Children.

They peer over my wall and knock on my gate.

They holler at the white children,

calling their names and garbling the one into, “Tyloh” 

and mimicking the baby’s pronunciation of hers, “Sosia.”

They ask for oranges. Lots of oranges. Today we pitched some over the wall as we were picking them from two of our six orange trees, throwing them to the voices across the wall.

They laughed and stashed them in their clothes.

Then they asked for more, disguising their voices

and lying because they wanted more oranges 

but Madame Sara said, “But I already gave you two.”

“That was my friend asking,” said the same voice. “Give me three orange!”

Children.

There are little ones playing together.

The two little girlies are pretending to make supper and feed their babies.

One, our guest, is blonde as can be. The other is brown-haired and she is mine.

So is the boy who watches them boy-like, then makes some manly concoction of his own.

But not for dolls.

Ho no! His is for himself.

Children.

I wondered what in the world I was doing, taking these children of mine across the world.

Weren’t they going to hate it all?

I looked at them from the comfort of my American home and wondered.

I even cried a little.

Weren’t they going to be hot all the time?

These are the children who fuss about being hot and grow miserable when they sweat.

Wouldn’t the strangers who lean into their faces trying to getting a reaction from them scare my little darling who has such a big personal space and who was timid around her own, loving grandpa she rarely sees?

These are children who thrive in normalcy.

If the crib side was lowered for her nap, it nearly ruined her sleep 

because she always slept with it up.

And he, the big, brave brother, panicked one day when the van got started before his seat belt was fastened. What was he going to think in a land where car seats aren’t?

And the food. Oh, the food.

These are the children who hate mashed potatoes,

and macaroni and cheese,

and cheesy potatoes,

and egg casseroles

and pudding.

Whatever will they do with food of those textures

but that are fermented and served with a spicy soup?

Parents told me children are adaptable, trying to reassure me.

But I hadn’t seen my children be adaptable.

(Unless you count the Little One eventually adjusting to the crib side being down.)

I was worried how they would do.

And then we moved.

You know my children?

The ones in my imagination crying because they had no car seats

are laughing.

They bounce nearly uncontrollably off the seat on ill-maintained roads

where humps have formed new contours and where bumps make the shocks grimace.

They watch each other and laugh.

They are laughing in the taxis and smiling in the trotro (taxi vans).

They wave out the windows, delighted that so many people wave back.

The child who cried in his bed in America because his back was hot

comes to me grinning, asking, “Are my cheeks red?”

“Yes, they are very red. Why is that?”

“Because I’m trying to catch lizards, that’s why. Feel my hair.”

I can see that it is wet from sweat and decline. “Ew, no thanks!”

He laughs, his eyes sparkling. “It is because I’m playing so much.”

There have been no tears because he’s hot.

Not even when his back is forming little red bumps all over.

Surely the people will make the Littlest One scared.

I mean, she cried when her very own uncles pick her up.

 “How ah you?!” someone asked her in that forceful manner of theirs.

She looked away shyly and quietly said, “Doing well.”

The woman didn’t hear.

“Look at her and say, ‘I’m fine.’” I coached. (‘Fine’ is the appropriate answer here.)

She obeyed without crying.

The people cheered.

She looked up at me and I smiled, proud and astonished all at the same time.

There are more hard things to grow familiar with.

The children asked why we weren’t turning the lights on

but we couldn’t; the electricity was off. . .again.

We explained to them that it wasn’t our turn for electricity.

Ghana shares its electricity with its neighbor (Togo) and there isn’t enough to go around.

So we are sharing.

That made perfect sense to a five and three-year-old 

who are learning to live peacefully together.

They took our word for it and went about their day.

The house felt dark and un-homey to me, almost gloomy. 

Then I walked into the room and saw them playing.

He was sitting on the couch, looking (squinting?) at a book.

She was by a window, playing, and talking quietly to her toys.

They didn’t seem to mind the dusky house.

That was the day we bought spring rolls as a treat.

I was drooling over them before we ever got them home.

But when we bit in to them, we were disappointed to find they were filled

with spaghetti noodles and nothing else.

Tyler asked, "Is this cheese?"

It wasn't.

But he thought it was a great way to eat pasta.

And he ate it happily.

(However, I noticed ‘Banku,’ the fermented corn dough didn’t go down so great.

Next time I’ll need to make my own soup that isn’t so spicy it makes our noses run.

Maybe then they can get past the texture and enjoy the soup, at least.)

How are they doing so well?

It could be that all those parents were right when they said God did a little miracle

by making children adaptable.

Or it could be that their adjustments will still come,

that I was looking for their hardest things in all the wrong places.

Or it could be that God has been answering the prayers of all the people

I asked to pray for the children (and their mom).

Whatever it is, I’m so grateful to God for these days

when my children are so happy

--even in Africa where I thought it was going to be hard for them.

Thank You, God, for exceeding my expectations.