Little Sloth
How do I tell you? How can I explain? How can I possibly describe what it’s like? How can I use words to properly express things there are not words for? I could try and sum it up into sentiments. Frustrating. Exhausting. Overwhelming. Messy. Confusing. Painful. Wonderful. Beautiful. Joyful. Sometimes I could rant for hours about the difficulty. And other times I’m so spent, there’s no words, only exhaustion. It took a lot of encouraging self-talk just to sit here and write this post, when my bed is sweetly calling my name.
You might be wondering. Why are you parenting twelve boys? Let me back up. So, I have these friends. Said friends are house parents to a group of twelve boys, but were expecting a baby of their own. So while they took a hiatus to the city, they asked me to care for their little ones. So here I am. Sitting on a bed that’s not my own, in a bedroom within the children’s home. As I write this, the little ones are sleeping. Just a few feet from me are the youngest two, fast asleep. Just on the other side of the wall are the rest, dreaming. This is my life right now. My new normal.
Sometimes my life feels like a long pattern repeating. 5:00 AM. Wake up. Roll out of bed. Change into cleaner clothes. 5:30 AM. Turn music on. Wake boys up. Good morning boys! Time to get up! Good morning, Gerson. Good morning, Nelson. Good morning, Antony. Good morning, Jairon. Good morning, Max. Jairon, go shower please. Antony, sweetie, time to wake up. Nelson, get up. Max, time to get up, sweetie. Joshua. Israel. Elmer. Did you brush your teeth? Go brush your teeth. Nelson, get up, it’s getting late. Boys, beds made, please. Did you fix your hair? Socks and shoes, please. 6:00 AM. Breakfast bell. (And that’s just half an hour.)
Parenting twelve boys has been the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. EVER. Nothing matches nor compares, nothing even comes close. Before the first week was over, I wanted to quit. My feet and entire body were so sore. I was fed up with their nasty attitudes, blatant disrespect, endless whining and just done with the whole thing. I felt like my life was, as my fellow co-parent said, “running in little circles shouting twelve different names for nine hours.”
I feel like a warden. Barking orders all day. Brush your teeth! Stop it! Don’t touch that! Leave him alone! To the wall, right now! But also, I’ve never felt more like a mother. Having a few minutes to myself in the morning, before it’s all about them. Getting them ready for school. Eating breakfast with them. Supervising chores. Giving gummy vitamins. Scolding them for provoking the neighborhood dog. Dropping them off at school. Waiting for them to come home from school. And so on and so forth. In my first few days, I wondered how long it would be before I’d want to give up, before I’d say “No more. I can’t do this anymore.”
Often times I feel like I’m just surviving. My days consist of self chants. Just make it to breakfast. Just get them to school. Just get through lunch. Just get through chores. Just make it to dinner. Just a few more hours. Just a few more days. Sometimes when I wake up, I’m already looking forward to going back to bed. Sometimes my patience has reached a hair, and I feel like pulling my own out. Sometimes I’ve almost lost it. Sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy. Sometimes I feel so overwhelmed, I’ve wanted to shrink to nothing. Sometimes I’ve found myself on the toilet, in the front office, head in my hands, taking slow, deep breaths. Because it’s the only place I could escape, the only place I could have a moment, alone.
Sometimes it’s painful. Some nights I’ve laid in bed, crying. It’s not fair. What’s happened to them. They shouldn’t be here. Twelve boys, from different families, sleeping under one roof. Because the people that were supposed to love them most didn’t, couldn’t, can’t. It’s not fair. That some of them have parents. Parents who only visit on Sundays. It’s not fair. That mom only comes for an hour, to pass out plastic bags filled with juice and cookies, to say hello and see you later. It’s not fair that have some were sexually abused by their own fathers or brothers. It’s not fair that some have learned to steal and hide food because all their lives before they had to. To survive. I feel weird being around their mothers. It should be her, not me. What does mother really mean?
Sometimes I’ve paused, looked around, and had the strangest realization that I’m the adult in the room. I’m the one responsible for literally everyone in the room. I’m the one in charge. I’m doing this thing. This “parenting” thing. It’s a lot of responsibility. A huge responsibility. To care for the lives of these little ones. It’s the most important job in the whole world. And they trusted me.
When I think back on this month, it doesn’t play out smoothly. It’s a jumbled mess of thoughts and memories and feelings. It’s fried plantains. Licking sticky fingers. It’s stained underwear. Puddles on tile floor. It’s leaky faucets. Dead moths. It’s point charts. Timers going off. It’s a zombie dancing to Skrillex. Enrique Iglesias. It’s dirty socks. The smell of bleach and urine. It’s indoor volleyball games. Dodgeball and headlocks. It’s rows of silver lunch trays. Hot sugary coffee. It’s watching One Direction videos. Picking Harry over Niall. It’s sharpie mustaches. Moco de Gorilla gel. It’s sorting through boys underwear at the paca. Hoarding toilet paper like it’s the apocalypse. It’s superhero movie nights. Bowls and bowls of popcorn. It’s soiled sheets. Clothes on a line. It’s reading Harry Potter in Spanish. Bedtime meditations. It’s telling stories. Antony resting his head on my arm.
I think about going to the grocery store. One shopping cart. Ten little hands, grabbing food off shelves. Can we get this? Please, please! Squeezing past other shoppers. Boys, watch where you’re going. Slow down. Don’t touch everything. Where’s Marlon? Ten little hands, shoving chips and salsa, into little mouths. Did everyone get one? Little feet, running up and down aisles. Filing into the checkout line. Getting ice cream. Little bodies. Filling chairs. Anxiously waiting. Bored. Boys, please sit down. What do you want? Dos de Galleta. Chicle. Frutas? Is that what you wanted? Fresa. Mango. Otro de chicle. Riding the elevator. Crowding in between metal doors. Squished. Everybody, jump! Laughing. One more time? Okay, just one more. Fake Spiderman. Shoe stores. Taking pictures. Everyone say, whisky! Walking home. Holding hands. Everyone is tired. Dragging little feet. Almost home.
I think about the day the went to the circus. Eleven little feet scrambling up the bus, rushing down the aisle to get window seats. Counting heads. One, two, three, four, eight, ten. All here. Cold air rushing past my face. Granizadas. Counting orders. One, two, three, four, eight, missing three. Angel has to pee. It’s raining. Running in the rain. There’s a bus! Hurry! Hurry! Sitting. Churros. Sticky fingers. It’s warm. Wiping sticky fingers on jeans. Circus tent. Wooden benches. Climbing. Climbing. Careful. Who has to pee? Everyone? Running through grass and over mud puddles. Hearts beating fast. Racing. Did you wash your hands? Everyone finished? Running, more running. Duck! Jump! Now you have to pee? Why didn’t you go before? Round two. Running again. Gerson won. Neon lights. Spiderman. Clowns. Motos in cages. A woman bought us popcorn. Munching. Munching. Munching.
I think of Antony. His hugs. Little arms wrapped tightly around my middle. His sweet smile, as he looks up at me. I remember the day he jumped on my legs, wrapping himself around me like a koala and said, “Eres mi arbolito!” I told him he reminded me of a sloth. He asked, “What is a sloth?” I asked the other boys how to say sloth. Oso perezoso. I told Antony he looks like a little frog, or a little sloth. Now whenever he comes to hug me, I call him my little sloth.
I think of the bonfire tonight. As I sat there, I thought to myself that I should write. But nothing inspired me. I didn’t feel like it. Often when I write, I wait for a feeling. For a distinct feeling, that I need to write. That I have something inside me, burning, ready to pour out. It’s often a romantic thing. A feeling, emotional, thing. But there’s nothing romantic about this. It’s not romantic. Orphanage. Orphans. Bonfire. Parenting. Trauma. Exhaustion. It’s real. My mind wandered back to reality. I’m sitting alone. Now there’s a child in my lap. Now Antony is snuggled up under my cardigan. Jairon points out there are no stars. He’s right. No stars. We’re singing. People are singing. I’m silent. Listening. Too tired to sing. I’m breathing. I’m alive. God, this is so hard. God, you are good. God, you are here. I felt something. I think it’s raining. Fire burning. Children shuffling, restless. Rain falling on my cheeks. Little faces, lit by the fire. Glowing outlines. Embers. A child on each side. Snuggled up under my cardigan, nestled into my arms. It’s raining. Breathe. Let go. He is good. Faces. I see faces. Now I’m crying. I’m so overwhelmed. God, you are beautiful. Your children are beautiful.
Parenting is hard. Really, really hard. Everything smells like cats and pee. Why does it always smell like pee? Someone is always yelling. Why the yelling? Whining. Whining. Whining. Twelve voices shouting, laughing, talking. Be quiet! Parenting is a headache, results in frequent stomach aches and will cause heartache. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Well, here I am. Still alive. Barely. One month in. Not dead, thoroughly exhausted, mostly crazy, maybe slightly wiser. Can’t say it’s been a joyride through merrytown. But I can say this, I’ve learned a lot. About parenting, about these boys and about God’s goodness. Every day is a challenge. Every day I’m learning. Every day I make mistakes. Every day I fail them. Every day I’m reminded I’m not perfect. Nor am I supposed to be. God is the perfect Father. I’m just a temporary, stand-in tia.
Note from Bob and Heather:
Our daughter Seraphim Lynda Esma Darabos Lopez was born on October 18th. She was born with an infection and was rushed to the hospital shortly after birth with collapsed lungs. Read more HERE. She was released from the hospital on the 24th. We are living in Guatemala city for a short while while we enjoy our newest addition and go to all of her necessary appointments.
Our good friend Sophia has been taking great care of our boys and has given us some much needed time off to focus on Seraphim and her care. Sophia has graciously provided this guest post from her blog. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to care for your 12 nephews for two months straight? Now you know, thanks Sophia!
