School

Much like a lot of things I do in this life I lead, I never thought I'd be a homeschooling mom. And let's throw a disclaimer out right from the start: I'm not a homeschooling mom. Not yet at least. I'm claiming 'play' as the goal of the day for as long as possible. But this week Elsa and I have the chance to take a stab at being grown-ups--Elsa gets to go to school for three days, and I get to attend a homeschooling conference. Bingham Academy in Addis has a great homeschooling program, with homeschooling resources, access to the school library, and the invitation for homeschool students to attend school for 10 days each semester. At the beginning of the school year, they hold a three day homeschooling conference and invite the kids to take part in the first week of school.

Big day for us, people. My first born is picking out her clothes, she's loading up her backpack with a snack and a water bottle, she's slinging the near-empty pack on her little shoulders. She's posing for a picture, she's asking when the bus is going to come get her. (Sorry, baby, no big yellow school bus here.) She's walking into the classroom, saying hello to her teacher, slipping off her shoes and taking her place among the seemingly million other little four year-olds claiming space in the preschool classroom. She's turning to look at me, only after I call her name, she's waving bravely to me and looking with a little dismay at the child in hysterics standing next to her. I huddle with the other mothers crowding the door for a moment, and then turn to go. Did I really just put Elsa in school?

Now it is my turn. To face my own new beginnings and take my place in the cramped homeschooling room and declare myself...a HOMESCHOOLER.

I know, I'm lending myself to the dramatics. But the idea of taking on my kids' schooling IS dramatic to me. I'm not the one suited for this. Seriously, I'm not. You should see me trying to explain Candy Land. (No you CAN'T just jump to all the candy spaces!) I mean, really. My greatest defining characteristic is a propensity to procrastinate. Surely that can't be good when trying to set up a school room. I spent some time while in the states on different homeschooling websites and blogs. At times, it scared me to death, to be confronted with the level of organization and creativity that was demonstrated. Other times, I'd read something and think, 'yeah, I can do that. That seems doable.' And it was the same way in the homeschooling conference. I'd sit and listen to parents who have homeschooled for years and sink a little lower in my seat. And nod gratefully when others would admit that if it weren't for the life situation they were in, they wouldn't be homeschooling their children at all. There were a lot of us who have fallen into homeschooling by default--there's simply just no other option. So it was good to hear that and have my own feelings of inadequacy in being responsible for my children's education validated. Thankfully, I'm not feeling any great push (hmm, thanks, procrastination) to start anything formal yet. Elsa is only four. And very smart. We mostly wanted to enroll in the homeschooling program at this stage so that she could get into the classroom whenever we were in town.

Ah. The classroom. I thought that Elsa would adore school. It wasn't really the case. At the end of the first day, it took a lot of convincing for her to be willing to back for the second day. I would check in on her at tea time and watch her for awhile, playing outside. She was mostly just wandering around by herself, wearing too-big rubber boots. Very un-Elsa like. And heartbreaking. I still haven't really figured out what it is...maybe just the sheer number of other unfamiliar kids. She told me at night, 'I don't want to be lonely because I don't know anybody's name. I know they are all my friends, but I just don't know their names.' But I suppose this is growing up. Facing fears and uncertainties and coming back for more.

Even if we don't know what we are doing.

Smile

Today, in honor of her 6 month birthday, Daisy decided to try out a new

smile for herself.

I think she's happy with it.

Today

 Today there were two beginnings. Today there was one end.

 Frantic, Caleb says, the father was when he showed up at the workshop. Frantic and hard to understand. Only pleadings to come out to the road because his wife was delivering his child out there, out there in the midday sun on our windy airstrip. Difficult to comprehend why they were bringing her to us in the first place, rather than calling for Donna as they usually do. Enough words traded in time to find out that she was only 7 months along, sent over by the local midwife across the river, perhaps in hopesthat Donna could stop labor. Too late for stopping, life is in motion. Donna reaches her as one baby slides out, the mother crouching in the dirt, shaded with a cloth held over her. But that isn't the end. Her belly held not onlythe girl, but her brother as well. Dick is sent back to the house to get thestretcher and to pick me up, telling me on the way, "It's twins, if there's time enough, we'll bring her back to the house before the second one comes."

We hit the end of the airstrip and Donna is holding an impossibly small bundle. She hands the girl to me and they move the mother onto the stretcherand into the back of the truck. I cradle three pounds of life in my hands and don't know what to do, except tell her over and over that she can, in fact, do this. Come into this world with the sun blazing down and live to walk in it. She can't quit on me because I know in my heart that I cannot be the one to be holding her if she decides that sticking around isn't something she's willing to do.

We get back and within 10 minutes her smaller brother makes his debut with his feet first. I fumble with the bulb syringe, knowing that this is the only thing I can offer him--to suction out his too small, too early mouth.There's no warm bed to place him in, there's no tube to slide down his throat to help him breathe, there's no artificial surfactant to coat his underdeveloped lungs. I hold him gently and watch his intercostal spaces retracting with each breath, hear his grunts with each rise and fall of his chest. This one. This one will not make it.

 And I cannot hold him either. I curl him up next to his sister and will someof her strength into his body. What little we can do is not enough. Not for one too small and too early.

 Caleb's mom is amazing. Her ability to think and act when all I can do is stare at the little faces and think of all I cannot do.

What is it like? To be un-twinned at the same moment you are born a twin?Will she carry him with her throughout her life? Will her mom tell her that she shared her space and traded her first kicks with a tiny boy? What is it like? To have two brought forth from your body and take only one home withyou? These questions, I don't know. I never will know.

They went home at 5 this evening, carrying their tiny daughter and a bag with a medicine dropper and formula. Hopefully this--this small thing--isenough. Enough to see her through so that she can walk upright in the sun that burned heavy on the day she was born.