This Reminds Me

Archive for the ‘Russia’ Category

Nobody adopts accidentally.  You might get pregnant accidentally, but you’re sure not adopting accidentally.  Sometimes – facing the mountain of paperwork, interviews, medical exams, background checks, etc., you wonder if you’re ever going to adopt at all, or if someone 100 years from now is just going to stumble across your withered corpse hunched over a stack of paperwork clutching a blue-inked pen with your eyes forever frozen scanning the horizon for a notary.

A tiny fraction of that paperwork is a lengthy written personal evaluation done in preparation for a social worker visit.  Keith is not keen on questions more personal than, “What’s your name?”   So imagine his delight when – in October, 2004 (Julia came home in May, 2006) - he and I each had to answer literally 18 pages of questions like, “Describe why you are not satisfied with yourself” and “What are your three main fears or concerns?” – all before our first social worker visit.

I had never before had any meaningful contact with a social worker.  I’d met a few social work majors in college – generally people whom (to me) seemed to be trying to compensate for majorly messed up home lives of their own by trying to fix everyone else’s.  But here I was in October, 2004, chasing dust bunnies and mentally preapring for whatever else I might be asked by whom I pictured to be an 80-year-old drone in bi-focals and corrective shoes, eager to peer under my couch cushions.

Instead – our agency (Buckner) sent us Jennifer, a super-friendly, well-organized social worker from Ft. Worth, who specializes in adoptions.  One of the first phrases out of her mouth, “I don’t care about your dust bunnies.  And I don’t even look under my own couch cushions.”   I knew I liked her right then.

Jennifer did the required pre-placement family visits before Julia arrived home in May, 2006, as well as the required post-placement visits (monthly for six months, then on the year marks.)  We actually looked forward to them.

Today was huge for us.  Today was our last required post-placement visit.  We’re coming up on the three-year mark of Julia’s adoption, and that’s the last post-placement visit required by the Russian government.  Jennifer flew in to ask a few more questions, check out the house, talk to all of us (individually and together) and share a pizza.

Everyone in the home has to be interviewed alone.  Rachel told me later, “Mom, I told her how you beat me every night.”

When we started in 2004, Jennifer was taller than Lois and Hannah.  Not so much now.

So as soon as Buckner files this last report, stick a fork in us, we’re officially “done” with what we owe the Russian government.

Of course, we’ll never be “done” with what we owe Buckner. And everyone who helped us bring Julia home, like Jennifer – with whom I want to be friends for a long, long time.

But in the meantime – it feels good to be “done.”

When Keith and I entered the world of international adoption, we immediately joined scores of user groups, our favorite being the Russian Adoption board on adoption.com. At the American Embassy in Moscow, we surprisingly recognized and joyfully visited with another family from that board.

Monday, “Irina” – a mom and social worker in St. Petersburg – posted a general “I lurk here” kind of message.  Being polite, I was one of several who posted a “nice to meet you” return message.  My board signature always contains a link to this blog.

I thought no more of it.

Tuesday, I had a Private Message from Irina in my adoption.com inbox.  In a city with 10,000 children living in 100 orphanages, Irina had visited Children’s Home #47 and recognized Julia from the photos of this blog!   Here’s part of her private message:  “I came to them in 47 DD and saw Julia very small! I have its some photos – if want, I can send you them on an e-mail!”

If want….IF WANT???   I picked up my jaw and shared my real email address immediately.  Within hours, pictures popped in my email inbox.

Julia’s the cutie in the orange dress.  I’m guessing she’s age four or five here. The children are standing in a common area between the school/play room and the dorm. We dressed Julia right here before we took her hands and walked out of Children’s Home #47.  In retrospect, I marvel at the courage she displayed. I’ve lived six times as long and have never displayed half as much courage as she showed walking away from everyone and everything she knew.

I’m guessing she’s age four here, which is when she came to Children’s Home #47.  Can you hug a picture?  Can you fold a blanket around it and promise to love it until the day you die?  I long to do so.

Russian Orthodox baptism via kitchen pan at age five.  We knew a priest visited monthly.  Julia remembers our lighting candles in Moscow’s Kazan Cathedral.  I think the priest either brought candles to light, or she had visited a church at some point earlier, because she knew to drip wax on the base, then insert the candle.  (I sure didn’t know it!)

Keith and I are thrilled to have these bits of her past to share in the future.

The web surfer in me says, “Oh, what a wonderful coincidence – that Irina would make the leap from a user board posting to sending us these pictures.”

The business person in me says, “Wow.  Here proves the value of social networking.”

But the real me – the “me” that’s buried way down deep – knows it was what my friend Johnnie calls “a God wink.”

He loves the little children, you know.  All the children of the world.

I’m still in denial.  This is the first day of the new school year, and there’s a high school senior living here.  How did that happen?!

Lois – 9th grade (now w/glasses); Rachel – 12th grade; Julia – 2nd grade; Hannah – 7th grade.  Julia wanted to wear her new blue school spirit shirt, but Rachel talked her out of it.  “Julia, only dorks wear school spirit shirts the first day.  Do you want the cool kids to turn you over into a trash can?”  She gets lots of guidance.

Rachel’s first day of kindergarten in 1996.  I cried.  She didn’t.

Lois got “a little lost” her first day in (the huge) high school.  Rachel started her after-school job and, “It’s work.”  (imagine that)  Julia is coincidentally sitting next to the daughter of Ukranian natives and “Mom, she speaks Russian.  Real Russian.”   Hannah started homework the minute she got home.

Rinse and repeat for the next nine months.

One night last week, Julia crawled in bed with me and went to sleep in the crook of my arm, the top of her head nestled under my chin. and her arm resting across my chest.  Keith woke us when he was ready to turn in.  Before I resigned her to the nearby guest room, I stared at her face for several long seconds, soaking in its features and marveling not only at how peaceful she looked, but also how we got here – to a place that Julia would snuggle next to me to sleep.

Keith and I have known lots of adopted people, including some of our dearest friends and family members.  But….they were all adopted as babies.  Infants.  Or – as we continually read the desires of potential adoptive parents on the user boards – “as young as possible.”

That is so, so different from adopting a six-year-old.

Rachel, Lois and Hannah never questioned my authority.  When I told them, “Pick up those Legos or I’m throwing them away,” they knew I possessed the authority to do what I said (and I pitched the Legos, too, BTW, the morning after I next stepped on one in the dark.)   When I shot a blistering look across a church pew or a restaurant table, they snapped-to or faced the certainty of punishment.  They might not have liked or agreed that they needed that punishment  – but my God-given authority to met it out was never challenged.

Neither did I have to prove my love.  Practically every breath of baby Rachel’s was documented, photographed and shared with half of Houston.  I laid on my left side in a hospital bed for 34 days to give Lois that critically-needed time to cook.  During her 37 days in the NICU, I rocked and sang to her for hours daily (Keith said she would know the entire Baptist hymnal before she went home.)  And Hannah – well, Hannah slept on my chest in my old recliner at least half of the nights of her first two years with her near-constant ear troubles.  She would wake and fuss; I would soothe her, medicate her, whatever and we’d both drift back into a too-light sleep.   Rachel, Lois and Hannah have always known that I loved them.  I pray they always will.

But what did Julia know?  She saw two big, funny-talking people coming from somewhere outside of St. Pete to take her away from every person and every thing  she knew.  She was told to call us “Mama” and “Papa,” which she did – but what did it really mean?   In retrospect, I think perhaps the bravest act I’ve witnessed in my life is her walking out of Children’s Home #47 wtih us. She really didn’t know what was ahead for her.  But she put on those Old Navy jeans and light-up tennies and out she strode.

I give major kudos to Buckner (our agency) for insisting we prepare ourselves to adopt a school-age child.  I have spoken and emailed with too many parents whose agencies did nothing to help them prepare.   They read nothing – no books, no magazines, nothing.  They spoke to no one who’d done it – they drew on no other family’s wisdom., or asked the magic question, “What do you wish you had done differently?” They didn’t join user boards – and I’ve said all along that we learned as much from the user boards as we did from Buckner. Their agencies didn’t push them to engage an international adoption doctor to evaluate the child.   Their agencies took a check – the couples took a child – Lord love them, now they’ve got that child.

When I talked to families that had done this, I got to where I could tell in the first two minutes if it was going to be a “yes, it was hard, but we’re so glad we have him/her” or “it’s been a disaster, it’s destroyed our family” story.   I heard plenty of both.  And based on what we heard from those families, and the books, and the magazines, and our social worker, and the user boards – we got as equipped as we could be.  Perfectly equipped?  No.  But equipped.  With the sites on Fetal Alcohol Syndrome bookmarked on our laptop with which we traveled, and with which we sent pictures and video to our chosen International Adoption doctor.  With a blanket we slept with for weeks to leave with Guanna-to-be-Julia on trip #1, so she would remember our smell (which is the most powerful sensual marker for children.)   With toys to measure her skills, and a notebook to trace her feet for the shoes we needed to bring.  With a list of questions to ask the orphanage director and orphanage doctor.

And – most useful – techniques to use to bring her closer to us.  Because we needed them.

Julia didn’t love us when she met us.  Neither did we love her, other than in a sense of agape love.  We loved the idea of her and were confident we could come to truly love her.  But our first two weeks (in Russia) were not easy.  In fact – she totally rejected me.  My authority and my love (fake it till you make it) were forcefully and flagrantly dismissed.  Keith was a man – both a novelty in orphanage life and an authority figure in Russian life.  She took to him right away, including pushing away other children who got too close to him.  But me?  She was used to dealing with women and – as she has shared in bits and pieces – she hadn’t always been treated well by them.

The day after court – May 11, 2006.  Notice she is totally leaning on Keith.  And away from you-know-who.

Julia wanted nothing to do with me.  It took a 90-minute, screaming, back-arching holding session in the hotel room one afternoon until she would relax against me.  (We knew of holding therapy from the books, and from other parents.)  I sang hymns the entire time, not because they meant anything to her, but because they kept me from getting mad.  At the end of that 90 minutes – when she lay spent in my arms, sweaty, red-faced, totally exhausted – our relationship began to improve.

Adoption is complete when the judge signs the papers.  Attachment, however, takes time.  The books say about two years for a school-age child.  Keith and I think her attachment really cemented last fall, when she was so sick, after about 16 months home.

I can’t speak to attaching to adopted infants, never having done that.  But I can speak to attachment with an older child.  To me, older child attachment is a lot like marriage.  There’s the ceremony.  And then comes reality.  Reality is that you’re in a relationship with another person, including all their strengths and struggles.  And both of you get to choose.  You can accept each other’s position in the family  – or not.  You can love each other – or not.  But both of you get to choose.  No one person has all the power.   You’re not Burger King.  You don’t get to have it your way.

When Julia leaps onto Keith for a tickle – when she asks Hannah to play a game, or Lois to watch a video, or Rachel to go swimming – and, yes, when she snuggles up against me and goes to sleep – she is choosing.

When I soak in her little face as she sleeps – I see those choices.  And I sleep better, too.