustained only hours before suddenly sounds like gibberish to me, and the thought of even listening closely and TRYING to process the words I hear is enough to make me want to run for the hills and hide out until my brain decides to return from its brief vacation.

I've still got a ways to go, for sure, but my Spanish is at least improving. I keep meaning to sign up for lessons. I have a feeling that I'll make quick progress once I do; heck, if I've gotten this far without lessons, how far and fast can I go WITH them?! Soon enough... I think another week or two of focusing on work is the best idea for now.

There's been a spate of crime recently, both violent and non-violent. Lots of rumors about who's responsible and whether or not it'll happen again. Crime, security, and the upcoming elections deserve their own post. It's an incredibly interesting experience, to be here in the lead-up to the elections. I'm learning so much about Guatemala. Most of it is, unfortunately, a little disheartening and scary. Que sera, sera.

But those things aren't what make or break Guatemala for me. Those things (some profound, some frustrating, some overwhelming) aren't what make me so inconceivably joyful. The responsibilities, and positive changes I'm making for the program, the opportunity I have to truly be involved in this program in a meaningful way... Those aren't the things that make me happy to wake up in the morning (well, happier... I'll never be a morning person).

The best part of my days, by far, is the moment I walk up the stairs to the second floor of Casa Jackson. I see the kids before they see me, through the colored glass square windows on the side of the stairs. I get to see the exact moment when they realize it's me and the happy grins spread across their faces. I get the hugs, the kisses, the cuddles. I'm one of the constants for them now. I'm not just another volunteer, who comes and goes in a week or two or three. I'm there. And somehow, they know it.

It's the simplest moments. It's standing in the laundry space, putting away tiny sleepers and onesies, and singing silly songs and hearing Alison giggle from her bouncy saucer behind me. It's when Estrella puts her feet up in the air during every diaper change so I'll make a phone call on her "piggy phone" (piggy toes, that is). It's the weight of Alberto's tiny, frail arms around my neck and his soft downy head under my chin. It's Magaly's giggle and clap and delight at being able to finally move around on her own. It's Alejandra's love for bubbles and the precocious little chatter that she bombards me with to get more. It's seeing Laura smile and hearing her laugh in between her dissatisfied, fussy-shrieking-mini-tantrums. It's  the quick smile and the sweet babbling that I used to get from Naomi when I leaned in very, very close to her face after a diaper change and smiled and talked to her in silly voices.

I can't know what it's like to be a mother. I can't know what profound bond comes of the experience of sharing your body with the tiny being growing inside of you.

I know only that the longer a child is at CJ, the more they become my own. My own flesh, my own blood, my own chid, my own vulnerable little soul that needs protection and nurturing. I am Mama Duck with her brood of ducklings in tow. I am directly responsible for the overall quality of their time at CJ. The medical staff will get them healthy, but it's my responsibility to keep them happy.

I don't take it lightly.

Mi Chiquita esta Gordita!

I walked to each doorway, peeking into the rooms. Every crib held a little sleeping body, bathed in the mint-green sunlight reflected off the painted walls. Tiny limbs poked through the bars of some of them; dark fuzzy heads were visible beneath blankets in others. I scanned each room quickly, looking for familiar faces.

I strode across the small hallway, towards the rooms that always seemed to hold the babies nearest and dearest to me- Sandra included. The children with special needs always ended up in there for one reason or another. I had decided to look in that room last. I knew from speaking to Juan Pablo that Sandra was gone, as were almost all of the others.

An additional crib had been wedged into the room, crowding the small space even further, and complicating my efforts to peek inside each crib without waking anyone. I spotted Magaly, sleeping soundly in the corner crib, curled up on her side with one shoe on and one shoe off. Her shiny black hair hung straight across her face, obscuring my view of her almond-shaped eyes and petite nose. Only her tiny pink mouth peeked out.

The crib to my left held a healthy-looking girl with familiar features. I took in her large ears, beautiful eyes, button nose, rosebud mouth, and full cheeks. She looked at me, smiled, reached her arms up, and began to fuss. Could this be the same little girl I spent an entire month coaxing just one smile out of? The little girl who was so disinterested in people and toys? The little girl who was so frightfully thin and frail just two months ago?

I reached my hand between the bars and stroked her cheek.


Alison. Chica linda, tu me recuerdes?    She briefly stopped fussing and looked at my eyes before continuing her impassioned treatise for me to pick her up.

As I lifted her from her crib, I was delighted to feel the weight she's put on. Compared to her former self, she's downright chubby now. Compared to a typical American baby, she's still likely a bit underweight.

Developmentally, she has made some progress, though she continues to present with very significant delays. A fellow volunteer reported that they feel she may have autism, although I don't agree. I still feel strongly that there is an underlying issue impacting her development beyond "simply malnutrition," but autism it is not.

Alison is still a timid, cautious baby who is reluctant to touch toys and fully explore them, but she displays some promising progress in her social skills. Alison frequently made eye contact with me; she delighted in watching me pull Legos apart and made eye contact expectantly when I paused between each block as if to say, "come on! do another!"

She is aso beginning to initiate play, though only in the few activities that she seems to prefer. She showed a particular affinity for the Sesame Street Shapes board book I had donated during my last tenure as a volunteer, and loved to turn the pages and point to the pictures. When I put the book down and tried to move to different toys, she several times handed me the book, made eye contact, and fussed until I began to read it again. Her social skills are delayed, but no more than her play, motor, and cognitive skills appear to be delayed at first glance.

At such a young age (under two), given her global delays, I think it's impossible to look at her and say with any certainty that she could have autism. Is she off? A little funky? Absolutely. A lot of parents and caregivers become concerned with autism if a child isn't interacting as they should socially. If all of a child's skills are at a certain level, consistent with their general development, the delays in social functioning are likely reflective of a bigger issue, rather than the sole issue impacting them.

A very well-respected doctor with years of experience diagnosing autism in children under age three delivered a presentation at the hospital I used to work for; the most prominent marker she noted for autism at that young age was a lack of initiation of social interaction. Alison makes eye contact and engages in reciprocal interactions and, although unable to communicate verbally in any effective way, does attempt to initiate those interactions.

For those wondering how Magaly has fared since her surgery- quite well! Her mother wasn't at the center, and I'm hoping that she is safe and well considering the domestic abuse she was staying at the center to avoid in the past. Magaly's legs are certainly stronger then when I left; the muscles holding her femurs into her hips are tightening up and she isn't so loosey-goosey legs out wide all the time any longer. She can stand with assistance and loves taking slow, laborious steps when held beneath her underarms to get toys from the basket (which we did a lot of today!). She fatigues easily, but has come so far from the little girl in the giant cast that she once was. I can only imagine the freedom she must feel.

There aren't currently any children with cerebral palsy or any obvious neuromuscular issues, but I imagine there are at least one or two like Alison.  I have to admit that I spent much of my time today with her, "catching up" and bonding again. I've signed up for a few shifts over the next week to ease back into things and hopefully get a better sense of where the kids are, developmentally speaking. There are 19 kids there now- a full house! Pictures soon- I promise. :)

My visit to Casa Jackson, while a welcome one for me, was rather unexpected. Intending only to meet the new coordinator Heather and discuss joining the volunteer schedule, I had walked to Nuestros Ahijados after lunch and found myself waiting at the entrance to Nuestros Ahijados with the afternoon volunteers when Megan and Heather arrived at the gate. Heather had been mugged on her walk back from her apartment in La Candelaria, in the southern part of Antigua. She was visibly shaken and would not be going to Casa Jackson just yet. 

Megan asked if I could take the new volunteers to Casa and run them through the brief orientation. Just like that, I was walking down the dusty road that stretches from Antigua to Jocotenango, talking to a high school senior traveling with her mother who was interested in pursuing a career in physical or occpuational therapy upon graduation, describing the myriad of issues that the kids at the center often present with. It was almost like I'd never left.

I did have an opportunity to speak with Heather when she arrived, looking far less distressed, later in the afternoon. Heather mentioned that her primary interest is actually in community outreach and working directly with the families rather than just the volunteers and institutional setting. She said she saw no issue with me working on implementing some training for volunteers whenever I was ready to do so, and fully supported any community visits I may want to set up. While I thought that would be the case, it's such a relief to get the official green light from the new coordinator- and also to learn that she sees the community work as as much of a priority as I do.

Casa Jackson- game on. :)