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.

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.

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.

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.

She was asleep when she became an American citizen – as the wheels of this homeward-bound plane touched down in Dallas.   We had already paid about $1,500 in immigration fees, plus completed a mountain of paperwork including highly-scrutinized documents attesting to our ability to support her and provide her health care.  We did not stuff her in a suitcase to sneak her through Customs, or attempt to brand her a “co-citizen” and therefore claim no rules – or fees – applied.

Went to sleep Russian and awoke American

We patiently navigated DFW Immigration to have that all-important IR-4 stamp affixed to her Russian passport.

Her Certificate of Citizenship arrived in the mail a few weeks later.  I’d never seen one before.  Wish I could show you this large, impressive document, but copying it is against the law.  Fingering her Certificate of Citizenship both weakens and inspires me, much like I felt as a senior in high school when I gaped at the real Constitution and Declaration of Independence.  I’d won an essay contest with a prize being a trip to Washington, D.C.   I don’t cry easily.  But I cried in the National Archives as I peered down through the thick walls of protective glass at the two most important documents in our nation’s history.

With her certificate in hand, Keith waited in interminable lines to secure  Julia’s Social Security card.  Her future earnings will be taxed.

Once we had the Social Security card, we braved the Post Office to secure the final “say” in all items authentication – her American passport.   We had to send off the original Certificate of Citizenship to do so.  I sweat bullets the 14 weeks before her passport arrived, fearing some harm would come to that certificate.  None did.  It’s in our safety deposit box now – with other important papers – to be given to her later.  We also invested $350 to have her Russian birth certificate recorded in Texas – a “Recognition of Foreign Decree” – so she can get birth certificates from the state when she needs them.  Julia is anything but an “undocumented immigrant.”

Today my youngest child has all the rights and privileges her American-born sisters enjoy, save one.  She can’t be President.

She also has all the responsibilities of her American-born sisters.  She’ll pay taxes.  She’ll vote.  She’ll obey the laws.  When she starts driving, she’ll have a license.  And proof of insurance.

Because she is an American.

And today especially – I thank God for that.

Who was this timid child with the deer-in-the-headlights look in 2006?!

Because we are shameless heathens, we skipped church and started the morning with Dad’s waffles, and a sterling silver surprise for each sister.

A “Sisters” necklace for each, set at her place.  Rachel, Lois and Hannah were talking last night about how their places at the table haven’t changed since we’ve been in San Antonio.  I think there’s a certain comfort in that.  When someone plops down in someone else’s seat – chaos!

Weeks ago, the girls voted to eat lunch at Chili’s and see “Oceans” to celebrate Sisters Day – a neat choice, since Julia told us upon first meeting her that she loved dolphins.

Rachel – horrified at the baby turtles that are also known as “lunch” in “Oceans”

I was racking my brain for something else “aquatic” we could do (and afford!) when a great deal just fell into my lap at the last minute – heavily discounted tickets to Sea World good for one day only – the Sunday we were celebrating Sisters Day!  Talk about timing!

A quick family picture at Sea World while we were still fresh.  Humidity was high – our un-sweatiness didn’t last long.

Flipper, courtesy of Rachel’s iPhone

Shamu, also courtesy of Rachel’s iPhone.  Why, oh why are her i-pictures so much better than mine?

Hannah, Julia and I rode “The Journey to Atlantis. “  It was fuuuuuun all the way doooooooown.

All of us wanted to see Shamu in action.  Hannah and Julia coerced Keith (with my waterproof Olympus) into sitting in the Splash Zone.  Lois, Rachel and I had sense enough to sit higher up, away from what toddler Lois used to called “whale spit.”

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Sisters Day is supposed to be about the girls – what they want to do, how they want to celebrate our family.  It pleases me when there’s a bit’o'serious mixed in with the plenty’o'silly.

Rachel’s napkin doodle with Julia’s crayons – good thing I noticed it before wiping my Shiner Bock Burger lips

We all enjoyed Sisters Day.  I hope the girls continue to mark this special occasion after Keith and I are gone.  I want them to take care of each other when we can’t.

After all – sisters are pretty good to have.

Last week, an American mother returned her seven-year-old adopted son to Russian after seven months in her home.   She felt her life was endangered by his behavior, including his threats to burn down their home.  She had her mother put him on a non-stop flight to Moscow, where Russian officials promptly hustled him off to a hospital for a physical examination.

Julia’s first plane ride was part of a 27-hour coming home marathon.

The mother was wrong on sooooo many levels, not the least of which is that now Russian officials are – once again – looking at suspending all adoptions.    We were caught in a similar mess in 2004 – 2006, which is why our adoption  took 21 long months.  My heart breaks for the families in process who have a referral, or who are waiting on court dates to book that oh-so-important second trip.

The Russian adoption community is in a furor.  With blogs, forums, Facebook and other forms of social networking – even with relatively few of us – it’s easy to make contact with other families.  And they are steamed.

3,702 Russian adoptions in 2006, when Julia came home

I understand the furor.  In no way, shape or form do I condone what the mother did.  In fearing for her own life, she destroyed her son’s chance at a better one, and may have crushed the hopes of thousands of PAPs (prospective adoptive parents) as well as the abandoned children they sought to embrace.

I also understand what is too-seldom a topic of discussion:  Not all adoptions are going to be successful.  Successful means an attached child and in the case of an older child – attached parents.  To me, adopting older (past infant/toddler) children is like a marriage.  You have to go into it thinking “forever.”  They have to choose you as well as your choosing them.  And you don’t really get to date those kids before you’re married.  And like a marriage – there’s a honeymoon period.  And later – there’s just the marriage.  And what do you do when it’s not working?  Counseling?  Medication?  Structured behavioral modification? Go ask Mom for advice?  Spend more time away from home?  Or is it divorce – on, in adoption, disruption?

I don’t know what this mother or her son did and didn’t do.  The seven-year-old boy had been home only seven months.  That’s not long enough for attachment.    Was he really so badly damaged that it was not safe for her to parent him?  Maybe.  Or did she just quit trying too quickly?

But there’s another major player here – the agency.  I didn’t love our adoption agency – Buckner – every moment of our process.  In fact, Keith and my good friend Sharon can tell you about an afternoon in a Chicago conference room that I absolutely gnawed on them,  slammed down the phone and spent the evening crying.    But as I have told every PAP who has asked:  Buckner does a better job of preparing adoptive families than any other agency of which I’ve ever heard.  We had to read books, and prepare book reports.  We had to attend a two-day session in Dallas in which they basically tried to talk us out of it, telling us every horror story imaginable.   We had to pass a home study,  and after Julia was home, our social worker visited monthly for the required six months, then annually for three years.   When we needed help from Buckner after we got home, we could pick up a phone and get it.

So where was this woman’s agency – which is one of the powerhouse agencies, BTW?    Did no one from her agency discern any red flags when they met this child in Russia?   Was the mom not counseled that attachment would take longer than seven months?  Was she not visited by a social worker monthly?  Her last visit should have occurred in March, before she put her son on a plane in April.   What happened there? Was she not matched with other adoptive families – with mentors?    Was she not pushed at forums?  Was she not given books and articles to read?

If she wasn’t prepared – if she wasn’t equipped to deal with this troubled child – then yes,  I understand why she did what she did.   And her son would have been troubled.  Those kids are thrust into school not speaking the language.  They’re eating food they don’t like with people they don’t know.  They miss their orphanage mates – their family.   They miss all things familiar.   And somewhere under it all – they miss their birth parents, and they’re angry at being abandoned.  And they take that anger out on you the parent,  just like every bio child who is unhappy does, too.

Love is not enough to overcome all those circumstances.  It never, ever is.   And that is why your agency prepares you.

I’ve spoken to or emailed with parents who have awoken to their adoptive children standing over them with knives.  Children who have set fires.   Children who constantly lie, and try to break up marriages.  Children who have abused younger siblings.  Children who have stolen from home, school, church, stores, you name it.  Horrible things that generally escalate over time when a child suffers from Reactive Detachment Disorder.  Not one of those families was a Buckner family.

This child may have needed professional therapy.  If he was really threatening violence, he may well have needed 24 x 7 monitoring.  His adoptive mother was single.   How would she accomplish that plus work to pay for that therapy?

I know the adoptive community wants to vilify the mother.   And she was wrong.  Without a doubt, she was wrong.  A child is not a pair of shorts to be returned so casually.

You don’t need much preparation to decide you want shorts.  Shorts don’t threaten to burn down your house.  You don’t keep shorts forever.  You’re not paying an agency to help you find those shorts, and ensure they fit your family.

And in adoption – that fit is a very, very big deal.

Really?  Hmmm.  This reminds me of people who have told me I’m not a real mother because I work outside the home, or aren’t a real Texan because I was born in Indianapolis.

There’s plenty I understand about adoption.

I understand that all kids have behavior problems.  That’s because they’re kids.  It’s our job as parents to correct them.  Not every behavior problem is adoption-related.  A three-year-old who tantrums in a public place needs to have his attention re-focused on his parent so that parent can correct – whether by words, or forcible removal, or perhaps warming the child’s bottom.   He doesn’t need an ooey-gooey, “Oh, Mommy knows you have problems because you’re adopted!  Mommy is here for you.  Let Mommy make sure you don’t hurt yourself as you annoy everyone within earshot and totally destroy what could be a pleasant experience for everyone else here.”

My first picture with minutes-old Rachel.  Easy baby – at least compared to those to come (preemie Lois, then 11 lb., 6 oz. Hannah).  I boiled the water used to mix Rachel’s formula for her first year.

I understand that all adopted kids have attachment issues to some degree or another.  We’ve dealt with some ourselves.  More may emerge later during those delightful teen years.   It’s just part of the package of nurturing a child you didn’t birth.   Attachment issues, though, can’t be allowed to define a child.  Neither can height, weight, birth order, intelligence, physical abilities or whatever crazy aunt that child resembles.   You can’t throw your hands in the air and whine, “Well what can I do?  He’s adopted.”  It’s just part of the package.  Put on your big girl panties and deal with it.

My first picture with Lois – and the first time I was allowed to hold her.  She was two weeks old and had just come off the ventilator.  I used bottled water to mix Lois’ formula for her first five months.

I understand that you cannot love adopted kids and bio kids “the same.” But really – you can’t love bio kids “the same” either.  They’re all different, born to you at different stages in your life with different appearances, and talents and characteristics of their own.  I throw up in my mouth when I read of some nanny-laden celebrity blithely quoted as, “Oh, I don’t even remember which of my kids are adopted and which are bio.”   That’s not cute, or touching.  It’s just silly.  And to me – it gives adoption a tinge of shame, like there’s something disgraceful about an adopted child that must be hidden.  I don’t see anything wrong with responding to invasive inquiries with, “I’m not sure why you’re asking,” or “If you my kids want you to know that, they’ll tell you.”   But to place bio and adopted kids in some murky, ill-defined stew of “sameness”  is as foolish as trying to force Child A to be a great artist because Child B is, or telling Child C that she has to dye her hair the same color as Child D.  Kids are different.  And – at different stages in our lives – so are we parents.

My first picture with Hannah, who was five months old.  By the time the third one comes along, you say things like, “Honey, didn’t we used to have a camera?”  and “I rubbed her pacifier on my jeans, so it’s clean.”  Hannah started off on tap water.

I understand that many adopted kids have gaping holes in their history – and that stinks.  I hate writing “unknown” on Julia’s medical history forms.  It’s irritating to respond, “I don’t know” to a doctor’s questions.   Mostly it worries me to be ignorant of what might be lurking in her genes.  Is that stray “my tummy hurts” comment just the result of too many malted milk candies, or should I worry about a family history of stomach cancer?  Were bio mom and dad in glasses by age 12 so I better be watching for vision issues?   I often tell Rachel, Lois and Hannah – “Aunt Judy and I each had our high blood pressure diagnosed at age 42, and high blood pressure killed your Uncle David at age 42.  Have yours checked – especially in your 40′s!”   What can I tell Julia like that?  Nothing.  I want so badly to protect her, and to teach her to keep herself safe.  The lack of a birth history is painful.

My first picture with six-year-old Julia, who chose us as well as our choosing her.   That’s a lot like marriage – and a whole lot different than giving birth.

I understand that adoption comes with its own birthing process.  Instead of watching a test strip for a color change that may or may not ever happen, you’re watching a phone that may or may not ever ring.  Instead of  feeling kicks, you’re feeling anxiety.  Instead of labor pains, you have bureaucratic pains.   Instead of stretch marks, you get stretched finances.  Instead of  “She’s got your dad’s nose” comments, you get…..well, you get other comments.  Some make you smile.  And some….well, some like “you don’t understand adoption”  – those comments make you lift an eyebrow and retort, “I do understand.”

We knew the consequences – chaos for the entire family.  Damage to our marriage; damage to our original three daughters; physical, emotional, spiritual and financial ruin, as this family is enduring with their soon to be disrupted five-year-old son.

I talked to so many adoptive families, I got to where I could tell in the first two minutes if I was going to hear a success story (success = attachment) or a horror (horror = no attachment).  I sorted through the myriad of variables and realized the books were right.  You could increase your odds of a successful adoption, but you couldn’t guarantee it.  And love was never Never NEVER enough.

Parenting a post-institutionalized child – particularly an older child – required different techniques and strategies than I used with homegrown Rachel, Lois and Hannah.   To help her attach, we practiced the “holding therapy” in Russia when she treated me badly.  We regressed her to a bottle at bedtime when she was first home at age 6.  When she first walked into her new “dom” (house), there were pictures of her in every room.    We had family pictures made very soon after she came home, and a framed copy went in her room and on the fireplace mantle.  When she was tired, listless or just seemed distant, I spoon-fed her, forcing eye contact.   When close friends came over, they knew to praise me loudly and repeatedly, showing her I was a person worthy of respect.  Holding her, rocking her, singing to her – making that eye contact – was a priority for Keith and me.   The summer of 2006 was “the summer we stayed home,” because we knew Julia needed to simply learn “home” and family.”

And how do you know when they’re attached?  They don’t look up from breakfast and say, “Please pass the butter, Mom, and oh, by the way, I’m feeling attached now.”

Keith thinks it was earlier, but I think the books were right and she attached after about 18 months at home.  I don’t mean she “began to fit in” or “finally started obeying” or anything like that.  I  mean “attached” where I knew with certainty she really and truly looked at us as her parents.

We had attached to her much earlier, but that’s the kicker with older child adoptions.  It’s a choice for everyone.  The child has to choose, too.

There’s no high drama around attachment – at least not for us.  There was no single magic moment with a big “ah-ha!”  No angels singing with fireworks filling the air.  Just little things, over time.  And little things mean a lot.

I had a difficult day Monday and came home exhausted.  Everybody knew it.  Rachel, Lois and Hannah suggested a game of Scrabble after dinner.  I love Scrabble!  Just thinking of it cheered me.  As soon as we got Julia in bed, we broke out the game.  Had a ball playing.

Julia must have heard us, though, because last night she came to me with a serious expression.

Julia:  “Mom, you played ‘Apples to Apples’ without me last night.”  (Julia loves that game.)

Me:  “No, baby.  We played Scrabble. ”

Julia:  “Can I play Scrabble next time?”

Me:  “Well, it’s a hard word game.  When you’re older, you can play.  But right now, I don’t think you’d enjoy it.”

Long pause.

Julia:  “I like it when you play games with me.”

Attachment isn’t a game.  But when they want to play one with you – everybody’s a winner.

If the child was adopted domestically and looks like the parents, “passing” seems to be most common.  Adoption seldom enters the conversation.   It’s seldom a “secret.”  But it’s not advertised.

If the child was adopted internationally, or if the child doesn’t look like the parents, then the level of investment in the adoption seems to be governed by the presence of bio children.   Parents – particularly mothers – of these adopted kids with no bios seem to focus more on the attribute of adoption itself.    They don’t merely feed their kids.   If their kids were adopted from Russia, they scour the user boards for Russian recipes.     If their kids were adopted from China, they have adorable silken garments to wear for Chinese New Year.  If their kids are of a different race,  they rush to deify leaders of that race.

But if the child was adopted internationally – and/or if the child doesn’t look like the parents – and there are bio kids in the family, “blending” seems to be more the norm.  And because we blend, maybe we seem like we don’t care enough – whatever “enough” is.

Look what I found on Julia’s desk at Parent’s Night tonight.    She’s proud of being adopted.   Good thing, since we’re also proud of her.

I remember the judge in St. Petersburg asking me, “How will you be able to give enough attention to this child when you already have three children?” and my replying, “Those three children will make her life richer.  She will never lack for attention.”  And that’s been true.   Rachel, Lois and Hannah have had every bit as much to do with Julia’s acclimation and attachment as have Keith and I.

But because those three children were already here, there are lots of things we just don’t do.  Yes, yes, I took the advice of the adoption experts and scattered Russian stuffola around the house.  We hang a Russian flag for Sister’s Day.  We have somber icons on the mantle, colorful photos on the walls and decorated eggs on the bookshelves.  In fact, just this week I made Julia a collage of herself in Russia to decorate her room.

The girls’ rooms are very expressive.   Keith and I don’t much care what they tack up as long as it’s not vulgar.  We figure we’ll paint when they leave.

But our lives aren’t centered around adoption, or Russia.  We don’t belong to a single adoption support group.  (User boards?  Yes.  But there’s only one I visit regularly now, and not every day.)    We don’t cook Russian food because we typically cook what the whole family likes and makes good leftovers for lunches.    We don’t seek out Russian cultural events, of which there’d be darned few in San Antonio anyway.  Julia doesn’t own a single piece of Russian-themed clothing – and I honestly don’t think she’d wear it if she did, she’s so picky about her clothes, none of which includes a ruffle, ribbon or bow.  We’ve been invited to countless adoption-themed ministry events at different churches and – unless I was working a table for Buckner (our agency) - haven’t attended any.

I worry less about our integration of all things Russian than I do about the blending of six day-to-day lives in America.  Julia’s wanted to play soccer, but we can’t make the times work with our two full-time jobs – it’s hard to say “no,” though I told Hannah that, too, about swim team.   Julia would like to come home on the bus instead of going to the after-school program, but again, not an option for her….or for Rachel, Lois or Hannah at the same ages.

Our dinner table rocks with constant bantering.  Over spaghetti, or hamburgers, or chicken pot pie – not borscht.   With big glasses of cold water – not hot tea.   And while we wear T-shirts and shorts – not tunics and flouncy skirts.

We talk about Russia, sure – but usually, it’s Keith or me that brings it up.  I expect Julia to be insanely interested in Russia when she’s older, and when she is, we have papers, pictures and gifts for her.  We’ve even talked vaguely of re-visiting St. Pete when she’s a teen.  But today, she cares more about playing swords in the cul-de-sac with the neighbor kids.   And in the meantime….Rachel’s started college and has a job.  Lois is carrying a super-heavy load in high school and pondering the fate of the Latin Club.  Hannah is creating an eco-system project and anxious about advanced choir.

If Julia was “the only one” – I’m sure we’d celebrate Victory Day, drive to the nearest Russian Orthodox church every Sunday (it’s in Houston, BTW) and slurp vodka every night.   But she’s not.  We swirl in a blender of activities.

We don’t deny where she was.  But we also know where she is.  And who she’s with.  And what everyone is doing.  And it’s all gotta blend.