Back on the Horse

This time around I'll save all along the way.

Right now I don't possess the wherewithal to recollect what I lost last night. No, instead I'll reflect on today's events. Swimming has become the most popular activity when we're not conducting business, and today was business free. All Ariah wants to do is play in the pool, which we're so grateful to have available to us since the motel is modest, quite nice, but modest. About all Ariah has going for her, other than heaping love on her new brother when he's with us, is the pool. We have a television, but as Ariah has noted, "It's all grown up television, definitely not kid's stuff." Keeping Ariah happy, not at the complete expense of everything else, including ourselves, has been a priority. No, we didn't drag her along on this transcontinental journey; she wanted to come. That felt good to Jaya and me, having her participate in the acquisition (sounds strange but it's accurate) of a new brother, seeing his homeland, and most importantly feeling connected to this monumental family experience. And we both knew that it wouldn't be all vanilla ice cream cones and bike rides. Ariah has been our only living child for seven and a half years, and we've chosen the attachment parenting route. That means mountains of attention. Suddenly she's out of her element, no friends to lean on for play (support or respite), Rwandans everywhere gawking at her (since the other day I've seen plenty of other white people here, but not one other white child), and a new baby brother who is garnering so much attention, obviously. I was sitting next to Ariah at one point today, Pacifique in my lap, and I’m giving him love: chanting, blowing on his belly, stretching his arms and legs, rapping in baby lexicon, and the whole time I’m also observing Ariah’s reactions to this play. It appears that she’s confused, maybe a little jealous. One moment she’s reprimanding him for touching her with his foot then next moment she’s asking to hold him. Judging by her facial expressions, knit brow, scowl; ear to ear smile and full moon eyes, she’s at the mercy of this grand and grand scale transition. I’m not worried. She’s a grounded little girl, full of love, full of compassion, full of grace and nurturing. No, Pacifique isn’t black baby doll Isaiah; she can’t be the present mother she is with him in a sling on her shoulder, but caring for Isaiah has taught her how to hold and kiss and love her new baby brother, in embracing half of their emergent, paradoxical relationship. Did I mention what a saving grace that pool has been?

One more thing. I asked Happy, a Rwandan man whom Jaya befriended on her last trip over here, what the role of the father is in this culture. “Is the father involved in raising the child?” He said that the father’s responsibility is to provide, not to raise and nurture children. He said that if a Rwandan man walked the streets as I did the other evening with a baby in his arms, people around him would say, “He’s turned American.” I said that I had wondered about that when my walk draw the attention of everyone. Happy chuckled, “Men here, unless maybe they’re highly educated, don’t participate much in raising children. The man tells the child to do something, and the child does it. ‘Go to bed! You go to bed.’ ‘You can’t go out! You don’t go out.’ ‘Do this job! You do that job’ ‘Don’t you cry! You don’t cry!’ No, the men here don’t do the children so much. But they do know about you American men.”

Alright, I’m out of here, but not before acknowledging all the loving messages people out there have been sending. They’re blessing us for sure, helping us to feel supported and connected. And Esther, wow! Thank you for the beautiful bouquet. We love you! All of you.

Papa Scott