This Reminds Me

Archive for the ‘Adoption’ Category

Shortly before Rachel started kindergarten, we attended a welcome-to-school party hosted by a family whose home included a large swimming pool.  For a still-unexplained reason, Rachel – who could not swim – leaped into the deep end.  I stood there absolutely incredulous as she bobbed to the surface, gasped, and promptly sunk.  In just a few seconds, I had slipped off my watch and my shoes and jumped in fully clothed to retrieve my child.

I didn’t rationalize her plight and minimize my own responsibility by saying, “Well, Rachel, I can’t save you because there may be a drowning child somewhere else, and really, what I need to be doing is dictating mandatory swimming lessons worldwide, and/or lobbying legislators to require 24×7 lifeguards at every body of water.”  No.  My child needed me.  I jumped.

Sometimes, children need to be saved.

This week, I’ve been both irritated and horrified at UNICEF’s war against international adoption. UNICEF seems to believe that the “answer” to the needs of orphans is to improve the conditions in their home countries so there’s no need for international adoptions.  How lofty.  How noble.  That kumbaya-chanting ideal assumes (1) that all global economic imbalances can be solved and (2) that all parents want custody of and/or are capable of caring for their children.

The day she left Children’s Home #47, Julia’s friends wished her to be happy, be healthy, remember Russia and obey her grandmother.  I play “what if” often – like, what if Keith and I were 10 years younger with a bucket’o'money?  Would we adopt again?  Look at those kids.  Oh, yes, we would.

Global economic imbalances are a harsh reality.  The world has been and will be – until Jesus returns – a place where “the poor will always be with us.” As a Christian and a human being, I am sorry for the families without clean water, or enough to eat.   And while I wish I could wave a magic wand and make – say,Ethiopia – a land of plenty, I can’t.   And even if I could, that doesn’t mean that every Ethiopian parent would want custody or or was capable of caring for children.

Modern adoption language discourages terms like “saving children.”  And we are never supposed to say children were “given up for adoption,” oh no, it’s “the bio parents made an adoption plan.”  I know all the now-correct language to use.  But really – I think 99% of that stuffola really only applies to in-country, US-adoptions, almost always with infants.  When you’re holding a cooing little bundle of blue in a U.S. hospital for whom you’ve waited years to fill that empty crib – great.  Be all correct in your language.  Get out the whole “birth triad” language book out and jabber away.

But when you are adopting internationally – especially when you have other children – oh, please!  All of it just makes me grit my teeth.  What is wrong with flat-out acknowledging that yes, you’re adopting – but at least part of your motivation is in saving a child?  I’ve spoken to families who pulled children out of hellish situations in Africa, Russia, South America, etc..  When a family adopts a scar-ravaged Colombian toddler removed from the custody of a bio mother that almost burned him to death – ‘cmon, that child was most definitely saved and there was no “adoption plan” made.  That family, BTW, had several bio children already.  I have a blogging buddy in Michigan I admire tremendously.  She and her husband had three bio kids before adopting a school-age girl from Russia.   Now they’re adopting a Ukrainian teenager set to age-out of the orphanage.  Statistics say he’ll have a short, bitter life of crime – assuming, of course, he doesn’t commit suicide soon, as 20% of those kids do.  Her family is not trying to solve the poverty problem in the Ukraine.  They can’t.  They’re just going to rescue a little 15-year-old piece of it.

Fixing a whole country is just too big.  The families I know that have adopted intentionally can’t do that as individuals, and don’t believe it’s the job of the United States to shoulder world reform.   But they feel called to do “something.”  So – like most of us – they do what they can.

UNICEF’s answer to the orphan is, “We’ll get your whole country fixed and then your parents can keep you.  You’ll have no need to be adopted intentionally.  Wait.  Just wait.”

But children – as we all know – can’t wait.

Sometimes, you just have to jump in and save them.

Most adoptive families celebrate “Gotcha Day” – an acknowledgement of when a child joined a family.   Instead of “Gotcha Day,” we celebrate “Sisters Day,” recognizing when our family was completed by the addition of the fourth and final sister, Julia, then age six, from St. Petersburg, Russia.

We’ve not traveled for Sisters Day since our first celebration in 2007.   Five years home – it was time.   So at the girls’ request, we had a weekend in Austin – about 90 miles north of us, but oh-so-different.

“Keep Austin Weird” is more than a slogan – it’s a commitment.  Often described as “Texas’ Left Coast” or “The Third Coast,” Austin is a mecca for aging hippies, today’s hipsters, UT students in shorts, lawmakers and lobbyists in suits – and all manner of folk in between.   Julia didn’t really care about the slogan.  She just likes tie-dyed clothes. 

As we’ve done before – everyone got to pick out a new book but this time at Book People – the largest independent book store in Texas.  Hannah surprised me with an autographed copy of Connie Rice’s  autobiography for Mothers Day – score!  Hannah – “Twilight – The Official Illustrated Guide.”  Rachel – “My Booky Wook” by Russell Brand.    Lois – “This is a Book” by Demetri Martin.  Julia – a book about crystals and gems, which I am hoping she can use to develop her fifth grade science project next year.   

A little iPod action while awaiting our lunch from Flip Happy Crepes, the trailer the girls and I visited last June sans Keith.   Everyone got something different, but mine was the best – fresh spinach with feta and garlic.  So, so good.  We also hit Cornucopia Gourmet Popcorn.

Trailer eateries have mushroomed in Austin.   This one – Hey Cupcake – sported a funny sign on its back door.

We took a two-hour cruise around Lake Lady Bird arriving back on shore with pink noses.   Julia was disappointed we weren’t kayaking with all the college students and their dogs.  The most interesting part of the cruise…

 ….was definitely passing under the Congress Avenue bridge, where 750K pregnant bats currently live in the cracks.   We couldn’t see them, but we could hear them “cheep,” and the smell?  Sort of like spoiled corn tortillas.  The tour guide warned us to keep our mouths closed.  The colony will grow to about 1.5M bats before they migrate in October, as they’ve done each year for decades.   We were interested because we knew we were coming back at dusk to see them fly out.  What a rush!

Not the world’s greatest video, but after all, it was dusk.  The swirling mass at the top of the tree line that looks like mosquitoes?  Those are bats.  Watch carefully for the flying specks as they come out from under the bridge.  They eat about 30K pounds of insects each night. 

 Really like this pictures.  I used the flash on my little waterproof Olympus and it highlighted their fluttering silhouettes.

I am fearful of Sisters Day become just “one more thing” with no real meaning.  So, through the weekend, I tried to spark some conversation with the girls about what was happening five years ago.  “This is the day Daddy and I left for Russia to get Julia.”  “Julia, do you remember the Neva River in St. Pete?”   “Hannah, you taught Julia to count to 10.  Do you think that’s why she’s so good in math now?”  Pretty much – that fizzled.  The girls are way more interested in what is than what was.   Julia usually acts politely bored when I bring up Russia, her birth mother, how she rolled her r’s when she came home, her asking for “cheese y bread,” etc.   From what I’ve read and the parents to whom I’ve spoken, that’s pretty normal.  The pendelum has swung one way; it’ll swing another in a few years (those delightful teen ones), then someday – if we’ve done our jobs right -  it’ll stop somewhere in the middle.

While the girls were celebrating Sisters Day, we squeezed in Mother’s Day, too.  It all goes together.  Without those sisters, I’m not a mother.   They’re talking about a “Ssisters Cruise” in several years, once college is behind them and – please Lord – they’re all gainfully employed.  Maybe I’ll be invited for that.  I would like that.  Because what I really want is for them to want to celebrate Sisters Day when I’m not around to remind them of it.  There is so much unhappiness in this world.  You have to take time to celebrate the happy things.

And celebrating the happy things are what sisters do best.

This week I shared a picture of myself with a co-worker I’ve never met.  After months of casual contact, we were getting better acquainted.

I shared one Rachel took Sunday of Julia and me in the church parking lot.

Rachel always takes better pictures than do I, even though I shoot a Nikon and she generally uses her iPod.  Sigh.

My co-worker’s comment on the picture?  “She (Julia) looks just like you.”

I didn’t tell her Julia was adopted.

I think as an adult, Julia is going to be what my grandmother called a “handsome woman.”  Not frilly, not fru-fru, but “handsome.”  She has the most incredibly beautiful tanned skin, dark brown hair with individual gold strands and a lithe athlete’s body.  Her eyes have a small slant that intrigues me.  I can’t take credit for a bit of that.

Rachel, Lois Hannah and I do look alike – or so I’ve been told.

Here are the girls on Easter Sunday -

Lois – 17; Hannah – 15; Rachel – 19; Julia – 11

And me at age 17 .  I’ve supplied half of the gene pool in which Rachel, Lois and Hannah swim.  Can you tell?

I was flattered my co-worker thinks Julia and I look alike.

But what I really want for my girls is not that anyone looks at them and sees me. I don’t want them to see impatience, fatigue and such limited understanding.

I want for them what the Apostle Paul spelled out in 2 Corinthians 3:18. I want people to look at my girls and see Jesus.

I want them to look like their real Maker.

Then I can try to look like them.

When we adopted Julia, we completed an agency survey and later a Russian questionnaire of our preferences for a child. Ours were pretty simple.  Girl, aged 4 – 8 with no serious physical, emotional or mental conditions.

We know our family.  With three older girls, we felt another girl had the best chance of attaching.  Aged 4 – 8 we felt was young enough to mold, distanced enough from Hannah and old enough for us to shepherd her into adulthood.  No serious medical, emotional or physical conditions – with both of us working outside the home, we weren’t seeking more of a challenge than we’d already have simply by adopting.  Ours was a faith journey, and while we were trusting God to sort it all out, we weren’t going to be foolish.  We weren’t going to say “any child” and be matched with a three-legged, 15-year-old pyromaniac.  We didn’t specify race because – based on the demographics of St. Pete – we figured our girl would look like some flavor of us.  Not a clone.  But close enough not to attract rude stares.  I grew up with a limbless brother and know how siblings are affected by one-offs.  I wasn’t going to willfully subject my kids to that sly scrutiny – period.

The adoption forums, blogs, etc. are stuffed with families’ preferences, many of which express a desire for a child “as young as possible.”   Most couples want babies.  I understand that.  We didn’t.  But I understand why most do.  Attachment is certainly easier.  Most families – especially if they’d done much research – also want kids that look like them.  More points of commonality = easier to attach, for both parents and children.  If other children are in the family – easier for them, too.  Also easier if the child is added to the family in birth order, if there’s only one adopted at a time (unless bio siblings), etc.

That’s not to say that transracial, out-of-birth-order, multiply-adopted children can’t attach.   Not at all.  We all know families for whom these adoptions have worked.  But every stray card you’re dealt decreases your chances of attachment.  Harsh – but true.

I’m not criticizing how families choose to adopt.  I wouldn’t presume to.  I just know that for us – we wanted to increase our chances for success every way we could.

The adoption blogs and boards are ablaze now with news from Italy.  Its government has decided to outlaw race as a criteria for adoption.  So Italian PAPs (Prospective Adoptive Parents) can no longer specify a child’s desired race.

This sounds so brave, so wonderful, so egalitarian.  Who could argue with a decree so noble?

I notice – perhaps unfairly – that those who support this type of Big Brother edict have never adopted, or are past the age where it matters.

I notice – perhaps unfairly – that those who have never adopted are quick to tell those of us who have what they think they would do if they did adopt.  “Well, I’d never look at race.  A child is just a child.”  “I’d take a whole houseful, not just one.”  “I’d never change a child’s name.”  And on and on.

I notice – perhaps unfairly – that those who are past the age where it matters cast a golden glow on their parenting experiences.  “When we got Sally, we never asked about race.”  No, you didn’t have to.  It was assumed.

When I’ve spoken to families adopting who already have children, their #1 concern is ensuring the kids they have aren’t hurt by the experience.   Adoption begins with loss, and it’s always a gamble.  How many risks are you going to layer on the children you already have?

If Italy is going to declare race off limits to adoptive families, how about the child’s age?  Teens aren’t “as young as possible” though, are they?  How about physical or mental challenges?  Surely everyone has the resources to handle those?  Gender – my gosh, surely that shouldn’t matter?   The child’s friends – can’t leave them behind, now can we?

Where does government dictating to PAPs end?

I think Italians will likely choose alternative paths.  The less wealthy won’t adopt if they can’t have the most basic control over the first and most fundamental, God-given unit of society:  The Family.  The more wealthy will go black market, or live elsewhere long enough to adopt.  Or they’ll adopt only from countries – like Russia – that are likely to offer children similar in appearance to them, bypassing Italian children languishing in foster care.

Adoption is – contrary to much politically-correct babble – not just “about the child.”  It’s about the whole family – its desires, its goals, its limitations.

That may not be fair.

But it’s true.

And I notice it.