This Reminds Me

Archive for the ‘Russia’ Category

Julie and I walked over to meet new neighbors Monday night.  As I stood chatting with the wife, she said they’d lived in Houston.  “Houston!”  I exclaimed.  “We used to live there, too.”   While we compared notes, Julia stood passively before interjecting, “I never lived in Houston.  I’m adopted.”

With three teenage daughters, it takes a lot to startle me.  But that comment did.  After a moment of leaden silence, I swallowed and said, “Well, Jules – tell her where you’re from.”  Julia did.  And a three-way conversation about places-we’ve-lived-and-why-we-love-San-Antonio conversation ensued.

Julia has never before offered up “I’m adopted” in front of me.  Not that she couldn’t have.  But she hasn’t.

So why Monday night?  Was it because – just before we went outside – I’d explained who the family was in Houston (our pre-Julia existence) whose son had sent us a thank-you note for a graduation gift?   Was it because the neighbor is expecting their first baby in September – and looks it?   Was it because the neighbor’s husband plays pro basketball, and may play in Russia next year?

Or maybe – just maybe – was it because she’d spent the entire day with Keith – seeing her sisters off to church camp, watching TV, running errands, just basking in his undivided attention in what she described as “the best day of my life?”

Three years later – there is still no place she’d rather be than with Keith. Or possibly above him.

Keith and I figured there would come a point when people around us didn’t know Julia was adopted.    Everyone who “knew us when,” of course, would know.  And it’s not like it’s a secret.  But it’s also not a just-met-the-neighbors talking point.

I think she’s more and more confident of not only who she is, but also who  she was.  She occasionally tells me about life in Russia now – usually at bedtime, when we are whispering to each other, snug in the rocking chair.  She tells me what she misses.  She recalls snippets of life and caregivers even before Children’s Home #47.   I bring up a few subjects she doesn’t, because I don’t want her afraid to talk about them.

When you know who you are – and you know who you were – I guess it’s easier to acknowledge facts that meld the two.

Like you never lived in Houston.

And you’re adopted.

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.