Trust

"Mamapapa mamapapa," says Álvaro. I am sitting in a tiny chair, coloring with a purple crayon, and he is standing beside me, his little hands on my leg. His eyes are watery, his face pink. He looks like a funny little man—short and stout, no neck to speak of, and a waddle for his walk. "Mamapapa," he says again. 

"I know, honey," I say. "Mommy's coming soon." I smile and hand him my crayon. He takes it, turns around and backs up into me, then tries to slide his tush up onto my leg. I pull him up by his armpits, settle him on my lap, and watch as he scribbles. "Oh my gosh! A purple circle! You're so good at this!" He smiles and scribbles again. And just like that, I've made my first friend here. 

I started assisting in my class of 25 three-year-olds last week. I've been in the classroom for only six days, but already my kids love me, much to my happiness. Getting a three-year-old to love you, I've quickly discovered, is one of the most efficient activities you can participate in: it's incredibly easy and incredibly rewarding. 

For most three-year-olds, trust is a default setting. When Álvaro saw my crayon offering him a pretty distraction, he immediately grabbed it. For him, and for almost all of them, trust isn't something you have to build. It's something they give right away—innocent until proven guilty in its purest form. 

For those of you who know how this summer started for me, you might understand why I have some trust issues. For those of you who don't, I'll just say that I was let down an overwhelming number of times in the span of two months. So when I received an email claiming a potential English Teaching Assistantship offer in Spain from the Fulbright Commission, my first thought was, Oh my God!!—but my second thought was, Where's the catch? 

I had applied for a Fulbright grant over a year ago and was wait-listed; I had given up hope of ever hearing from them back in June, which is why I applied for a different Teach in Spain program. Because of this, I was already in Spain with a visa, preparing to teach abroad for a year, when I got the email. So I couldn't help but wonder (forgive the Carrie Bradshaw-esque proposition): was this potential offer another disappointment waiting to happen? Or was it perfect? 

In answer, I'll say that I started last week with my Fulbright placement, and I've since learned that Álvaro, that same little no-necked cutie, doesn't listen to me one bit. He never sits in his seat when I ask him to, he plays with toys during story time, and he constantly gives me the false alarm of whispering "peepee" so that he can go splash his hands in the sink. But then he laughs and kisses me on my cheek, and I remember that he was my first friend. And Aitana kicks when she's angry, but then she calms down and uses her stethoscope to check my pulse (through my ear, of course). And Víctor, who always has a runny nose, gives the best hugs and knows how to say my name now (but still alternates between "mamá" and "Dani"). 

So, no, it's not perfect. But it's much closer to perfection than disappointment. I love my little boogery kids more than I could have imagined possible in six days. Some technicalities are still hanging over my head with the Fulbright scholarship, but I'm trying to focus on the good things that happen to me every day. And just like my little ones, I'm blindly grabbing on to those offering me help: to Elia, my wonderful principal, who has taken me into her home while I search for an apartment; to Isabel, the teacher whose classroom I assist in, who has quickly become a friend, a mentor, and a fantastic translator; to all the welcoming people at my school, who always smile in encouragement at my limited Spanish vocabulary.  

I still have some things to figure out, things that worry me sometimes. But right now, I know that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. So I'm just going to do what my kids do, and trust that it will all be okay at the end of the day. 

Thanks for reading. Love you and miss you!