¿Qué Vamos a Hacer?

Do you have a pet peeve phrase? Some series of words that, when spoken together, grate on your nerves? A comment or question that drives you through the roof? Not to be dramatic, but I just found mine:

“¿Qué vamos a hacer?” (“What are we gonna do?”)

Ok so that doesn’t sound bad. Just some girls saying they’re bored and wondering what to do. Yeah. Now add a sprinkle of a whiny tone, spice it up with constant repetition, and serve it while I’m in the middle of recuperating from another project we just completed. Tried and true recipe, homemade by Las Lilas.

Maybe parenting kids who are close enough in age to be my sisters might not be the best for maintaining a mature attitude. Maybe me being craft supplier and project manager in this house for a semester conditioned them to expect endless activities. After all, they are the most unable-to-be-bored kids I’ve ever seen. Maybe I should try using my mom’s phrase I heard as a kid: “Only boring people get bored” (but I can see their unimpressed stares now). Or maybe I should just embrace the fact that this question will be a constant opportunity to do.

Que Hacemos

(What we do.)

For as much as it can annoy me to be asked what we’re gonna do (as if I’ve ever left them hanging), we do do a lot. And I love it.

“Teacher, ¿nos estrellas?” Soledad reminds me every night, as if the real stars reminded her. Stickers are a right in this house now, not a privilege. A right if you follow the house rules, that is. And for this teenager who reminds me of my younger self, achievement-based affirmation motivates her like nothing else.

Milenca knows she isn’t allowed to walk into my room without permission. So what’s a ten-year-old to do? Lay down and slither in on your back, of course! Maybe if I scooch she won’t notice I didn’t say, “Permiso.” Ninety percent of the time it’s hilarious and fine to have her laying on my floor watching me read my Bible or staring me down as I put on deodorant. Iconic really.

“¡Su arroz es riquísimo, teacher! ¿Como lo hizo?” (“Your rice is amazing! How’d you make it?”) Soledad made my jaw drop to the floor. For context, let me introduce the girl who used to sweep the kitchen as I made breakfast to keep an eye on how I went about cooking and to offer her services when it appeared I was incorrect. Now, said kitchen Nazi was paying a complement? To my rice? I have arrived at Bolivian Nirvana.

Soledad looked at the fresh salad I piled on her plate. She looked up at me. With incredulous disgust she declared, “Teacher, we can’t eat this.” “Why not?” “It has raw peas and green beans.” Duh. What does this teacher think she’s doing? Off to the stove she went, dumped her salad, cucumbers and all, into a pot, and proceeded to cook her salad. After reseating herself proudly, she held up a now-floppy cooked cucumber slice and said, “This is actually good.” I don’t believe her.

“¿Cual es la flauta salada?” (“What’s the salty flute?”) Milenca asked genuinely. We all laughed. Emilianne and I were having a conversation about types of flutes, as our silver, hold-parallel-to-the-ground flutes are much more uncommon than what we call recorders. After mentioning the “flauta dulce,” she wondered what a salty flute would be.

“¿Puedo hacer el pollito de Inglés?” Milenca and Soledad are obsessed with Duolingo English learning as of this week. Soledad especially. I’ll be doing whatever I’m doing and she’ll be following me around to have me repeat the sketchily-pronounced computerized English phrases and occasionally cheat for her. They call it the little English chick because the owl app icon looks like a baby chicken (?).

“¿Podemos investigar la ciudad abajo de la otra ciudad?” (“Can we research the city under another city?”) Soledad has a heart for learning, and her curiosity was piqued when my archaeologist wannabe self pointed to the pictures in her new Bible of Jerusalem’s streets, telling her the real street Jesus walked on is many meters below. Trying to explain how a city can be built on top of another’s ruins to someone who lives in a place where all buildings will fall over and rot before the next generation builds is rather impossible. So to YouTube we went. I am indeed raising a mini me.

Maribel was crying. At first I thought she had pinkeye like I do, but when her cheeks were wet a moment later, I knew. I’d been in my hammock most of the morning, sleeping off a cold I’ve had for four weeks. Maribel had been fighting with Soledad. Soledad is a perfectionist when it comes to how they keep their room and had barked at Mari after she didn’t sweep well enough. She used some foul language and strong accusations and I ended up letting Mari move out to live in Milenca’s room. I sat them down around the table and we established “que hacemos”: “what we do.” It was a long conversation and had a lot of facets. I just pray something stuck. What we do is normally fun and good, but we also address when we do wrong.

Hacerme Humilde

(Make me humble.)

“These girls will keep you at the perfect level of humility: cut you down and build you up again!” Emilianne exclaimed. Oh, yes. “It’s like living with little sisters, not gonna lie,” I responded.

“If I were to develop an eating disorder, it would be because of Las Lilas,” I laughed. (Strong disclaimer for concerned folks back home: I have not developed any such thing!) Milenca wrapped her arms around my middle in her iconic bear hugs then stepped back and patted my belly. “Teacher, when you came you were to here” *points to her elbow* “but now you’re to here” *points to forearm* “You’re getting fat!” *skips away triumphantly* *T. Kati scoffs in humored disbelief*

“Parece que usted es T. Treson” (“It seems like you’re Teacher Treson”), my girls informed me one morning after I got out of the shower. “¿Por qué?” “Usted parece que está pelones” (“It’s like you’re bald”), with a shrug. Oh. My. Also, RIP Treson. Granted, they don’t see me after showers usually because I hop right into bed, but I did look in the mirror and register that my hair was indeed thinner after so much preventative lice combing. So I immediately marched over to Los Leones and asked Sierra to chop a few inches off. Fullness resolved. Girls are horrified.

“You don’t like animals.” “What!?!” A stream of accusations against my very character streamed from three sets of distraught vocal chords. Sunday when Charlie came to take three of our six kittens to sell in town, my girls lost it. Maribel took off walking toward the gate, ready to hike thirteen kilometers to town to retrieve them. Then she bagged up an adult cat, Garfield, and wanted to find Charlie to make a trade. Putting my foot down and praying for the cats to be safe and in a good home did little. They then took turns praying for the cats and that God change my stony heart. LOL. Anyway, we have half of the poop-in-the-showers-and-on-the-blankets culprits successfully placed in a loving home. Not here.

“Why are you always calling us ‘poor little thing’ (‘Pobrecito’)?” Yet another motive curiously questioned. “It’s my favorite word,” I said, since I didn’t have it in me to try to explain what sarcasm is. “Hmmph.” Poor things.

“Un abrazo, Teacher!” Milenca ran outside to where I sat on a bench stargazing. God was humbling me as I appreciated His universe, and Milenca pitched in. She was in the middle of a movie with the others and decided to take a hug break. Just because. That’s the other kind of keeping me humble they’re so good at: the kind that makes me feel I don’t deserve this.

Que Voy a Ser

(What I am going to be.)

“Katie-Jane, that’s a Bolivian portion size!” The SM girls watched me serve up pasta and salad in horror. “Less…Nope, still less.” I love one of the spoons here in particular, but it does contribute to the massive portion sizes we’ve — I’ve — become accustomed to.

“You are really Bolivian if you’re just starting to cook supper,” mom told me over the phone at 7:00. I stirred my rice as the grains sizzled in oil before adding water, thinking about how I grew up eating sticky rice. Now here I am, drying it out and serving it with close to every meal. And those meals fall late sometimes.

I released the microphone icon on WhatApp and sent a voice message to my dad. Looking up, Elizabeth was giggling. “You really just embraced being Bolivian, didn’t you?” WhatsApp is the only way to use a phone here (even ambulances have WhatsApp logos with the number), and recording voice messages is iconic communication. Hey, sending voice memos, even though I’m not illiterate, is so much easier! And it’s like having a phone conversation at your own pace. 10/10 would recommend.

“¿Pasaporte?” the bank security guard asked. “Tengo un carnet; ¿es suficiente?” “A carnet from what country?” he looked so confused. “Um, Bolivia.” Do other countries have carnets? “Oh, toma asiento pues.” The satisfaction of watching his utter confusion as a gringa who wanted to change American currency into bolivianos flashed a resident ID was unmatched. And that bank has air conditioning, so he may see me again.

Haz un Cumpleaños Feliz

(Make a happy birthday.)

Milenca turned ten last Thursday. “This is my first birthday that my mom hasn’t taken me home,” she told me as we shared the front seat of the car. “Well we’ll have to make today extra special then,” I said. And we did.

These three girls got to leave campus for one of the few times annually. First stop was swimming (fully clothed) at a pool in town. Next, we walked through the drizzly weather to Luz de Mar to eat lunch (I caved — with permission — and let them order meat like they so desperately always talk about). Emilianne ran to buy a cake and ice cream, and we then decided to each buddy up with a girl and take them on a 50bs shopping spree. And it was so fun! (Even more fun than watching poor Maddy land butt-first into a nasty mud puddle at the end of the playground’s tunnel slide.)

Que Hicieron

(What they did.)

My alma mater in Greeneville, TN, is deserving of recognition. Every year, they have a campus-wide competition to see which team can raise the most money in a coin collection for some organization. This year, they took up the crusade for Familia Feliz. One child’s grandmother whom I’ve never met felt especially called to go to community businesses and churches and tell our story. Incredible. So $7,000 later, Familia Feliz can now build the fence, wall, and gate that we’ve so desperately needed! That’s what they did. And we’re so grateful.