Here at Last

Home.

Or something like it.

I don’t think home is a place, really. It can be, but it isn’t always. Sometimes home is a person, or several little persons, or a promise.

We’ve been here at the orphanage for a week and two days. In some ways it seems like we’ve been here forever, or like I never left.  In other ways time is fleeting, and the days fly past at the speed of light. 

The bus ride was much, much worse than I remember. Buh. The first half of the trip was blessedly devoid of the awful Zambian pop music that normally blares from the bus speakers, but when the drivers switched halfway through, it came on full blast.  We didn’t run over any goats or bikers or kids this time, so that was nice. David, Emily, and I had seats next to each other. The bus seats are Zambian-man sized, and David is not a Zambian man. His knees were right up against the seat in front of him, and that was before the nice lady sitting in it reclined it. Then we discovered that his seat was broken and wouldn’t recline, so he basically spent 12+ hours hunched over with his knees halfway to his chest… Eventually I switched seats with him so he could at least stretch his legs into the aisle, so I can vouch for the incredibly uncomfortable ride provided by the non-reclining window seat.

When we (FINALLY) arrived at Kazembe, I made sure the rest of our party made it off the bus first. Then I battled my way out. Peter, a man who works at the orphanage whom I consider a very dear friend, pushed his way through the crowd and greeted me with a smile, half handshake, and hug that warmed my very soul.  He loaded the baggage into a taxi while all of us began the walk up the long hill to the orphanage. It was all I could do to keep from going at an all-out sprint.  About thirty yards from the front door, a nanny, Lizzy, came leaping out. She screamed my name and we embraced, and the joy grew a little bit more. Then I stepped through the entryway.  The littlest ones were sitting around the courtyard. There were a few new baby faces—Naomi, Joseph, and Michael—that I knew only from pictures and stories. Most of the nannies were unfamiliar as well.

Then a voice. Johnny’s.

“AUNTIE MEGHAN! YOU’RE HERE!”

The kinders (they’re actually first graders now) all rushed out behind him. I held my arms open wide, and they leapt down the steps. The next thing I remember, I was staring up at the leaves of the mango tree, smothered in hugs and kisses and maybe a few tears, though I think those were all mine.

I finally reluctantly extricated myself from the pile, and Jasmine showed us to our rooms. I dumped my stuff off and made my way to the nursery. I picked up baby Michael and instantly became concerned. Though fully awake, he was listless and a little limp. Something just wasn’t right. While not severely malnourished by any stretch of the term, he was certainly underweight and on the brink of dehydration. He had trouble closing his eyelids all the way.  I increased his feeding amount and personally made sure he was getting it all down (if you don’t burp him really well every 50 ml, he scowls a little and then projectile vomits all over you…) After about three days of TLC, his whole demeanor changed. He is quickly gaining weight and is an exceptionally cuddly and happy little baby.

I’ll end with a highly amusing story. Henry, one of the kindergarteners, is my new little shadow.  He repeats EVERYTHING I say in his thick little Bemba accent (I imagine it’s what Arnold Schwarzenneger would sound like if he had grown up in Zambia), which is probably why when I read them a bedtime story last night, he sent me off with, “Okay, baby. Goodnight sweetheart. I love you so much.”

Goodnight sweetheart. I love you too.