Today, loving the Lord my God with all my heart and soul and strength, and loving my neighbour as myself, here in rural Tanzania, looked like answering an emergency phone call at seven am; getting up and changing diapers instead of the hoped-for sleeping in; making a care package of blankets, clothes, bottles, formula and supplements for a friend struggling to feed her newborn twins; hanging long lines of laundry in the hot sun; answering questions like “what happens to spiders after they run away” and “if I get in the bath, will my hair melt?” while answering the door and answering emails; scouring books and websites and messaging friends for ways to help a neighbour who has chronic stomach troubles; paying school fees for clusters of shy and bashful students who come to our door hoping for help; reading through the Psalms on the couch, bible in my lap, while my boys sit next to me and watch a video about cows (and another about gravity); tying Kai to my back while standing over the stove and stirring caramel; problem-solving for Visible Grace from the small screen of my iPhone; fielding requests from maintenance workers on the back porch while Abram meets with a fellow teacher on the front porch; practicing David’s memory verse with him over a lunch of chicken and sweet potatoes; nursing consecutive babies while chatting with two of our college students; filling water bottles and charging phones for neighbours and workers without electricity; sending Kai to the clinic with our nanny to be tested for malaria, and sending David, James, and James’s baby doll along as well, because they want to "go bye bye"; laughing with joy when Mary reports that, at James’s request, the nurse gave his doll a malaria test, too; talking to our lawyer and social work about potentially adopting Kai; planning a certain four year old’s birthday party and inviting our neighbours; planning backup childcare for tomorrow because Abram is preaching and I cannot handle four young children by myself for four hours; and lying in my hammock with David during naptime.
(I wrote this a couple weeks ago on a particularly busy day- so busy I didn't even have time to post it. Today, everything looks similar, but different.)
PS- David turned four!
PPS- I have a few pictures that won't upload, and I am running out of time, and if I don't post this now, I never will, so here it is. I'll try to post pictures another time. Grr.
Showing posts with label diapers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label diapers. Show all posts
Monday, October 8, 2018
Friday, January 30, 2015
Normal
We've been home for four weeks now, and are finally getting settled into a routine, which means that I'm getting settled into my role as Homemaker and Stay at Home Mom and Missionary Wife.
This means cooking and playing with the baby and texting my sister and answering the front door and going to church on Sundays and reading To Kill a Mockingbird with Abram in the evenings. It also means being watched all the time, struggling with language and friendships, forgetting to buy enough vegetables on market day and having to stretch the menu for a couple days at the end of the week. Abram is home in the afternoons, and he's so good with the baby, but I'm supposed to be letting him work, and shouldering most of the babycare. I do get to attend one of his classes (eschatology), which is fun because it hurts my brain and gets me out of the house three days a week.
Sometimes my life is frighteningly normal and I fear I will get bored, and it's probably something other mothers can relate to: diapers and diapers and dishes and...diapers. Did I brush my teeth this morning? Where did I put my phone? Did I wear this shirt yesterday? It's fine, but I forgot it has spit up all down the shoulder, but it doesn't matter because there's no one here to notice, but-- did I? I honestly can't remember.
But there are other days where I realise that our life is pretty bizarre. Filling up our bathtub with water to wash the dishes in later, because the pump is broken. Wondering which language David's first words will be in. Curtsying when I run into the school principal. Changing David's diaper on the steps outside of the church building, with about forty witnesses.
We tuck a mosquito net around my son every night as he goes to bed. We boil or filter all our drinking and cooking water. People bring fish straight from the lake, which is outside our front door, to our kitchen, and our friend Mary cleans the fish, guts them and fries them for dinner. A friend of ours lost his job because he is a Christian, so Abram is giving him work any way he can: cutting grass and planting tomatoes and washing the car and watering our lime trees. The mangoes are fresher and larger than any in North America. The rice we eat was harvested down the road.
It's a strange contrast. On any given day, if you ask me what's on my mind, the answer could be 'trying to figure out what to make for dinner', or it could be 'wondering if our friend's son/baby/mother will live through the night'. Will we get enough rain for the crops to survive? Will David get malaria? Will our neighbours have enough food to feed their family? Where did I put my phone?
I'm writing this at a restaurant in the town of Mwanza, the nearest city to us and the nearest source of fast internet. David is in his car seat, on the table, casually gazing at the largest lake on the continent.
I want to romanticise his life; I brag about his passport stamps, his first safari, his friends from many countries. But we are not the first couple to raise a baby overseas. He's not the first baby to visit Lake Victoria. I'm not the first person to blog while my baby naps. He may or may not appreciate his life, and he may or may not grow to love Africa as much as we do. (Don't you take your homeland for granted? At least at first.) I would love for him to grow up as an 'African boy', barefoot and tree-climbing, and maybe work or minister here when he grows up. But I would also love for him to know his grandparents, and to crawl around his aunt's kitchen floor. Both have their perks.
Our decision to live here comes with its privileges and sacrifices and difficulties and rewards. This is not a novel concept; every couple makes choices that have their pros and cons. Every family has fun memories and adventures and every homemaker has experienced joy and boredom all rolled into one. Every mother has changed diapers in unusual places.
As I process this, I am grateful for routine, grateful to be home. Grateful that we have just enough adventure to mix up the tedium of a 'normal' life.
This means cooking and playing with the baby and texting my sister and answering the front door and going to church on Sundays and reading To Kill a Mockingbird with Abram in the evenings. It also means being watched all the time, struggling with language and friendships, forgetting to buy enough vegetables on market day and having to stretch the menu for a couple days at the end of the week. Abram is home in the afternoons, and he's so good with the baby, but I'm supposed to be letting him work, and shouldering most of the babycare. I do get to attend one of his classes (eschatology), which is fun because it hurts my brain and gets me out of the house three days a week.
Sometimes my life is frighteningly normal and I fear I will get bored, and it's probably something other mothers can relate to: diapers and diapers and dishes and...diapers. Did I brush my teeth this morning? Where did I put my phone? Did I wear this shirt yesterday? It's fine, but I forgot it has spit up all down the shoulder, but it doesn't matter because there's no one here to notice, but-- did I? I honestly can't remember.
But there are other days where I realise that our life is pretty bizarre. Filling up our bathtub with water to wash the dishes in later, because the pump is broken. Wondering which language David's first words will be in. Curtsying when I run into the school principal. Changing David's diaper on the steps outside of the church building, with about forty witnesses.
We tuck a mosquito net around my son every night as he goes to bed. We boil or filter all our drinking and cooking water. People bring fish straight from the lake, which is outside our front door, to our kitchen, and our friend Mary cleans the fish, guts them and fries them for dinner. A friend of ours lost his job because he is a Christian, so Abram is giving him work any way he can: cutting grass and planting tomatoes and washing the car and watering our lime trees. The mangoes are fresher and larger than any in North America. The rice we eat was harvested down the road.
It's a strange contrast. On any given day, if you ask me what's on my mind, the answer could be 'trying to figure out what to make for dinner', or it could be 'wondering if our friend's son/baby/mother will live through the night'. Will we get enough rain for the crops to survive? Will David get malaria? Will our neighbours have enough food to feed their family? Where did I put my phone?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I'm writing this at a restaurant in the town of Mwanza, the nearest city to us and the nearest source of fast internet. David is in his car seat, on the table, casually gazing at the largest lake on the continent.
 |
| I know it looks like he's facing away from the lake, but he's not. Promise. |
I want to romanticise his life; I brag about his passport stamps, his first safari, his friends from many countries. But we are not the first couple to raise a baby overseas. He's not the first baby to visit Lake Victoria. I'm not the first person to blog while my baby naps. He may or may not appreciate his life, and he may or may not grow to love Africa as much as we do. (Don't you take your homeland for granted? At least at first.) I would love for him to grow up as an 'African boy', barefoot and tree-climbing, and maybe work or minister here when he grows up. But I would also love for him to know his grandparents, and to crawl around his aunt's kitchen floor. Both have their perks.
Our decision to live here comes with its privileges and sacrifices and difficulties and rewards. This is not a novel concept; every couple makes choices that have their pros and cons. Every family has fun memories and adventures and every homemaker has experienced joy and boredom all rolled into one. Every mother has changed diapers in unusual places.
As I process this, I am grateful for routine, grateful to be home. Grateful that we have just enough adventure to mix up the tedium of a 'normal' life.
 |
| Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind taking a nap here, either. Or...taking a nap anywhere. |
 |
| Doing his best hippo impression. |
 |
| Studiously ignoring the elephant that is maybe 30 yards behind him. |
 |
| Safaris and lake resorts are fun, but let's face it. We spend most of our time here, changing diapers. |
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