I never really took the time to try to like kids.

The moment I met the 2-year old of my hosting family, I knew it was not going to work. She was this little pink blond drama queen, who hated me from the moment we met. On my first day, I forbid her not to climb on the kitchen while I was cooking, resulting in a concert of dry tears.

Crying children who have no tears should not be taken seriously.

Little did I know, that for her age, she was quite independent. The parents already had done a great job to educate her as it should be: by themselves and not by a stranger who has to manage ten toddlers at once. In addition, they invited foreigners for a free farm-stay to teach her English.
Since I never really had the urge to give attention to any child that I have crossed in my life so far, I preferred to occupy myself by taking care of the family as a whole.

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Nevertheless, sometimes I could not avoid having to keep an eye on her. Even though I stayed strict but fair, she started to like me. When I played with her, I could perfectly put myself into her shoes and flow together to our own little imaginary cloud.

I even started to like it, because our worlds were not so far from each other after all.

Playing with this mini-human, feeding her, cleaning her poop and teaching English, had made me think twice about my eternal resentment for children.

On my last day, she shouted my name; still without being able to pronounce the ‘r’. She spread her arms in the air suggesting I should take her up. She took my amulet and opened it successfully for the first time while babbling some words in English that I had taught her. I was enormously proud of her and my heart melted of the overdoses cuteness this child was enchanting me with.

She did not understand it would be the last time we would see each other, and definitely not that she made me to get to know a part of me I never really have given the chance to acquaint with.

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