I'm halfway done writing a post about Zoe's first Christmas, complete with lots of pictures, but I just have to interrupt myself to share this precious, African moment.
Our new cabin is right next to the aft stairway, the one the patients use when going up to Deck Seven to get some fresh air. I was heading back there today while a tall girl in a long leg cast made her way slowly down the stairs. I smiled, thinking to myself that she looked familiar, when all of a sudden I found myself wrapped in an enthusiastic hug. I turned and realized that I knew the woman whose arms were around me, and I knew her daughter, too.
Blessing was one of my patients back in Liberia in 2008. I was in the OR and watched her surgery when Dr. Gary used skin from her neck to create new lips to replace the ones destroyed by noma. Blessing and her mom, Martha, have been 'frequent flyers' since then, coming back to the ship for multiple follow-up surgeries. I had heard that they were on board but hadn't had the chance to see them yet, so I was overjoyed when we ran into each other on the stairs.
I fell easily back into my Liberian English, and we chatted for a little while before Zoe got restless and I had to go. Martha held my hand and looked me square in the eye as she delivered up the best compliment she could muster.
Sis Alice, your body is looking fine these days. You are really getting fat. Before, when I knew you in Liberia, you were slim. But you are very fat now.
It would appear that I have not been as successful as I thought in losing the baby weight, but while my body might be fat, my heart is light. I love living here.
Sunday, December 30. 2012
looking fine
Monday, December 24. 2012
so this is Christmas
I was just getting ready to write all about Christmas and why I love it so much here when I made the happy choice to open my blog reader. It turns out that Dan and Tiffany, friends of ours, just posted an awesome entry about all the different traditions, complete with loads of pictures. Since Zoe is currently waking up from her nap early yet again, I'm just going to point you over there.
This is what Christmas looks like on the Africa Mercy.
Blessings to you and yours as you celebrate with your own traditions wherever you are.
This is what Christmas looks like on the Africa Mercy.
Blessings to you and yours as you celebrate with your own traditions wherever you are.
Saturday, December 22. 2012
moving up
Housing on board the Africa Mercy can be something of a nightmare for HR to figure out. With volunteers coming and going every week, I can't even imagine the headaches that some with solving the jigsaw puzzle of where to put everyone. We know that family cabins are always in high demand, and so we thought we were prepared to wait out the field service in our little couple's cabin.
Enter the baby who doesn't sleep. Several weeks of screaming and nonexistent naps and night time woes, and I was about ready to throw in the towel, so the HoJ went to plead our case. A week later we got an e-mail mentioning an early Christmas present, and we found out that we would be moving up. Literally. We were given the option of two different cabins to chose from, so we took Zoe and went house hunting one afternoon. It felt so normal, comparing and contrasting the benefits of the two different places, like we were real-world people getting ready to rent our first apartment together, not crazy missionaries living on board a ship.
After some deliberation and much going up and down of stairs, we've officially left our first home together on Deck Four and moved into a family cabin up on Deck Six. It's on the port side, which means that we'll almost always have an ocean view from our ten enormous windows. It's right around the corner from the crew galley and the laundry room. Our bedroom is enclosed by a soundproof firewall and Zoe's backs up to the first grade classroom in the Academy, so it's always quiet at night. It's more than twice the size of our old cabin, with doors that we can close when we need our own space and more cupboards than we can possibly fill.
Best Christmas present ever.
Want to go on a tour? To start off, here's a very crude, not exactly to scale layout of the place. I made it in Photoshop last night when I really should have been in bed, so it's not the most accurate thing I've ever produced. But it gives you the idea and might help you visualize what you're looking at in pictures.
When you first come in the door, there's a little entry way. We're using the space to hang up our many wraps and baby carriers, and when our stroller arrives on the February container it'll probably fit somewhere in the corner there.
Here's the living area. I kind of put this together backwards; the photo on the right is how it looks as you enter the cabin (with your back to Zoe's room), and the one on the left is the opposite view, looking back towards Zoe's room from our doorway.
Another view of the living area; on top is the outer wall of the cabin with our couch and table and all the windows ever, on the bottom is the wall against the hallway where we have our little kitchenette and Phil's desk. I have more than twice the counter space that I used to, and we no longer have to keep our cutlery in the desk drawer! I don't have any pictures of the inside of the wet unit (bathroom), but you can see the door on the left side of the bottom picture. It's also nearly twice the size of our old wet unit, which means that Zoe no longer has to lay on top of the toilet when she comes out of the bath. Our quality of life has really improved by leaps and bounds up here.
Zoe's room is tiny, so it's kind of hard to get a good picture in there. The top left is her pack and play seen from the doorway; it fits exactly into the space between the bottom bunk and the closet with out an inch to spare. You can see the two bunks in that picture; they flip up against the wall when you're not using them, and will flip down once Zoe's ready to transition or we have another kid. On the top right is her closet. I know that's not very exciting, but I'm just loving having her clothes in a real closet finally! The bottom is a slightly warped composite shot showing the other side of the room, what you see when you come in the door and look to the right. She has two closets all to herself (again, until kiddo number two comes along, which hopefully won't be any time soon) and a desk that serves as her changing table. She's also got two windows, but we keep the curtains shut so she can sleep. She hasn't quite grasped that that's what she's supposed to be doing in there, but I'm sure she'll come around eventually.
On the other side of the cabin is our room. The only downgrade that came with this new cabin is the fact that we're back in a smaller bed instead of our king-sized monster downstairs. I'm pretty sure I can handle the hardship of snuggling closer with the HoJ. On the left is the room seen with your back to the windows, complete with the evidence of a lazy Saturday morning spent entirely in bed. On the right is the view from the opposite corner. We each have a closet and there's another desk and two more impossibly big windows through which the sun streams all day long.
This place is a palace, and when night falls, we turn on our Christmas lights and revel in the cozy glow while we watch the fishing boats chug home after a long day's work.
I repeat: best Christmas present ever.
Enter the baby who doesn't sleep. Several weeks of screaming and nonexistent naps and night time woes, and I was about ready to throw in the towel, so the HoJ went to plead our case. A week later we got an e-mail mentioning an early Christmas present, and we found out that we would be moving up. Literally. We were given the option of two different cabins to chose from, so we took Zoe and went house hunting one afternoon. It felt so normal, comparing and contrasting the benefits of the two different places, like we were real-world people getting ready to rent our first apartment together, not crazy missionaries living on board a ship.
After some deliberation and much going up and down of stairs, we've officially left our first home together on Deck Four and moved into a family cabin up on Deck Six. It's on the port side, which means that we'll almost always have an ocean view from our ten enormous windows. It's right around the corner from the crew galley and the laundry room. Our bedroom is enclosed by a soundproof firewall and Zoe's backs up to the first grade classroom in the Academy, so it's always quiet at night. It's more than twice the size of our old cabin, with doors that we can close when we need our own space and more cupboards than we can possibly fill.
Best Christmas present ever.
Want to go on a tour? To start off, here's a very crude, not exactly to scale layout of the place. I made it in Photoshop last night when I really should have been in bed, so it's not the most accurate thing I've ever produced. But it gives you the idea and might help you visualize what you're looking at in pictures.
When you first come in the door, there's a little entry way. We're using the space to hang up our many wraps and baby carriers, and when our stroller arrives on the February container it'll probably fit somewhere in the corner there.
Here's the living area. I kind of put this together backwards; the photo on the right is how it looks as you enter the cabin (with your back to Zoe's room), and the one on the left is the opposite view, looking back towards Zoe's room from our doorway.
Another view of the living area; on top is the outer wall of the cabin with our couch and table and all the windows ever, on the bottom is the wall against the hallway where we have our little kitchenette and Phil's desk. I have more than twice the counter space that I used to, and we no longer have to keep our cutlery in the desk drawer! I don't have any pictures of the inside of the wet unit (bathroom), but you can see the door on the left side of the bottom picture. It's also nearly twice the size of our old wet unit, which means that Zoe no longer has to lay on top of the toilet when she comes out of the bath. Our quality of life has really improved by leaps and bounds up here.
Zoe's room is tiny, so it's kind of hard to get a good picture in there. The top left is her pack and play seen from the doorway; it fits exactly into the space between the bottom bunk and the closet with out an inch to spare. You can see the two bunks in that picture; they flip up against the wall when you're not using them, and will flip down once Zoe's ready to transition or we have another kid. On the top right is her closet. I know that's not very exciting, but I'm just loving having her clothes in a real closet finally! The bottom is a slightly warped composite shot showing the other side of the room, what you see when you come in the door and look to the right. She has two closets all to herself (again, until kiddo number two comes along, which hopefully won't be any time soon) and a desk that serves as her changing table. She's also got two windows, but we keep the curtains shut so she can sleep. She hasn't quite grasped that that's what she's supposed to be doing in there, but I'm sure she'll come around eventually.
On the other side of the cabin is our room. The only downgrade that came with this new cabin is the fact that we're back in a smaller bed instead of our king-sized monster downstairs. I'm pretty sure I can handle the hardship of snuggling closer with the HoJ. On the left is the room seen with your back to the windows, complete with the evidence of a lazy Saturday morning spent entirely in bed. On the right is the view from the opposite corner. We each have a closet and there's another desk and two more impossibly big windows through which the sun streams all day long.
This place is a palace, and when night falls, we turn on our Christmas lights and revel in the cozy glow while we watch the fishing boats chug home after a long day's work.
I repeat: best Christmas present ever.
Friday, December 21. 2012
four months
Zoe is four months old today. Well, yesterday anyway, but we were busy getting her shots and moving house (more on that soon!) so this post just didn't get itself written.
This past month hasn't been the easiest. When you're living in two hundred square feet with childless neighbours on the other side of a paper-thin wall, a baby who forgets how to sleep and instead screams all night long is a recipe for disaster. I actually moved out for a few days, set up shop in an empty guest cabin where no one could hear her cry. (And by her, I mean us, because she wasn't the only one. Not by a long shot.) Phil and I tried to put a good face on it, pretending that we just lived in a huge house and I was staying in the nursery with the baby for a few nights, but it ended up being much harder for me mentally to be alone with her for long, dark stretches like that. So I came home, and things have slowly been getting better at night, although she never naps for longer than forty-five minutes. Ever. (Seriously, any mamas out there want to give me the magic formula to make this kid sleep during the day? I know one of you is sitting on the secret...)
She is learning so much. It seems like every single day I watch her master a new skill, and getting to watch her do all these things for the first time feels like the most incredible privilege. She grabs at anything in her reach and puts it straight into her mouth to be met by the rivers of drool that she's now producing. (No sign of teeth yet; she's just an overachiever in the salivary department.) She can't quite roll from back to front without help, but if you give her something to hook her foot on, she's over in a quick second. Smart kid, this one. She loves to practice sitting and standing; the days of our tiny baby who laid quietly in our arms are just a distant memory, and I get the feeling that she'll be on the move before any of us are even remotely ready.
I'm learning, too. I thought that pregnancy had taught me what it means to give yourself up, to surrender totally to someone else, but this is another level entirely. This is four months in which I have yet to sleep more than five hours in a row, four months since I've done anything without first thinking about her. My life is no longer my own, and it's taking some time to get used to it, honestly. I have days where I wish things could go back to the way they were, just for a few hours, days where I wonder whether this mothering thing was such a good idea in the first place.
And then I watch her eyes dance when she sees me in the morning, and the questions fade. I sit with her in the dark, her tiny heart fluttering against my palm, and I know that I would give myself, body and soul a thousand times over, if it meant that I could be the one to comfort her when she cries.
I'm learning, too, and this lesson is the hardest and the sweetest one yet.
This past month hasn't been the easiest. When you're living in two hundred square feet with childless neighbours on the other side of a paper-thin wall, a baby who forgets how to sleep and instead screams all night long is a recipe for disaster. I actually moved out for a few days, set up shop in an empty guest cabin where no one could hear her cry. (And by her, I mean us, because she wasn't the only one. Not by a long shot.) Phil and I tried to put a good face on it, pretending that we just lived in a huge house and I was staying in the nursery with the baby for a few nights, but it ended up being much harder for me mentally to be alone with her for long, dark stretches like that. So I came home, and things have slowly been getting better at night, although she never naps for longer than forty-five minutes. Ever. (Seriously, any mamas out there want to give me the magic formula to make this kid sleep during the day? I know one of you is sitting on the secret...)
She is learning so much. It seems like every single day I watch her master a new skill, and getting to watch her do all these things for the first time feels like the most incredible privilege. She grabs at anything in her reach and puts it straight into her mouth to be met by the rivers of drool that she's now producing. (No sign of teeth yet; she's just an overachiever in the salivary department.) She can't quite roll from back to front without help, but if you give her something to hook her foot on, she's over in a quick second. Smart kid, this one. She loves to practice sitting and standing; the days of our tiny baby who laid quietly in our arms are just a distant memory, and I get the feeling that she'll be on the move before any of us are even remotely ready.
I'm learning, too. I thought that pregnancy had taught me what it means to give yourself up, to surrender totally to someone else, but this is another level entirely. This is four months in which I have yet to sleep more than five hours in a row, four months since I've done anything without first thinking about her. My life is no longer my own, and it's taking some time to get used to it, honestly. I have days where I wish things could go back to the way they were, just for a few hours, days where I wonder whether this mothering thing was such a good idea in the first place.
And then I watch her eyes dance when she sees me in the morning, and the questions fade. I sit with her in the dark, her tiny heart fluttering against my palm, and I know that I would give myself, body and soul a thousand times over, if it meant that I could be the one to comfort her when she cries.
I'm learning, too, and this lesson is the hardest and the sweetest one yet.
Saturday, December 15. 2012
waiting for daybreak
Tuesday, December 11. 2012
hope and joy
Last night was the second Advent service, the one where they light the candle of Joy. I remember so vividly that service last year. I had found out I was pregnant just a few days before. No one knew but Phil and I, and I sat there in the dark while that small flame flickered to life, tears streaming down my cheeks because there was no better word for everything happening in my heart than joy.
Yesterday when they lit the candle, I was in my dark cabin, pacing back and forth with a screaming baby in my arms, overwhelmed by tears of an entirely different sort. I know I've been writing about sunsets and pool time and finding a rhythm, and that all sounds great, but the truth of the matter is that this is hard.
This is the hardest thing I've ever done. And I've done some hard things.
This is different. This is another human utterly and completely dependent on me to provide for her every need, a baby who I'm somehow failing at the moment because she's spending more and more time crying so hard that she throws up. She wont nurse, and when she does she ends up screaming. She's exhausted but she won't sleep. I put her to bed only to have her wake up forty-five minutes later and scream off and on for two or three hours, and I am utterly spent. I have no idea how to help her, and I'm losing my mind trying.
I spend every day trapped in my darkened cabin, barely breathing as I listen for her to stir, praying that she'll sleep longer than half an hour, willing her to stay quiet and get the rest that she needs. Sleep when the baby sleeps is the most laughable thing I've ever heard. I mean, really, have you ever laid down next to a ticking time bomb and had a nice, refreshing snooze?
I know that living in community will eventually be incredible. I'll have an endless supply of babysitters, lots of friends for Zoe to play with, and other mamas to keep me sane. But right now? Learning to be a mother in a fishbowl is exhausting and disheartening. I worry about the neighbours when she cries, so I take her out of the cabin to nap in the wrap and everyone I pass feels the need to exclaim loudly about the fact that there's a baby in there! And is she sleeping?! Nope, not anymore, unfortunately.
---
If you're thinking I've lost track of my days (yes, I know, Sunday was two days ago, not yesterday), you'd be kind of right. I started writing those words yesterday, and truth be told, I'm in a much better place today. It's amazing what a night of sleep will do for you and your baby. And I've been wondering whether or not to publish it, but I've come to the conclusion that I should. Life isn't always sunshine and roses, especially not life with a small baby on board a ship off the coast of West Africa. One night of sleep isn't going to change the fact that I'm becoming more aware than ever of what we're giving up to live this life. Long walks with the baby in a stroller on paved roads, parks and coffee shops and room to run, privacy to work out my more teary-eyed issues. I don't get to have any of that, and because we bought a one-way ticket to Africa, I don't know if I ever will.
But if I choked down the tears and stuffed away my frustration and never talked about any of it, I'd be doing myself and you a disservice. I owe you honesty, whatever that looks like, however ugly it might be.
The honest truth: this sucks. It's hard, and a lot of the time I want to go home, except I don't really think that North America is home anymore, and so I feel completely trapped, floating in some strange limbo with a screaming baby as my only soundtrack.
But downstairs there are patients recovering from their surgeries, looking forward to the new lives that they never thought they'd live. And across the world, there are candles lit this Advent season, tiny, brave little flames throwing out that hope and joy in the face of all the darkness.
---
And of course there's this face, the one that pulls me out of my own darkness every. single. time.
Yesterday when they lit the candle, I was in my dark cabin, pacing back and forth with a screaming baby in my arms, overwhelmed by tears of an entirely different sort. I know I've been writing about sunsets and pool time and finding a rhythm, and that all sounds great, but the truth of the matter is that this is hard.
This is the hardest thing I've ever done. And I've done some hard things.
This is different. This is another human utterly and completely dependent on me to provide for her every need, a baby who I'm somehow failing at the moment because she's spending more and more time crying so hard that she throws up. She wont nurse, and when she does she ends up screaming. She's exhausted but she won't sleep. I put her to bed only to have her wake up forty-five minutes later and scream off and on for two or three hours, and I am utterly spent. I have no idea how to help her, and I'm losing my mind trying.
I spend every day trapped in my darkened cabin, barely breathing as I listen for her to stir, praying that she'll sleep longer than half an hour, willing her to stay quiet and get the rest that she needs. Sleep when the baby sleeps is the most laughable thing I've ever heard. I mean, really, have you ever laid down next to a ticking time bomb and had a nice, refreshing snooze?
I know that living in community will eventually be incredible. I'll have an endless supply of babysitters, lots of friends for Zoe to play with, and other mamas to keep me sane. But right now? Learning to be a mother in a fishbowl is exhausting and disheartening. I worry about the neighbours when she cries, so I take her out of the cabin to nap in the wrap and everyone I pass feels the need to exclaim loudly about the fact that there's a baby in there! And is she sleeping?! Nope, not anymore, unfortunately.
---
If you're thinking I've lost track of my days (yes, I know, Sunday was two days ago, not yesterday), you'd be kind of right. I started writing those words yesterday, and truth be told, I'm in a much better place today. It's amazing what a night of sleep will do for you and your baby. And I've been wondering whether or not to publish it, but I've come to the conclusion that I should. Life isn't always sunshine and roses, especially not life with a small baby on board a ship off the coast of West Africa. One night of sleep isn't going to change the fact that I'm becoming more aware than ever of what we're giving up to live this life. Long walks with the baby in a stroller on paved roads, parks and coffee shops and room to run, privacy to work out my more teary-eyed issues. I don't get to have any of that, and because we bought a one-way ticket to Africa, I don't know if I ever will.
But if I choked down the tears and stuffed away my frustration and never talked about any of it, I'd be doing myself and you a disservice. I owe you honesty, whatever that looks like, however ugly it might be.
The honest truth: this sucks. It's hard, and a lot of the time I want to go home, except I don't really think that North America is home anymore, and so I feel completely trapped, floating in some strange limbo with a screaming baby as my only soundtrack.
But downstairs there are patients recovering from their surgeries, looking forward to the new lives that they never thought they'd live. And across the world, there are candles lit this Advent season, tiny, brave little flames throwing out that hope and joy in the face of all the darkness.
---
And of course there's this face, the one that pulls me out of my own darkness every. single. time.
