Thoughts From Faux-Motherhood

This blog is an odd one- I wasn't even going to upload except that my parents though it wouldn't be a bad idea, in amongst all the travel writing, to remind everyone what I am actually doing here. The blogs I write about my adventures are one day out of a hundred, the vast majority of my time has been spent building and maintaining a home for vulnerable and as-risk children. This is not only where I work, it is also where I live, and in a country where I arrived knowing no-one it is not too much of a stretch to suggest that this house has become my family home. Anyway I am sure most of my blogs are more for me than others but this one is certainly no crowd pleaser. It is just a person reflecting on some other smaller people who wiggled their way into her heart...

I am by no means a mother- I am not an aunt, I am not even a big sister. As a young child I was never really surrounded by other children and as a teen I never babysat. Yet now I find myself surrounded by children and coming to some realisations that perhaps others have been born to. I would not be so presumptuous as to suggest that I raise the children in my care- I spend most of my time in the office and I have a great team of nannies who look after the children on a day-to-day basis. And yet I don’t think any one nanny would suggest it was she who was raising the children either- perhaps then, it seems something more like a collective nurturing than a one-on-one formation. So I hope to that end, I play my part in the raising of the 6 babies and 2 older boys I live with who are teaching me more about life, myself and the world than I ever thought possible. All that while I struggle to teach them how to stand, wee in a toilet or read.

Creating a family...

I never imagined all the love you could feel for a child when they turn their face to yours and look into your eyes. Their gaze is unadulterated by mistrust, bitterness or selfishness and is just an open request for love in return. They demand endless patience, but in such a way that there is no other option available to you and so, without effort, your patience stretches and grows in a way you would never allow it to do for other adults, or even yourself. The babies trust you implicitly- throwing themselves into your arms or at your feet and never questioning whether or not you will be there to catch them. It makes me wonder at what age we learn to doubt one-another and retreat into ourselves.

My domain is on the ground floor. Here lies my room and bathroom, the volunteer dorm, the kitchen, stock rooms and the office. But upstairs- up there is a magical kingdom where pure, unadulterated emotion and the rapid progress of the young reigns supreme. At the top of the stairs is a wooden slatted gate and as you ascend the babies seem to sense your presence. I have never in all my life felt so loved and valued as when I reach that gate. Six tiny pairs of legs canter toward me and six faces, upturned and giggling in delight, press themselves against the gate. When they see you, depending on who it is, they always try to please you. Some point at you, a trick my mother taught them, some sing “salu” and some are just so overcome by joy at your arrival that they cannot contain the bubbling giggle that can only come from someone so innocent and full of happiness.

Baby bath time...

That is not to say our house doesn’t have it’s ups and downs and it is their total trust and adoration that makes it so hard to be the bad guy, which I am afraid is exactly my role. As the director and head of the house it is all of the nasty jobs that land at my feet. Recently the children were all ill, as is the way when young children live together, and it was me who had to give them their medicines. All my hopes for happy faces sucking on the medication pipette disappeared that first afternoon and for over a week I had to force feed medication to children who were so confused, so hurt, so utterly miserable at my betrayal that I actually began to feel ashamed of myself as I mounted the stairs each morning with the medicine bag. I knew I was doing them good, and that I had to play my part but that feeling of their eyes upon me as they cried and struggled- knowing they blamed me for their discomfort and sadness, it broke my heart- and then it broke my heart all over again when it was me they wanted a cuddle from after the ordeal that I inflicted to comfort them.

Loving a child can seem so selfless but I have come to the realisation that in reality it is more than a little selfish too. If I have had a hard day, say visited a family in distress, had a tough visit at the prison, been frustrated by bureaucracy- all I have to do is go upstairs and lie on the terrace staring at the sky and within 30 seconds one of the babies will realise I am there and throw themselves on me giggling and laughing and wanting a hug- closely followed by the other 5. How can you be sad in such a circumstance? How can you not suddenly find your whole existence put into perspective when you see how utterly reliant these children are on those around them- those that we have chosen to have around them, and how much they need you, not just to feed and bathe them, but to love them and allow them to love you back.

Hakima making me smile. 

Babies skyping me when I was sick...

I find the older boys more challenging. More in need of formation as well as love. They have had hard lives, experienced things no one should ever have to, and they rely on us to love them, yes, but also to guide them, to rework the habits of the years, to give them boundaries and create opportunities for them. They need us to prove ourselves to them, prove that we are trustworthy and solid, their love is not unconditional and their trust must be earned. They challenge me every day to live up to the standards I set for them. In order to fulfil my role as their guide, disciplinarian and entertainer- reliable and consistent- I must be more than comes easily to me. I must keep my word, even on things that seem silly to me, I must hold my tongue in the face of their folly and remember the context from which is was born. Their trust is hard earned and easily lost and too harsh a tone can set you back weeks. And yet they love me, and I love them too- they trust my judgement, they seek my approval and suddenly I am looking at two young men and wondering when I became old enough, woman enough, to have taken on this role.

A trip to the beach with the boys...

Teaching the boys to swim- or at least not to drown...

Christmas with the boys...

I do love the children. I am not ashamed or afraid to say it. My heart is full with thoughts of their futures, their potential, their boundless opportunities. And yet I know I must leave them. I worry for them and I worry for me. What will they think when I say goodbye? Will they be angry? Disappointed? Betrayed? Will they even notice? And what about me? Can you take, so wholly into your heart, a family whose wellbeing has been your every thought and action, and then just walk away in tact and without consequence. I know these things are far away yet but if I feel like this already what will another year do.

In the time I have had them I have seen children take first steps, say first words, meet first friends. We have shared birthdays and Christmas and vacations together and they have been my whole world. How much more will we share before my time is up? How can anyone, if they really considered my position, ask me whether I am excited about coming home? No. The answer is that I am terrified. I am scared of what will happen to my soul when life forces me to walk away from those who have become the very centre of my world. My work is this family and here this family is all I have.  They have become my life and my heart and I am so grateful for them every single day- even when they won’t stop screaming or fighting or misbehaving. No one told me this would happen and it isn’t just with a person or two, it is with a whole houseful.

To learn more about La Maison d'Arnaud and to keep up to date with the children's antics please like our Facebook page at 'The Arnaud Guesry Foundation' or read the weekly blog on our website at www.arnaudguesryfoundation.org

Watching the monsoon...