This Reminds Me

Archive for the ‘ViewPoint’ Category

Keith and I had been nowhere fun together all year, and the girls were anxious to do Christmas shopping.  So it was off to Nuevo Progresso this weekend, knowing we’d have today to catch up.

I’ve taken a variation of this shot since 2003. There’s something fun about placing one foot in one country, and the other foot in a second country.

Had to chuckle at this text to Keith’s iPhone, which was wisely set in airplane mode.  The last time we’d gotten that message was on last year’s cruise.

The best selection of purses we found was actually in a pharmacia.  “Juicy” was the big brand, in the $28 – $70 range.  Lots of “Coach,” too, plus “Chanel.”   “Chanel” scarves, wallets and sneakers to match.  I was looking for a new backpack purse as mine is three years old and starting to look it, but the only ones I saw were fugly chunky leather.  No “Kate Spade” or “Dooney and Burke.”    Gum wrapper purses – still very available, and in the $10 – $25 range, depending on size.

Best quote of the trip – from Lois, to Julia – “A slingshot – yet another thing you’re not getting.”  Julia is not enamored of purses and dresses, but did score a large plaster parrot for her room, and a stash of Mexican candy.  Actually, you don’t have to buy the child anything to make her happy.  Just plunk her down in a motel.  She loves the entire experience – little bars of soap, a different bed, setting the air conditioner (or – in her case, which endeared her to her sisters in the wee hours – flipping on the heater), the ice machine, the room key – everything about a motel.

Keith had to drive 250 miles to buy San Antonio habanero  sauce?  Hannah’s in awe.

The street vendors loved Rachel, whom I think bought at least one bracelet of every style.

Love this picture of Julia, because it so says whom she is.  Everyone else collapsed at a table during a Coca-Cola Light (Diet Coke) break.  Not Julia.  She climbed onto a bar stool so she could survey her surroundings.  Julia does not walk – she skips, hops, struts or runs.  And she does not sit.  She’s “on the lookout” for what’s next.

Speaking of Coke – Hannah always buys a bottle of “the real thing” with real Mexican sugar.  A jaunt to Mexico is the one time I do not forbid sugared soft drinks.  We now return to our regularly scheduled program.

Our favorite lunch stop – La Fogato – was empty except for our table, and one other. The girls and I wolfed the delicious pico de gallo, but Keith declined, “just in case one of us needed to be able to drag five of you out of the bathroom.”

The eldest three purchased dresses, which they wore to Chili’s for dinner Saturday night (American side.)  We don’t stay in Mexico after dark anyway, but especially not this year. The “South Padre Island Bike Fest” was just up the road, and we figured they’d be coming to Progresso for an evening of partying.  They did.  When we crossed the border at 4 p.m., there were already dozens of hard-drinking, leather-clad bikers roaring down the streets.

As much fun as we had – and we really did – the trip was kind of sad, too. The family-owned-for-generations shop where Keith bought his “tortuga giganta” two years ago?  Closed.   Roxy’s – the upscale shop where we bought so many lovely crosses and talavera last year -closed.   I’d guess half to two-thirds of the side street/alley shops were vacant.  Why?   Even though Progresso has been spared the drug violence that has ruined other crossing spots (Laredo, Tijuana, etc.) for tourists – Americans are scared to cross.  I can understand that.  Even in Progresso, there’s a tank and soldiers at the entrance to the city – though I actually find that less threatening than comforting.  Maybe Mexico is serious about keeping it safe.

I really don’t care how many drug lords and runners kill themselves.  I really don’t.  I know I should.  I know God loves them just as much as He loves me.  I know their souls are precious.  And I still don’t care.  As far as I an concerned, you could lock them all in a cement cage with guns and let them shoot each other to shreds and the world would be a better place.

What I do care about is what this horrendous violence is doing to decent people across the border.  That guy selling gum wrapper purses is trying to support his family.  That woman desperately trying to interest you in her blankets has kids at home – and maybe on the street right next to you – that are hungry.  And yet they are the ones that suffer from this godless insanity.  You can’t make a living from tourism when they are no tourists.  And there are fewer and fewer tourists as more and more Americans are caught in the violence - 48 in the first half of this year alone.

Laredo provided decades of enjoyment for my family.  Then Keith and I acknowledged it was simply too dangerous to visit any longer, so we switched to Progresso.  And now we see Progresso withering, not because of drug violence, but because of the (very understandable) fear of it.

I’m especially glad we went this weekend, because as Keith said before we left, “This trip could be our last.”

I hope not.  Not only for us-the-tourists, but also for the decent people that are just trying to make a living.

I’ve never been patient.

I’m not proud of being impatient.  I’m not looking for a dozen friends to reassure me, “Oh, now, I saw you be patient when…..”   It’s just the way I am.  Though I usually hide it better than I’ve hidden it the last few hot, cloying weeks of summer.

Is it the really heat that’s sucking the life out of me?  Or the humidity?  Or being 54 years old?  Other than financially, summer is my least-stressed time of year.  I don’t cook much.  I don’t rush to fix breakfasts in the morning, or race to fix dinner in the evening.  There’s no child in after-school care anxiously awaiting my arrival.  I’m not in a frenzy to grab Chick-Fil-A and  to make it to church Wednesday night.  I still do laundry daily, but there’s less of it.  Nobody needs an emergency trip to Wal-mart to finish a project.  Yet I find myself less and less patient when I get home and find a mess in the den, or unwashed dishes, or a dozen pairs of cast-off shoes in the entryway.

I always think – and now too often say – “Why have you left a mess?  Didn’t I tell you what to do?  Didn’t I write it down for you?  You’re my child.  Don’t you have any better sense than this?”

I listen to K-Love on the drive to and from the bus stop (and sometimes on the bus, thanks to the iPhone app) not because I am a “good person.”  I’m not a “good person.”  Believe me, I know.  I listen to contemporary Christian music because it helps center me.   Worshiping the one true God of the universe puts my day in perspective.

The other morning, the DJ was reading from the book of James, which is my favorite.  I don’t need a theology degree to understand James.    “Take note of this.  Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry.” Hmmm.

And then I thought – God is probably looking at me every evening thinking, “Why have you left a mess?  Didn’t I tell you what to do?  Didn’t I write it down for you?  You’re my child.  Don’t you have any better sense than this?”

James also tells me “…to be patient then.. until the Lord’s coming.”

That could be tonight, or tomorrow – when I’m tripping over the pile of flip-flops by the front door.

Sigh.

Okay.  Tomorrow, I’ll give this patience thing one more try.

Let’s hope I learn it quickly.

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.

Last night, Hannah and I returned a pair of shorts to Sam’s.  They didn’t fit.  No big deal.

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.