Tie a cord around his legs, and he'll still kick the bucket.

I only have one class today. That is my excuse for writing.
I feel I need to excuse my hypocritical ways.

There's a first for everything. And that's what the past 48 hours have been filled with. It started with my finally asking Rebecca, "Is it okay if I wear trousers to bed?" because night gowns are ridiculous. So 2 nights ago was my first time wearing sweat-capris to bed, and man, was it blissful.
On a more upsetting note, today could possibly have been the first time I've left a house without brushing my teeth. I woke up at 8 and basically ran out the door. I blame the capris; I am sleeping too soundly.

Speaking of sleeping too soundly, I heard a certain phrase for the first time yesterday, and it was the first time my guinea pig laugh escaped while in Africa. That's a lie: Becca is hilarious, and so hurts my abs. But it was the first time I laughed that hard with my family, to the point of needing to catch my breath. I was asking Rebecca how she slept the night before. She told me, "I slept like...an embryo." Oh my goodness; I lost it. She explained, after my repeating it ten times and telling her I'm going to say it forever, that: babies don't really sleep through the night, so why say "I slept like a baby?" And sleeping like an angel isn't any better; angels have to keep waking up to go rescue people. But embryos, on the other hand....

Another first. Death of the nkoko.
When I got home from school yesterday, I asked Mom, "Nkuyambe?", which means, "May I help?" She told me, "No, there is nothing. Right now he is killing the chicken." Well, gee. I put down my bookbag immediately and asked if I could watch. I didn't know what I was saying; I am much more impulsive here. The words "Can I watch?" coming out of the little kid who would cry and scream when her sister killed the ant in the kitchen right after she promised she wouldn't. I'm still dreading the day I run over my first squirrel. I know I'll lose it.
But I went in the backyard and stood next to a boy I've never seen while he plucked all the feathers out (I missed the beheading). Frances the milkman's little boy, Martin, was also standing and watching. Martin, who is 5 I think, was holding a bloody knife in one hand, and the chicken's head in the other. I laughed, thinking of his age-mate, my cousin Tyler, and what he would look like holding the same.
It was sweet to watch. While he broke off the legs, blood poured out of the severed neck. I'm laughing while I write this. It's just too much.

The death of the chicken ushered me into the "first" I have been waiting for. Breakthrough with Martin. Gloria has gone to school, I think--this I am guessing because I haven't seen her this week, and last time I saw her, her head was newly shaven. (During school years, the girls must have short hair). And I really want to play with the kids, yet the others can't get over the Mzungu factor. I'm famous, not a playmate.
But Martin. While we watched the chicken's plucking, he started using that bloody knife to cut tiny fruits/seeds off a tree for me. Just to play with. He eventually made a running motion and said a Luganda word, so I think he wanted to race. We ran around the backyard for a bit, Martin chasing the calf, and me chasing Martin. He doesn't know English, so most of our communication was imitation. Us stealing each other's flip-flops (slippers), spinning in circles, and rolling on the ground. The rest was like a movie. This little boy saying no words because I can't understand them anyway, ten feet ahead of me, making the motion for "Come." Sometimes he would say "jangu." Other times he just put his hand out and clapped his fingers down. It's like a baby wave, and it means "Follow me", essentially. He led me all around the yard, under and over the wooden bars of the cow stall, and to a corner where you can peer between cracks in the bricks (of the walls that surround our yard).
At one point, a bit after we danced together, he jumped up and down and pumped his arms. He was making a squirting noise with his mouth. I thought he was still dancing, but wasn't too sure--until I put two and two together: the squirting noise, the pumping motion, and the cow standing directly behind him. It was time to milk Kwagala, and Martin was ecstatic. I said "Oh, mata," which means milk, and that was the extent of our understanding.
But watching Frances milk? Another first.

I realize I am falling in love with the food. Who would've thought? Josephine and John came over for dinner last night (Josephine leaves for the Netherlands for 5 months this Sunday--studying abroad), and we basically had a feast. (The newly-killed chicken being a main factor). I've finally been giving myself regular portions, instead of eating very little. Huntington stood over my plate and said, "It looks like Danielle has finally come to Africa." Granted, this was 11:30 at night. I had a banana for lunch. I was hungry.
Today in class I was looking at a drawing I made in my book last week. A grotesque face, complete with moles and empty eye sockets, eating a whole load of stick people. Flames in the background. On the bottom I wrote: "If matoke had a face." But I'm beginning to think my relationship with matoke is similar to my relationship with cats. One minute I will say, quite firmly, that I hate it, and three minutes later I am petting the thing (or eating it). But I don't eat cats. A.L.F. does.

On a more depressing note, four people died in Mukono yesterday, and Huntington watched it. He told us, "Today was bad. I saw people die." Taxi accident at a nearby gas station. Brake failure had it running into the pumps and one huge metal thing slicing through the van. Goodness.

In that same conversation, I realized that I need to come back here. At least someday. I don't think I can bear never seeing this family again. There was Mom, sitting outside with Huntington, Rebecca, Jospehine, and me, excitedly talking about the football (soccer) game that was going on inside. You could probably hear Aida and Irene's cheers down the street. Mom waved her hands while she talked: "Me? Those are not real goals, those penalties. It is only the goal-keeper. I love it when they kick a goal with everyone running," and then she squealed.
When I said goodnight and goodbye to Josephine, I knew she wasn't coming back from the Netherlands until June. This is only the second time I have seen Josephine; the first was at Mom's birthday party. Yet I had to walk out of the room really quickly so I wouldn't cry when I told her goodbye. I can't imagine what it will be like in April, saying goodbye to this family. I am totally in love.

Jenny wrote me an incredibly encouraging email after my last blog. About our deep gladness not necessarily being easy 24/7. It was so simple, so obvious, yet it really hadn't occurred to me. (And this is why I love my best friend). But our deep gladness should be deep enough to pursue even when it seems to suck; this is essentially what she said.
Emailing Daniel just now, at 3:11 my-side-of-America time, I realized that Mom, when I busted out of you, hah, at 3:11, do you even know what time it was in Africa? 11:11. As if the best number in the number line hadn't already won my heart.
That's deep gladness right there.

It is interesting to see the hands-on results of a short-term missions trip. As in, Rebecca got home late yesterday; she was at the dentist. What I had forgotten was that there is a team from Michigan here this week, providing free dental care to Mukono. First knowing my sister, and then seeing her come back from "the dentist" made it all very real for me. But what sucks:
Sharon and Caroline live with the Reverend of my church. They essentially invited the team to come or something; so the team had dinner at the Reverend's house Monday night. Caroline and Sharon made sloppy joes, to join the rest of the African-style feast they had prepared for "our most honored guests."
Tuesday at school, asking how the sloppyjoes went, we didn't get the expected response. Sharon and Caroline were so torn, so hurt, so offended by the team. Not in the matter of sloppy-joes. But in the matter of, "We were embarassed of them all night." I'm sure we're all guilty of it, going into a culture for only a few weeks, so our motives are different. We don't want to learn so much as we want to help. I guess it's not completely horrible, just naieve. But they said things at dinner that were inappropriate, insensitive, ungrateful. Making faces at the food, but cheering for the sloppyjoes. Asking the family very direct questions, but as if they were babies. Eew. But thanks for the dentistry.

Rebecca and I have a shopping date today. I am on a hunt for chicken broth. Spaetzles (Spechlies) are coming to Africa; Grandma, you'd be proud.
(Last night Rebecca said, "Sunday, we are going to Ohio.")