The Big Bap But
written November 20, 2007
So yep, the kids at Bap are cute. Each child at Bap is so special. At church today, I was looking at their faces— freshly cleaned, smiling, singing, listening to the preacher—and I was so overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of it all that I felt like crying. Each one of them is such a little miracle.
But, put all those little miracle children together, and well, unfortunately it’s a different story. For a good percentage of my time at Bap, my mind is like a broken record, replaying the same four-word sentence over and over. I try to push it out by willing myself to chill, by trying to focus on the beauty of each little human, by calmly proclaiming Serenity Now :) ...you name it. But those four words just pop right back in. Try as I may, for most of the day I can think of nothing other than: “This is f*cking pandemonium.”
If I didn’t know better, sometimes I’d say that the kids are crawling up the walls, hanging from the ceilings, falling from the sky. I’d swear that they each had a clone, that there are double the number of kids that I intellectually know there to be. Because that’s how it feels in my head.
One of my favorite activities at Bap is doing the dishes. (Perhaps only my immediately family will know how truly telling this statement really is.) The other day I was standing at the sink washing the lunch bowls with the usual, astoundingly earsplitting din of the Baby House in the background—a cacophony of screaming babies and toddlers (dozens of them!), plus several conversations amongst the staff mamas at curiously loud decibel levels, plus GuGu (one of the staff mamas) belting out a gospel hymn. (Why she chooses such moments of chaos to belt out a hymn is beyond me. I know it’s a hymn, but she doesn’t do it out of exasperation. It’s not some plea for help from above. Nope, she’s fine. I appear to be the only one in the room that is taking any notice of the chaos.)
I was deep in my usual pandemonium mantra when Henriet (a fellow volunteer) walked up, grabbed some bowls to dry, and confided “I am really going to have a hard time leaving here. I have decided to come back next year, and maybe volunteer for a whole year. I’m just so attached to these kids.” She gave me a really big happy smile, and looked to me expectantly, awaiting my cheery statement of concurrence. But before I could say anything, she got called away by a staff mama.
Standing there alone at the sink, I suddenly imagined Warren right there with me, next to me, laughing hysterically—laughing at how loud it was, laughing at all my little attempts to make peace with the chaos, laughing at the whole preposterous scene (Betsy shrinking over in the corner at the sink while everyone else is buzzing around taking no notice of the chaos.)
And I laughed with him. It truly is funny--funny how loud it is, how utterly chaotic it is. This experience has validated my hypothesis that while Betsy plus kids can equal fun, Betsy plus kids plus chaos...not so much.
So…the verdict
I’ve probably received a dozen emails over the past month asking if I like it at the orphanage. I haven’t been checking email, so sorry to have left you in suspense. The answer: Sometimes 'yes', sometimes 'no'. And that’s been true pretty much since day one.
But I’m fine with it. Really. I have two weeks left at Bap, and that’s fine. I really like the volunteers I work with, and one-on-one, the kids really are adorable. And I’m not at all upset with myself for signing up to come in the first place. Since Warren died I have been really gentle with myself. If I want to sit on the couch all day: okay. If I want read the same book three times: sounds good. If I decide to travel half way around the world to do something, and then end up not liking it 100% of the time: oh well.
I have recently told the other volunteers about “the phrase” and about how I sometimes feel about being here. I was hesitant to say anything before because I didn’t want to rain on their parade. They all LOVE being with the kids and are so glad they came. (Again, I appear to be the only one overcome by chaos!)
And, at the times when chaos rules the playround, I simply fake enthusiasm around the kids because, heck, they're kids and they deserve nothing but HAPPY from me. [As a volunteer I, of course, am not in a position to make any structural changes to address the chaos.]
I figure as long as the kids are happy, my work here has been successful regardless of any menacing phrases floating around my head. :)
So yep, the kids at Bap are cute. Each child at Bap is so special. At church today, I was looking at their faces— freshly cleaned, smiling, singing, listening to the preacher—and I was so overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of it all that I felt like crying. Each one of them is such a little miracle.
But, put all those little miracle children together, and well, unfortunately it’s a different story. For a good percentage of my time at Bap, my mind is like a broken record, replaying the same four-word sentence over and over. I try to push it out by willing myself to chill, by trying to focus on the beauty of each little human, by calmly proclaiming Serenity Now :) ...you name it. But those four words just pop right back in. Try as I may, for most of the day I can think of nothing other than: “This is f*cking pandemonium.”
If I didn’t know better, sometimes I’d say that the kids are crawling up the walls, hanging from the ceilings, falling from the sky. I’d swear that they each had a clone, that there are double the number of kids that I intellectually know there to be. Because that’s how it feels in my head. One of my favorite activities at Bap is doing the dishes. (Perhaps only my immediately family will know how truly telling this statement really is.) The other day I was standing at the sink washing the lunch bowls with the usual, astoundingly earsplitting din of the Baby House in the background—a cacophony of screaming babies and toddlers (dozens of them!), plus several conversations amongst the staff mamas at curiously loud decibel levels, plus GuGu (one of the staff mamas) belting out a gospel hymn. (Why she chooses such moments of chaos to belt out a hymn is beyond me. I know it’s a hymn, but she doesn’t do it out of exasperation. It’s not some plea for help from above. Nope, she’s fine. I appear to be the only one in the room that is taking any notice of the chaos.)
I was deep in my usual pandemonium mantra when Henriet (a fellow volunteer) walked up, grabbed some bowls to dry, and confided “I am really going to have a hard time leaving here. I have decided to come back next year, and maybe volunteer for a whole year. I’m just so attached to these kids.” She gave me a really big happy smile, and looked to me expectantly, awaiting my cheery statement of concurrence. But before I could say anything, she got called away by a staff mama.
Standing there alone at the sink, I suddenly imagined Warren right there with me, next to me, laughing hysterically—laughing at how loud it was, laughing at all my little attempts to make peace with the chaos, laughing at the whole preposterous scene (Betsy shrinking over in the corner at the sink while everyone else is buzzing around taking no notice of the chaos.)
And I laughed with him. It truly is funny--funny how loud it is, how utterly chaotic it is. This experience has validated my hypothesis that while Betsy plus kids can equal fun, Betsy plus kids plus chaos...not so much.
So…the verdict
I’ve probably received a dozen emails over the past month asking if I like it at the orphanage. I haven’t been checking email, so sorry to have left you in suspense. The answer: Sometimes 'yes', sometimes 'no'. And that’s been true pretty much since day one.
But I’m fine with it. Really. I have two weeks left at Bap, and that’s fine. I really like the volunteers I work with, and one-on-one, the kids really are adorable. And I’m not at all upset with myself for signing up to come in the first place. Since Warren died I have been really gentle with myself. If I want to sit on the couch all day: okay. If I want read the same book three times: sounds good. If I decide to travel half way around the world to do something, and then end up not liking it 100% of the time: oh well.
I have recently told the other volunteers about “the phrase” and about how I sometimes feel about being here. I was hesitant to say anything before because I didn’t want to rain on their parade. They all LOVE being with the kids and are so glad they came. (Again, I appear to be the only one overcome by chaos!)
And, at the times when chaos rules the playround, I simply fake enthusiasm around the kids because, heck, they're kids and they deserve nothing but HAPPY from me. [As a volunteer I, of course, am not in a position to make any structural changes to address the chaos.]
I figure as long as the kids are happy, my work here has been successful regardless of any menacing phrases floating around my head. :)