a thousand reasons to worry and one trump reason not to

We left our passport country a week ago now, and I still don’t think our stomachs, or our hearts have come down out of the clouds. Everything you imagined to be true abut flying with two littles on three back to back international flights totaling 21 hours in the sky and 33 hours of total travel time – you were probably right. It was… something. 

we were a spectacle going through the airports. the baby at the back got a few double takes

Leonie did great because everything she needs for peace and happiness is attached to my body. The rest of us had to dig deep and seriously woman-up lest we fall apart. Poor Bronwyn, empty from exhaustion and full of sorrow for having parted with Grandma, she wavered back and forth between excitement over escalator rides and extreme mourning over that which she had left behind. Every hour or so, she would break into a drawn out wail, exclaiming loudly enough for the whole plane to hear, “I miss Grandma! I want to go back to Grandma’s house!” We kept shoving gummies and other forms of distraction in front of her to try to keep the peace for everyone. As we waited in the heinous security line in London, she found herself trapped in yet another episode of misery and just cried out over and over, “I can’t handle it, mom! I can’t handle it!” I know baby, I’m not really handling it either, I’m just concealing it better than you are.

I recruited a little Italian girl in Heathrow for some play therapy

I kept telling myself that it would all be over soon, and sure enough, we did make it to Zambia. Jeremy worked some of his magic and got himself in the back door to be able to meet us on the immigration side and help us collect our bags. I offloaded the eldest onto daddy and focused on the still happy babe who was the only one who had properly eaten and slept for the last two days.

We commenced the 10 hour drive to “home.” Are we nearly there yet? Bronwyn asked for the 927^th time since leaving NY. Catching her staring intently out the window, I asked Bronwyn what she was looking at, to which she answered, “I’m looking for my friends, mom.” I was so excited to get her home and back in the playful arms of those who had cared for her so well throughout her first two years.

As we turned off the pavement onto our dirt road, we all prepped her, “We’re almost there, girl! Just half a kilometer left!” We pulled into our yard and switched off the engine, video camera in hand and ready to capture whatever cuteness that was about to ensue. I don’t know what Bronwyn’s expectations were for our homecoming, but the adults had clearly set the bar too high. I expected Bronwyn to run back to her friends with hugs and laughter, pick up her shovel and dig things, grab a ball and have a grand ole time. I expected to sigh with relief that finally we were getting back to normal, that my girl would find her place in the world again. Instead, my sweet three year old clutched my leg with a death grip and for the first time in over a year asked to be picked up. The fear in her eyes was unmistakable and it was clear that she didn’t know what was going on. “Is this my house?” she asked. We escaped the crowd to go look at her bed and her toys, to say hi to her kitties and to get reacquainted with the environment. I had to lure her outside. Everyone wanted to shake her hand, in the way she once knew so well, and yet now she just pulled back, unwilling to extend a hand to anyone. “Mommy, why do they all know my name?” she asked. Because they know and love you baby, and somewhere inside of you, I know you know them. I put a ball in her hand and gave her a gentle shove. She tossed it at no one in particular and ran back to my leg. We tried again, and this time she threw it back and forth a few times before retreating once more. “I don’t know what any of them are saying, mom” she stated. I know baby, they are speaking Bemba, and soon you will too.

all the friends on one side, and winnie by herself on the other. it was painfully awkward.

I had foolishly thought it would all come back to her, that she would remember immediately and pick up where she left off. That night I watched her crash from exhaustion in the new-to-her house, in the new-to-her village and I just sobbed. With our best intentions we were bringing her back to what we considered the greatest place on earth. Now it felt more like we had an amnesia patient on her hands, and I had no idea how to help her cope. The next few days proved similarly difficult. “Mommy, there’s a lady out there who keeps trying to pick me up.” Yes baby, that’s Bana Chiti, and you used to love her more than you loved me. She carried you everywhere and I know she has missed you.

this girl. her happiness in all situations is healing

Despite all of our explanations, the blank stares and revealing questions are a constant. It’s all gone – like it never happened, and I find myself in a near panic wondering whether she’ll ever get it back. Everything that made this place perfect for a child her age – all of those things are now sources of anxiety for her. She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She keeps face planting on uneven bush paths. She asks for macaroni and cheese for every meal. She keeps wiping the dirt off her pants. Too scared to interact with the kids from whom she was once inseparable, she now asks only to go to the farm to play with her dog.

daddy is a shelter in more ways than one

I have found myself this past week trembling with worry – what have we done? Will she pick up this language again? Will she make friends again? Will she regain her confidence? Will she be ok? Will I? I’ve fallen asleep atop a tear-soaked pillow each night this week, and that only after silently preaching at myself for a long while.

It will be ok.

He sees.

He cares.

He is able.

It will be ok.

This is my refrain and I repeat it over and over until I release my fears and my babies into His hands until the next wave of worry washes over me.

It will be ok.

He sees.

He cares.

He is able.

None of the current scenario looks particularly hopeful. Nothing I imagined to be good for my girl is coming to pass and my deep love for her is therefore matched by the depths of my concern for her and her happiness.

My logical side tells me that this is only a season, though I have no reassurances as to how long this season will last. I am drawn to hold her hand all the moments of all the days, though I am fighting that urge and challenging her to try and engage. She has learned a whopping two words of the local language and has made one friend. I’m choosing to call these baby steps victories even though I’ve melted into tears each time an insensitive child has barked at her to stop speaking English.

It will be ok.

He sees.

He cares.

He is able.

I know my fears are legitimate. I have observed how many third culture kids devolve into anxious, isolated, awkward, resentful beings. I know that my reasons to worry will continue to beat me up and I’ll have to continue to preach them down. But the trump reason for not worrying remains: Him. The One who took us back to the sates, who knew when we would get pregnant, who knew how long we would be away from Zambia, who called us back here, He knew how it would all play out, and planned it that way: He sees, He cares, He is able.

all manner of things will be well

It's three reasons in One, a holy trinity of security and confidence.

When all around my soul gives way, He then is all my hope and stay...

Sing it with me, will you? My girl is struggling and therefore so am I, and I share this without reserve because there is something about living abroad that calls for above average vulnerability and the rallying of the troops. We’re battling on – with love and patience, and legos and gummies. Thanks, bush baby community, for standing with us.

travel with littles: "surviving"

Our family spends a lot of time on the road. Every time we need vaccinations, chickens, airport, immigration, embassy, specialized medical attention and anything else found only in the capital, we embark on an 800 kilometer journey from our home to Lusaka. Little kids cry, and furthermore, land rovers are not airbuses, which means the trip is bumpy, crowded and loud. Since Bronwyn was born, we’ve made that 10-12 hour one-way trek over 30 times. She just turned two. I think this qualifies as insanity.

But, we can attest that there is, at the very least, a method to our madness. We’ve developed our own coping mechanisms for surviving heinously long car trips with our beloved cherub who for the life of her cannot appreciate the phrase, “just a few more minutes, hunny.”

For all those who dread traveling with the littles, we would like to share with you here some of our vehicular coping mechanisms. Unfortunately, many of these are illegal in developed countries… with good reason. We are not likely to be poster children for the National Highway Traffic Safety Association unless we are modeling what NOT to do inside a vehicle. But lest you judge, please be reminded of the last time you were stuck in a car with a screaming child for anything more than two hours… and then think about the fact that we’ve added up more than THREE HUNDRED HOURS with darling daughter on these Fimpulu-Lusaka trips alone. Thankfully all of our vehicular shenanigans are legal here, and probably the only reason why we still have hair on our heads.

And besides, when you are navigating roads like this… 

sand road

notice the white knuckle death grip

this is a legit photo of an actual sign. I did not source this pic on photo bucket,

the goal is to not fall off the sand bags between the line of sticks

... bending the rules seems completely acceptable. (please note the lack of other vehicles in all of these pictures, and breathe easier as you peruse the following.)

OUR TIPS FOR TRAVELING WITH LITTLES

Time on moms lap can rejuvenate even the most frazzled.

Schedule travel times to maximize napes in the car.

Let the babe drive if things are slow and no other vehicles are around.

It's not only dogs that like to feel the wind flowing through their hair.

Playing "count the trees" or "find a monkey" can help while away the hours.

Choose carseat positions that facilitate good views.

Make the back seat her "domain" with toys, snacks and moms cell phone with which to call Grandma in case of emotional meltdown.

When necessary, particularly when its a safety issue, cry it out IS an option.

(she has lived to tell about it, and we don't feel "unattached" because of this)

Food. Lots and lots of all kinds of kid-appealing food.

Encourage longer stints in the car-seat as maturity leads to self-entertaining play.

Develop positive associations with vehicles outside of driving time.

AND MOST IMPORTANTLY...

Embrace the open road and all the emotions it may bring.

The summary here is embrace flexibility, bend the rules for sanity sake and have one goal and one goal only: arrive alive. (We are going to struggle in America, clearly.)

Last month we took Bronwyn for the last of her immunizations. This means this is the last time we have to travel 20 round-trip hours all for ONE silly hepatitis shot until she turns four. Please join me in proclaiming a collective hallelujah. Because… just, hallelujah. As “fun” as we’ve tried to make all this travel, staying local has its perks too.

Anyone else have travel tips they’d like to add?

Grandma & Grandpa Rawson (aka Mom & Dad) come to Zambia!

My mom and Dad have been here with us for about a week and a half. They have been such help to us in getting things organized and back to some sort of functioning order. They have been absolute troopers. In dad’s words, “We’ve never done anything this crazy before.” I guess we don’t think of our lives as being all that “crazy” but I suppose if your frame of reference is upstate NY, then, yes, Fimpulu Zambia might seem a little crazy. But really, these two were awesome. They cleaned and cleaned and cleaned and held our baby and did our dishes and SLEPT ON OUR FLOOR WITH RATS. For real. I’m incredibly proud of them. Dad did most of the photo taking which means he’s not in many pictures, but he did a great job of talking to people in the village and letting people know that he was genuinely interested in their life. And Mom, in between helping me with anything and everything that I needed, she spent most of her time loving on little kids. I mean, seriously loving on them – kissing booboos and wiping noses and crying when someone looked hungry.

 

Every time we talk about them going back, someone starts to cry and I’m sure that there will be a lot of red eyes and runny noses at the airport in just one day from now when we say “see you later” to our beloved parents.

Thank you mom and dad for being such servants to us and for demonstrating such grace and strength in the midst of trials. Thank you for your support and encouragement as we follow God’s leading for our lives here in Zambia. Thank you for loving our daughter and for caring for her enough to let us live with you while we finished growing and birthing her. Thank you being here.

And now I’m crying so I’ll stop typing and go to sleep. But seriously people out there, if you see Rick or Linda Rawson, give them a high 5 and tell them they’re awesome, cuz its true. 

Safely home

Coming back to Fimpulu was absolutely surreal. It seemed so familiar and yet so foreign at the same time. I remembered every twist and turn and dip along the road leading up to our house. But I still had the sense that this was all very new. With every approaching pot hole, I found myself bracing myself against the door of the landi, making sure that bobble head Bronwyn didn’t clunk her skull on the window. We stepped out of the vehicle into a swirl of dust and I found myself hunching over to protect my baby from the sand storm. As Bronwyn’s fleecy white sleep sack quickly turned a shade of brown, I remembered why we don’t own white clothing in Africa. As people reached for my child, I found myself wondering what germs were on those hands and wishing I could sanitize the world. These scenarios, these circumstances, all so familiar and yet now, with a baby in tow, all so different.

Not even out of the vehicle and the smiles are there

There’s a lot that could be said about our first few days back in the village, but to be honest, most of it is an exhaustion induced blur. I know we talked to about a thousand people and shook about a thousand hands. We swept away a few billion “presents” left behind by the rats (gross, but true). We trouble shot a handful of concerns that people were dying to offload to us as soon as we got back. But the highlight of it all was saying over and over, “Hey, come meet our baby! We’re so pleased to introduce her to you!”

Mubanga embracing his new little sister

The happiness in people’s faces as they snatched by child out of my hands to get a closer look at her has been absolutely priceless. She makes people SO HAPPY!!!

All manner of giggles. Precious.

What a joy that our Bronwyn JOY is blessing people’s hearts without even knowing it. She is opening doors for us already as women come and sit and want to play with Bronwyn, giving me a chance to talk to them for extended periods of time. She is a gift both to us and this village, which is why we are giving her the Bemba name Bupe (pronounced BOO-pay) which means gift. (people are tripping a bit over Bronwyn so we are trying to reach some creative compromises)

So, Bronwyn… aka Wynnie… aka… Bupe… aka Wynnie Bupe… you just keep doing your thing, girl, because it sure is working!