Where you belong

We've been in country for just over a week and already you're adjusting. The heat is irritating, but your tiny body just sweats it out. The humidity is oppressive, but it's given your hair a bouncy curl that has turned you into a little girl overnight. The night noises are new and loud, but you don't pay them any attention. The storms are ferocious, but you sleep deeply through them. The baby geckos living in your room poop on everything, but you enjoy watching them scurry around the walls. The electricity is completely unreliable leaving our fans impotent, but you continue piddling with your books as if the house didn't just become a roaster. The groups of drunk men ambling down the street at 5 am are obnoxious, but you call out to them through the window loving them with your baby heart as you love all people. Strange women and the occasional man are constantly patting, squeezing, bouncing, and touching you, but you're reveling in the admiration. You wave, squeal, and chatter at almost everyone. In Texas you would get upset when the car seat came out, but here in PNG you know the appearance of a car seat means we're going to a place where new people exist. Instead of grunts of frustration as the restraints tighten, the car seat triggers the kind of excitement that involves your whole wiggling body.

When the days start to close and the relentless heat hangs on, you get cranky. Unfortunately that's right when we're trying to feed you, and those experiences haven't been awesome. You scrunch up your face, shake your head firmly, and in no uncertain terms let me know where I can put those pureed lentils. I'm nervous about getting you the food you need here, and your sudden affinity for picky eating has not allayed any of those fears.

You've also decided that bathing is not the diverting activity of yesteryear. Literally, yesteryear... just a couple of weeks ago before you turned one. Baths have gone from delightful playtimes to a nuisance interrupting your day.

Sometimes at night you cry so much that the national translators living in the dorm behind our house come to check on you. Your voice rockets across the yard between our buildings and assails them as they're trying to have a relaxing evening. I'm fairly certain they think I'm a shockingly negligent mother, but it's too hard to explain to a group of Papua New Guinean men that I let you cry in the evening and at night because I know your determination and your end game: holding off sleep. You're learning to put yourself to sleep and this is how I believe you will succeed in that. So instead of worrying about being seen by our Papua New Guinean coworkers as a "good mother" I've chosen to accept the title of "mediocre mother" and appreciate the fact that they already care about you. Care about you to the point of making sure your Mom and Dad aren't sleeping through your 11pm fit.

But in the end, putting both the good and the bad together, you were made for Madang. I love watching you interact with people as we toodle around town. I love watching you sponge up all your surroundings, from the small piece of dirt on the floor to the black bats swirling above the house. I love watching you grow up and touch people where you are. Above all, I love watching God answer all the prayers from home for you and your transition into life in PNG.