Thursday we were reunited with our babies and it was probably the happiest moment of my trip. I can't put into words how much I love these kids and how excited I am to go to my placement every day. I especially love my three little babies: Sveta, Masha, and Rita. They have such silly little personalities and have started smiling every time they see us walking into a room. The funniest part about these babies is that despite the fact that it's a good 80 degrees outside most days, it seems like their caregivers didn't get the memo and dress them in a million layers of flannel and fleece and like 50 hats. This week, it seems, someone donated a bunch of silly little bear onesies complete with little hoods and tiny bear ears on them so not only did they look like their normal rollie-pollie selves, but now it looked like we were being attacked by a heard of tiny, slow-moving bears. This was also when we convinced ourselves that our virtual matryoshka doll of Svetas should have a day where they all wear matching sweaters because after hours of cutting grass with scissors and talking to babies you'll find just about anything hilarious.
Upon arrival back at the home base, we had another one of our wonderful yet anxiety-producing Russian lessons with Natasha. SIDE NOTE: This week we've found out that the Russian lessons are not actually supposed to be as ridiculously hard and confusing as they are. We are just the lucky ones who get taught by a new teacher who wants to use her own lesson plans.
I realize that this is the first time I've written about them despite the fact that we've had them every other day for the past two weeks, but I'm pretty sure that's because when they end, we all go upstairs and slip into mini-comas and then wake up and pretend they never happened. Which is probably also what Natasha does too because teaching us is kind of like trying to teach a pack of gerbils to do backflips and being met only by blank stares and noises that sound like what you make to a mechanic when you're trying to describe what your dying car sounds like. Then after every lesson, we have to explain to her that we're really not a bunch of buffoons. I don't think she buys it. I wouldn't either.
Upon arrival back at the home base, we had another one of our wonderful yet anxiety-producing Russian lessons with Natasha. SIDE NOTE: This week we've found out that the Russian lessons are not actually supposed to be as ridiculously hard and confusing as they are. We are just the lucky ones who get taught by a new teacher who wants to use her own lesson plans.
I realize that this is the first time I've written about them despite the fact that we've had them every other day for the past two weeks, but I'm pretty sure that's because when they end, we all go upstairs and slip into mini-comas and then wake up and pretend they never happened. Which is probably also what Natasha does too because teaching us is kind of like trying to teach a pack of gerbils to do backflips and being met only by blank stares and noises that sound like what you make to a mechanic when you're trying to describe what your dying car sounds like. Then after every lesson, we have to explain to her that we're really not a bunch of buffoons. I don't think she buys it. I wouldn't either.
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