This Reminds Me

Archive for the ‘Adoption’ Category

As part of her college application process, Lois wrote several essays including this one about an “influential person” in her life.  I wanted to blog it right away, but she made me promise to wait until after her college selection was complete.

It’s complete.  A&M, here she comes.

May 18 is our 6th anniversary of Julia’s homecoming – what we call “Sisters Day.”

Julia’s fearful walk from the “machina” to her new “dom” Mary 18, 2006.  Thanks to Shelley for thinking to take a picture – I sure didn’t have sense enough to suggest it.

Sister’s Day is a great day to blog Lois’ “most influential” essay.  So here goes:

The Most Influential Person in My Life

by Lois Julia Woodworth

She is four feet and four  inches tall, weighs barely fifty pounds, jabbers far too often, and loves me. She has brown hair, olive skin, dark eyes, and a scar from a polio shot on her left arm. She sleeps twenty feet away from me, wakes me in the night when she’s scared, and holds my hand when we cross the street. She joined my family five and a half years ago one May night, and she has drastically altered my life course every second since. She is Julia – my sister – and she is the most influential person in my life.

Julia began stretching her will into my life before she even came home from Russia. In late 2004, my parents asked my sisters and I if we would like to have another sister. After a few side discussions, we decided to expand our family. I began to imagine life with another sister that very night. One of my sisters -  Hannah – would have to share her room with the new addition, and the three of us would share a bathroom, but I was convinced the new sister would be worth it. Julia made me much more open to sharing and considering the needs of others long before she fearfully stepped into her new “dom” (house.)

The wait for Julia’s adoption taught me patience. My family waited more than a year for the name alone of the little girl soon to be a Woodworth.  When her name and picture were revealed to us, I was shocked.  Julia – called by her name of “Guanna” at the time  -was frail and weak. Her hair hung like brittle branches around her hollow face.  Instantly, I felt protective of this child, this orphan whom would soon arrive in my midst. Through the long months of  the adoptive process until my parents went to meet her in St. Petersburg, Julia taught me that patience cannot be overvalued.

When Julia finally did come home in May 2006, my life was truly changed. The first barrier between us was one of language. Guanna spoke only Russian; I knew nowhere near enough Russian to understand her, or respond to her. We worked out a series of hand gestures and pantomime to facilitate communication. It was this process which taught me that love did not need a language to be expressed.

Julia also inspired me to be a better person. My younger sister Hannah and I had never really gotten along; she never looked up to me for anything. When Julia came home, I knew that I needed to be the best person possible for her. I helped her draw, taught her English words and phrases, and stayed with her until she fell asleep at night. I loved her more with every passing day. Julia -  just by existing – taught me that I am the master of my own behavior. She made me want to learn self-control and practice self-awareness.

Julia arrived at my house as a fragile stranger and blossomed into a beautiful preteen girl. During her metamorphosis, I changed as well. Julia taught me the value of patience,  how to be self-aware and how to sing “Frere Jacques” in Russian.  I taught her what to call our family members, where Mom hides the Girl Scout cookies and how to turn on the shower. Julia and I learned a great deal from each other, the most important of all being love.

Hang on, Lois!  A&M is going to be a wild ride.

I’ve wished lots of women “Happy Mother’s Day” – Keith’s mom, my own mother and her sisters, my sister and niece, neighbors, Sunday School teachers, co-workers – it’s a long list.

I’ve missed one, though, these last six years, though I think of her often. She’s young – but ageless. Speaks Russian – but soundless. Important – but formless. And not here – but omnipresent. She’s Julia’s “first mother,” the one who gave her life.

We know very little about her. She couldn’t be found before our May 10, 2006 court date. I wish we had a picture of her at least. Does she have Julia’s sparklingly dark, slightly-slanted eyes? Is she athletic? Is it she who gave Julia that unusual strands-of-gold-in-brunette hair? We will likely never know.

Our earliest picture of Guanna-to-be-Julia, which we snagged off the Russian data base of orphans.  She was about 18 months old. 

There’s no denying that first mother. I’m Julia’s mom, but I didn’t birth her. I didn’t count her fingers and toes, or coo at her, or stumble around at night heating bottles. I didn’t clap at her first step, or grin at her first word. Julia has my heart, but she doesn’t have my DNA.

We’ve talked about her first mother from time to time. Mostly I bring her up. I don’t want Julia afraid to ask about her, or think that she can’t love us both. I love all four of my daughters; loving two mothers is just as natural. I’ve answered her questions as best I can. I have lots of conjectures, but not many facts.

What I do know is that Julia’s first mother loved her enough to give birth to her. She was young with no one to help her, and likely very frightened. No one threw her a baby shower. No friends at church thought to loan her maternity clothes, or a car seat. No one sent flowers to the hospital, or brought over dinner, or offered to babysit so she could run to the store. No one congratulated her for giving birth to such a beautiful, beautiful baby.

So today I want to thank her for giving birth to such a beautiful, beautiful baby.

Happy Mother’s Day, First Mom.  Our girl is doing just fine.

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.