baby ward

Once again, the B in B Ward seems to stand for babies. The beds are full to bursting with small brown people. They crawl around on casted knees. They pop wheelies in their chairs. They lift pudgy hands to be picked up and strapped to someone's back, and today I got to be that someone. I spent the greater part of my shift with little feet sticking out from either side of my hips, another mama's child tied to me with whatever piece of cloth was closest at hand. (I'm happy to report that I tied the lappas myself and only had to readjust once, quite the accomplishment for someone as startlingly white as myself. My future hypothetical children are most definitely going to be carried this way.)

I have nothing of earth-shattering importance to share right now. I love my job. I love Liberia. I love setting up my supplies for a sterile dressing change while feeling my scrub top grow damp from a newly-repaired, formerly-cleft-lipped baby's drool as she sleeps on my back.

But mostly, I love Oscar. I think he might just be the most beautiful kid in all of West Africa.