Family is everything in Colombia. So, as a 53-year old white woman, I am frequently asked, “How many children do you have?”
“None,” I say.
This is never a satisfactory response. In fact, many people assume I misunderstood the question entirely, so they follow up with the same question. When I repeat the same response, a perplexed look comes across their face, typically followed by a look of pity.
“But why?” they want to know.
“I’m allergic to children,” I tell them. Once again, they assume I did not understand the question, or that my language skills are so terrible that I don’t realize what I am saying. Because in Colombia, not having children is not an option for women like me. And being allergic to children – well – that’s not even possible.
An elderly neighbor pulled me aside once to express her profound sadness at my barrenness. When I explained that being child-free was my choice, she was stunned into silence for a moment before recovering. It was clear she didn’t even believe her own words when she patted my hand and told me, “Well, if it is your decision, I guess it is okay.” Then she walked away, shaking her head.
Despite declaring my allergy to children to Peace Corps staff, I was somehow placed with a family that has two young children: Sebastian, a 9-year-old boy, and a 6-year-old old girl named Nicole. Both are energetic, curious, and talkative. They are (mostly) well-behaved and eager to help me with anything and everything, whether or not I want it. They guide me around town, introduce me to neighbors, show me the proper way to sweep and mop, and demonstrate an immense amount of patience with my toddler-level Spanish skills.
The boy is a keen observer and rapid learner, particularly in the kitchen. The minute I open my bedroom door each weekend morning, he leaps into action to make my daily coffee. He pulls out a pot from the cabinet and places it on the stove to boil water. He pulls a chair over so he can retrieve my AeroPress, which is stored on top of the refrigerator. He takes the coffee container out of the freezer, assembles the puzzle-like coffee contraption on top of my favorite coffee cup, and carefully measures exactly one scoop of grounds, which he transfers into the brewing chamber. When the water boils, he pours it slowly over the grounds before stirring the black slurry with the special stirring paddle. He then steps onto the kitchen stool for leverage, inserts the rubbery end of the plunger into the top of the brewing chamber, and firmly places both hands atop the plunger.
This is my cue to hold the coffee cup steady while he presses the plunger with all his 9-year-old might. Once the black liquid is extracted into the coffee cup, he retrieves the small pouch of creamer from the refrigerator door, squeezes just enough into my cup to turn my coffee the perfect shade of brown, and stirs it with a spoon. He watches intently while I take the first sip and pronounce it “perfecto.”
To be honest, I would rather make the coffee myself, as it is a ritual I deeply enjoy. But I remind myself that I make my own coffee five days a week, and it would be cruel to deny him the satisfaction of helping on Saturdays and Sundays. Sometimes I insist that he allow his younger sister to help as well. This is a challenge for him, as he bristles at the sight of her doing anything less than perfectly in his eyes. He regularly removes objects from her hands to complete tasks the “right way.” I gently discourage this, reminding him that he once had to learn how to do things for himself, and that she also needs to learn for herself. He reluctantly agrees, despite the fact that it visibly pains him to do so.
Sebastian never misses an opportunity to explain things to me. He “taught” me to read an oven timer, despite having never seen one before. When I said I needed to travel to the next town to get cash because there was no ATM in our pueblo, he insisted I could get cash at the satellite bank office his parents use. (I could not, because it is a different bank.) When I explained that it would take me more than three hours to reach another volunteer’s town because I needed to change buses in Tunja, he incorrectly corrected me, confidently explaining that I could take a bus directly from our town to her city. Even after his mother told him there was no direct bus, he continued to insist that he was right.
He was not right. In fact, he is often wrong, but he is never in doubt. And while the mansplaining annoys me, I have to admit that I am impressed by – and slightly envious of – his confidence.
On a recent walk into the campo with both kids and the family dog, Mono, Sebastian named and described all the local flora while Nicole picked flowers to give to me. With every pocket, buttonhole, and both hands filled with flowers, I became increasingly frustrated that she continued handing me more. But I couldn’t bring myself to make her stop. Instead, I suggested that we make art together. When a flat rock presented itself on the side of the path, the three of us collaborated on a flower arrangement. Mono promptly peed on it, much to Nicole’s chagrin. A few minutes later, we created another arrangement against a fence post, which the dog also christened. But this time, she found it hilarious, realizing that we could always pick more flowers and make more art. And I found that I was enjoying myself immensely, showing no signs of allergic reaction to these children.
Perhaps the Peace Corps staff knew that exposure therapy was just the medicine I needed.
