The Middle

This is Part II of a three-part post.  You can read Part I "The Beginning" by clicking here or scrolling down.  

Gentle reminder that I prefer we do as our mothers taught us:  if you don't have anything nice to say, don't leave it in my comments.  

This particular portion of our story is so difficult for me to relive long enough to get it down.  I don't think we could put enough distance between the experience and the telling of it to actually assuage the pain associated with it.  So, in other words - no time like the present to get it out.  

I'm asking for one kindness: understand.  Understand that it's hard to re-tell, but oh so necessary and cathartic.  Understand that I want truth and so should you.  Understand me.  Understand the meaning behind the words...that some will seem unkind or hard, maybe even seem immature or childish, maybe foolish or in poor taste.  Just try to understand me.  Try to see, feel or experience this the way we did.  Understand me.  Understand her.

And so it goes...

When Keira was handed to me in those first moments in China, those first frantic overwhelming moments, she went rigid.  Not just on the outside - which you could hardly tell if you weren't holding her, because of the massive amounts of layers she was wearing.  On the inside too.   She cried a deep agonizing cry.  There was no salve, no remedy, no clear-cut path to fixing it.  

At first, I was sad for her.  "Oh sweet baby...it's ok...I know...I know".  Like that.  Then I was a little flustered.  Think what you will of me, but I crossed over to frustrated fairly quickly.  We were in that room for about 40 minutes total and I went through those stages in rapid order.  I was panicked I think, on some level.  Why isn't she stopping?  Is she hot?  Is she hungry?  Wet?  Confused?  

Angry?

Sad?

Either or all of them...she was screaming.  I was so sure of myself coming into this moment.  The arrogance...the (remember) cavalier know it all...so sure I would flip my wrist and all would be well.  That even if she cried, she would be calmed by my "expert" mothering.  (oh help me! it's so hard to type it)  That she would be upset, but once I worked my mommy magic, we would be seeing smiles and hearing giggles.  Seeing the girl in the pictures.

That didn't happen.  I think you know by now.

Instead, my mind was a jumble of thoughts.  In a room full of people, I made every effort to keep my cool...stay calm...find a solution.  I took off her coat and a jacket underneath that.  She was sweating profusely.  I retrieved a toy from our bag, but she was not interested.  I walked her around, rocked her, spoke to her, sang to her, rubbed her back, wiped away her tears over and over...smoothed the sweat from her brow.  All the while looking on as the other new parents in the room held their already sleeping or otherwise calm babies.  Only one other child was carrying on as Keira was...and she was 2.  This did not comfort me.  I felt so alone in those moments.  So conspicuous.  So raw.

Nothing was effective.

AB took over after I caved in defeat.  She didn't want me in that moment and I was already working to accept that our magic moment was not going to be.  Not right now.  Maybe not today.  And somewhere in the back of my heart I heard "maybe not for a long time" and I brushed it aside quickly.  That was more than I could accept.

I have to tell you; I wanted to curl up and cry myself.  It's not pretty to say, but I was already crushed that she would not be comforted.  Would not be comforted by me.  I was totally frazzled and taken off-guard by her reaction.  I needn't have felt so alone...it became abundantly clear that she wanted nothing to do with AB either.  

Our travel mates gave us pats on the shoulders...hoping to extend comfort to us through glances and brief words of encouragement. 

I told myself that once we left, she would stop crying.  The room was too hot.  There were too many people.  She was hungry.  She was wet.  She was hot.  She was uncomfortable.  She was...angry.

Not a moment too soon I heard our guide calling out to us "ok, we can go now".  Back to the hotel and maybe we could get control of this.

I can tell you now, we did not.  Not really.  Not there.

What I want to tell you now is not a play by play of every day of the rest of that trip.  It's not important to this telling.  I could rattle off to you detail after detail and all we saw and did - and it would not matter here and now.  Factually speaking, we saw many wonderful sites.  We ate wonderful meals and some not so wonderful.  We loved many, many things about China.  Some things, not as much. 

I want to tell you what really happened in those days from the moment she was in my arms to the moment our plane landed in the USA.  

Understand me.  She was angry.  Angry like no other 7-month old I've ever known or even heard of.  Angry to her core.  Hurt.  Wounded.  Broken.  Angry.

The three days following our first meeting she rejected every single attempt at affection, love, care, and physical contact that Anton and I brought to her.  She wanted nothing to do with us.

Her preference was not to be touched at all.  She would tolerate only her basic needs being met.  She allowed (and I use that word intentionally) us to hold her, but generally only if she was in the Bjorn and facing away from us.  She did not allow us to touch her hands or face without jerking away and going rigid.  Often if we would touch her hands, she would cry.  

If I looked into her eyes and tried to speak love to her, she would cry.  So would I.

She cried when we tried to feed her - and for 24 hours, she refused food.  When she did eat, she came to reject the idea that we were the ones delivering the food.  She wanted almost no skin contact.  Once I captured Anton struggling to get her to eat.  She exhasuted herself struggling away from him - so he finally put pillows between his skin and hers.  She was red with fury and sweaty from crying.

She cried when she was held and she cried when she was put down.  Not a painful cry.  An angry, furious cry. 

She would lose herself in her crib, playing with a toy and coo-ing to herself.  When I would approach her to attempt interaction, she would see my face and begin wailing.  Recognition that she did not want to accept.  Still you.  You again?  When will you leave me alone.

She felt the same for her new Daddy.

She would wake in the night crying and I would reach out a hand to comfort her instantly.  She would turn to face me, and upon seeing who was offering the comfort...she would scream and cry until I would stop touching her.

I want to tell you what this does to your heart.  And it's not pretty.  

I was so angry with her.  Rejection.  Total and utter rejection.  Honestly?  You think irrationally.  We made a mistake.  What have we done to our little family?  What were we thinking?  It's not too late.  We haven't left China yet.  It's not done yet.  

Irrationally.  I can never love a baby that behaves this way.  We've ruined our son's life.  This is not my daughter...it can't be.  This is not Keira.  It's not.  I can't do this.  We can't do this.  This was such a mistake. 

We went through checklist after checklist.  Hunger?  No.  Gas?  No.  Teething?  Yes, but we had a pediatric nurse in our group and we took care of any medical issues that arose.  She was not in physical pain. 

She was in deep emotional pain.  And every time I held her only served to remind her that she was in that pain and why.

On and on she cried and refused us.  Day after day.  Morning and night.  Nights were the hardest.  Every evening like clockwork, she would grieve heavily.

I can tell you what hurt the most.  Looking at her and feeling....nothing.  Except anger and hurt.  Nothing except pain.  Nothing.

The rejection was overwhelming.  We had waited so long, labored so hard, rallied so many people to our side...raised the funds, waited the excruciating process out, renewed and renewed the paperwork, prayed for her, cried over her, loved her...

Maybe we just loved the idea of her.  It certainly wasn't love we were feeling in those hotel rooms all over China.  It was obligation.

You might think this is cold of me.  I do too, in a way.  I felt cold.  I felt numb.  I had compassion for her, but I was so hurt I could not use it to my advantage.  I had feelings for her, but they were broken up.  I wanted to love her, and hold her, and comfort her...weep with her and cradle her.  Tell her she was safe and that we had come to rescue her.  But she did not want to be rescued.  How could she know what that would mean to her?  She's so little...so hurt herself.  What could rescue mean when all she wanted was familiar, comfortable, known...and we had none of that to give her.

A friend reached out to me with words of hope..."you promised to love and care for her...start with care and love will come later".  I hung on those words.  I read and re-read them day in and out.  Care for her.  Do the basics.  Like you're babysitting. 

Days bled together, honestly.  The crying and wailing continued.  The stoic baby we did our best to care for.  I felt totally trapped.  I told my husband "she hates me".  He said "she doesn't hate you".  But he left it there.  What more could he add?  He was feeling the same way. 

We were tired and worn down emotionally.  On excursions she would charm the locals and even our travel group.  Smiling and cooing.  It was those moments I tried to snap pictures of her to share with those back home. I have many, in fact.  Smiling Keira.  Even giggling in some.  But unhappiness seeped around the corners of her eyes and you could see she was coping the only way she knew.

I heard that others in our group were beginning to experience some of the same issues with their little ones.  It gave me comfort to know I wasn't alone.  It made me sad and left me feeling we were wrong for doing this to her.  Wrong for taking her from her home.

I knew we weren't technically "alone", but after a long night of Keira screaming and refusing to be comforted, our hotel neighbor and travel-mate offered me a hug and an understanding sigh the next morning.  She had heard it all.  She couldn't even find the words to try and support me in that moment.  She knew it was bad.  Keira was crying herself to sleep...exhausting herself until she could fight us no more.  Everyone had to be able to hear it.

And I think many of them knew what we went through.  Because I was lousy at hiding my pain.  I was tired.  Exhausted.  Of her.  I know how bad that sounds.  It does to me too.  But it's the truth.  

I felt so bad for Quint.  What had we done?  What had we brought down on him?  This crying, inconsolable, broken, angry little girl that would want nothing to do with him.  What had we done to our sweet boy?  How much would he lose when we had to devote so much of ourselves to her and her pain?  I had never imagined I would be thinking these thoughts...but here they were...biting at me and tormenting me.

And I know what you might be thinking.  Maybe that I was childish to think she would be fine to begin with.  Maybe that it was immature to have those dark thoughts and not to give her time.  Maybe that I didn't give her a chance. 

Funny thing about crisis - you don't think clearly or rationally.  You think that right now feels like forever.  It feels like forever, I can vouch.  Sweet Lord, it feels permanent and never-ending.

What if she never accepts us?  What if she develops severe Reactive Attachment Disorder?  What if we get home and she spends the next 18 years rejecting us and our love?  Could I handle that?  Could I love her anyway?  Could I accept her or hurt her more by struggling to love her?  How would this hurt our family?

Over and over and over...

Each day I would wake up and smile at her and each day she would wake up and see me and cry.  Each day I would hold her and she would squirm away from my touch.  Each day I would feed her the only way she would accept it.  Facing away from me.  If I tried to hold her like an infant and feed her, she would squirm and cry and push me away.  Unfathomable to me.  I was so broken.

Where was my little girl?  Where was my Keira Joy?

I would like to say that looking back, each day improved a little bit while we were still there.  By "little bit" I am implying hardly at all.  That's what you should hear.  A little bit meaning - not much at all. 

On the outside looking in, she was smiling to others and behaving normally.  Crying at normal intervals, eating, sleeping, etc.  It was behind closed doors that she unleashed her pain.  The only time I felt free from her was when she slept - and it was fitful sleep at best.  It nearly broke me.

I was devastated.  Weak from the brokenness I felt.  Shattered on the inside, trying to smile on the outside.

My strong wonderful husband...amazing father to our son...also so deeply wounded by her rejection of us.  

Walls had gone up that I didn't realize.  We were protecting ourselves now.  Going through the motions of her proper care.  But inside...oh the pain and despair.  Wondering how we could have misjudged ourselves so badly.  Wondering how someone so small could make us feel smaller.  Could make us hurt so badly.  

When my son was placed in my arms for the first time, it was love at first sight. First touch.  I loved him with a deep abiding love that has not wavered for one second of his little life.  I adored him.  I cherished him so deeply from that first moment on.

I did not love Keira.  Think what you will, but I am speaking truth even if it's ugly to hear.  I tolerated her.  I longed for her.  I longed for my own version of her. But I did not love her.  I merely did whatever it took to get through a day.

There was no magic.  There was no bonding.  Just three people trying to make it through that trip.  Trying to get home and figure it out.  

I've looked over the pictures...many times.  I see her smiling and I know it was through a lot of cajoling.  And it almost looks sincere to me.  But I know it was in the midst of a lot of confusion and pain for her.  There were moments I think she just forgot on some level, and let herself giggle or smile for us.  I have the pictures as a reminder to myself that the pain I felt was also calmed by those rare moments we could get a smile or laugh out of her.  It was a hope offering of sorts that we were given to get us through.  And it worked...because we did get through it. 

Each day we would see her smile and say to each other "I know she's in there...somewhere...under all this pain...you can see it when she smiles".  It would melt us.  Melt our tired hearts and give us reason to believe that she was that smiling happy baby somewhere underneath the rejection.  Somewhere down inside, she was this amazing beautiful girl...and we had to find a way to get to her.

But oh, I wanted it to be so much more.  I wanted it to be pretty.  I wanted it to be amazing.  But it wasn't.  It was painful.  It was broken and long and heart-wrenching.  

I wanted to scream at her "do you know how long and far I have come to be your mother?  How much I have sacrificed?  How much others have sacrificed?  How many people love you already and have prayed for you and longed for you?  Don't you know how much you are wanted?"  

But it would have made no difference, as you know.  For she could neither understand nor did she know or comprehend any of that.  How could she?  Of course she couldn't.  And so I just felt it to my core and wished she could for both of us.

I believe that Keira was very attached to her nannies.  She had two dedicated to her.  Just her.  She slept with them, and I believe was carried a lot.  She was well-fed as you can tell, and from the pictures in the orphanage we could see her big smiling face - telling us she had a big personality. 

 That she was happy at one time.  That it was possible to see her smile again...a meaningful unfettered smile that came naturally and instinctively to her little face.  Not cajoled or forced.

What she knew with us was her own deep pain.  Her loss.  Her deep cutting loss.  She knew that her nannies were no more.  Gone, just like her mother.  Everything...every single thing was different.  Sights, smells, tastes, clothes, temperature, beds, people, eyes, words, voices...faces...so different. 

Can you imagine that loss?  I can't.  Maybe that's why I felt so inadequate to care for her pain in those moments.  

In those days, I tried over and over to remind myself of this.  But I would hold her little hand to extend myself to her, and she would rip it out of my grasp.  I would kiss her cheek, and she would arc her back and arms away from me, whining.  I would hold her feet, hoping she wouldn't notice - and she would twist and turn to get away.  I would try to cradle her at night, and she would struggle, arc her back again, and cry until I would release her.

So painful to even think of it now.

This is how it went, my friends.  For the whole of our trip.  And I've wanted to share it with you because it matters.  

My heart was broken.  But its healing.  My spirit was broken, but its mending.  My pride was humbled and my mouth, too quick to give advice, silenced.

I've come to learn in a short time what good lessons these are.  How they grow you.  How they move you.  How they force your hand at change and that goodness comes from them.  Can come from them, if you're willing.

Coming home was profound in so many ways, but that's The Ending, and it's not time for that just yet.  

Let me tell you about tonight.  Yes, tonight will tell you how my broken heart is healing and my broken spirit mending.  My pride still being humbled, even now...because you're reading this truth and it's hard to share...so hard to share.  

Tonight will show you...and so will The Ending...so look for that soon.

Tonight, I was curled up in the corner of our lovely, comfy couch.  I love that couch and always have.  You could die from the way it soaks you up and puts you to rest instantly.  The lights were very dim and all was quiet, except the low hum of the calming music playing.  I was sitting with her and we were going through our nightly ritual.  She was in her pj's.  I was in mine.  She was drinking her final bottle of the day.  This is our time.  Just ours.  Her little body nestled snugly against mine and curled tightly to me.  Her left arm folded underneath mine, in comfort.  The other  hand free and grasping my cheek or her bottle...or resting on my own hand.  

She drifted off to sleep...still making the sucking motion, though the formula was gone.  I gently removed the bottle from her lips and set it aside.  Now she just sighed and I felt her go limp.  Her feet, in constant motion, now calm.  Her hand, resting on her chest.  Her eyes closed and those long beautifully shaped eyelashes resting.  I touched her face with the smallest gesture.  I whispered "I love you, sissy-girl.  I do".  I reached down again, those irresistible cheeks of hers calling to me, and softly planted my lips on one and then the other.  Eyes still closed, she smiled.  Irresistible.  I told you.  I repeated the kisses.  She smiled again, a small beautiful smile.  Then she very slowly opened her eyes and looked at me.  Saw me.  And her smile grew bigger at the recognition.  So did my heart.

The Beginning

This is not a "pretty" story.  That's the first thing I want to make clear.  It's not brushed with rainbows and smiley faces - it's the truth.  Sometimes ugly, actually.  Sometimes painful.  Sometimes beautiful in its pain.  I think it's fair to start by saying that you are here because you clicked here.  Although I invite you and appreciate you taking time out of your day and life to check in on us, I want to issue a small request for this series of posts (3-parts).  I have found the adoption community to be, on the whole, very supportive.  However, over the fund-raising issue - we had many people in that community who felt it their personal obligation to let us have it with both barrels.  And by "have it" I am of course referencing overtly negative and mean spirited opinions of us. 

While this blog is public, it's also a place where I hope to encourage and speak into the lives of others by revealing my heart, thoughts, and life experiences through truth - a truth that does not sugar-coat or seek out to lead everyone to believe our life is happiness and roses all the time.  It's not.  My hope is that you will read my words and either take or leave them.  If you feel compelled to leave a comment, all I ask is that you would be gentle and supportive. ~ Thanks - C

So I had this underlying sense of "ugh" going on for a while.  Maybe because we had waited so long for that referral to get here.  Technically, we waited over five years if you count paperwork to travel.  That's such a long time, sometimes I can't believe we actually stuck it out.  So, I think maybe, going into the trip..I was kind of underwhelmed with the whole process and it sort of robbed me of some of the joy I might have had otherwise.  I mean, I was excited in the arena of "let's get this over with and move on, for crying out loud", but I wasn't "oh freaking joy...let's meet her already!"  Sounds horrible, but it's true.  I wanted her.  Otherwise I would have given up long ago.  But I was so tired of everything, I was still waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop and ruin the whole thing.  Even after we had her picture. 

See, now if you're already annoyed with me, which is ok,...there's the little "x" up there in the corner....just sayin' - it'll get worse before it gets better.  You've been warned.

Looking back, I would say with clarity that anxiousness (among other things) kind of sums up the entire thing.  Start to finish. 

We had been fund-raising, and that was stressful.  I was sure the money would be there somewhere deep down, but I was scared to death it wouldn't.  O ye of little faith.  I know.  But still.  What if we didn't...and then what?  And the many nasty e-mails and comments people recklessly flung at us during that time.  Making us feel bad for even trying.  Making us feel guilty for pursuing her the only way we knew at that point.  So many blessings though...so much encouragement to keep on keeping on.  So many kindnesses and extensions of love.  That's what kept us in the place we needed to be in order to get on that plane.

Have you ever heard of "loss aversion"?  It's like this...and hold the offense until I explain how it applies:  you're at an amusement park.  You hop in a very long line for the best ride.  You know it's a great ride.  You hear the squeals of delight of the riders.  You see them smiling and laughing as they exit.  So you wait.  And you wait.  And the line moves ever so slowly.  Forever it seems.  But there is the lure...  About 3/4 of the way through, the ride shuts down for an indefinite amount of time.  You have to decide.  Leave or stay?  Wait or jump ship?  You figure you have already waited so long, and you're 3/4 of the way there...to leave now would be foolish.  It's a "loss" to bail out.  So you do what avoids the loss of the time you've spent.  You stay in line and wait.  Loss aversion.

I think this applies a little bit to those waiting for the China program to come through.  Loss aversion.  You've already waited so long...to cut out seems too painful.  Such a waste of time.  Your time.  Your life on hold.  Loss aversion.

Don't think for a minute we didn't think of quitting, because buddy we did.  Many times.  Many, many times.  There were so many instances I wanted to bail out and run for the hills.  We have a beautiful amazing wonderful boy...I think I could have left the process a dozen times over since the day he was put in my arms. 

But we waited.  Loss aversion.

I waited on a dream.  Of her.  Of what I thought she was, would be, could be.  I waited...

I've said before how many times I had wandered into her room just to stand by her empty crib or to run my fingers along the dresses in her closet.  Sometimes I would pray in that room, asking God to give me patience, or peace, or clarity, or longevity.  Sometimes I would cry.  Sometimes I would just be still.  Sometimes I would close the door and leave it that way for a few months.  It got too painful to walk by and not have her there.  Sometimes I would fling the door wide and open the shades and enjoy the sunshine and the way it hit those pretty pink stripes on the wall.  I would admire her things...the things she didn't even know she had, in the room she didn't know she had, with the Mom she didn't know she had - weeping off and on for her to come home.  So many days and nights that they bleed together into one long story of heartache and missing her.

Getting on the plane was easy.  The packing was easy.  Preparing those final things to do...all easy.  I guess because we had done them before.  Not even two years earlier.  Done them all and boarded a plane for a certain far-away place...and knowing the whole time that your life was about to take a sharp turn towards a new family portrait. 

The flight was long and I found myself twisting and turning in my seat.  There was no sleep.  I was anxious.

The airport was huge, imposing even.  The architecture grand.  The security...overwhelming.  And the cough I tried to will away before passing by some 20 guards all wearing face masks.  I've covered before that I was sick.  Very sick.  And so I'll leave it at that.  It didn't get better.  It got worse and never improved until a week ago.  But it's neither here nor there.  I was sick and that was that.  And no, it certainly did not help my frame of mind.  But it's not all there is or why or how.  So it's somewhat irrelevant, but bears some mention in this telling.

There was an eclipse of the sun.  That's the first thing I remember about riding to the hotel from the airport.  It was stunning, but paled through all the smog. 

The traffic reminded me of Ethiopia - wild and unruly.  Here and there and everywhere and sharp turns followed by tight squeezes and near misses. 

There was the hotel, filled with cigarette smoke from the moment we scrambled in from the cold and through the revolving door until the moment we left through that same door and into a cold blast of air.  I'm not a smoker, and so for me it was depressing.  That was the moment I can say with certainty that my breathing issues began.  The room key could not come to us quickly enough.  Tired doesn't cover it.  Exhausted?  Run down?  Beat up?  And also...anxiousness.  Not worry, not excitement...my anxious heart was sensing trouble.  I couldn't even put my finger on the reason - I was ill at ease.  Physically, I was not well.  But emotionally, I was shocked at how...underwhelmed I felt. 

We did the sight-seeing and it was amazing and wonderful and cold and miserable...and I thought it would never end and I wanted it to keep going.  The history was breathtaking.  But I was so sick.  Had no business being out in 20 degrees, barely able to take breaths in, standing on raw nerves and no energy and no sleep to back it up.  But oh the sites to see.  The Great Wall...the Forbidden City.  It was all amazing...

The next morning we flew to her province.  I slept on the plane, sweet sleep.  But landing I could see that once again the smog was ubiquitous.  I was disappointed, as I had been looking so forward to deep breaths. No lie.

The hotel was nice, much nicer than the one we had come from.  The room was cozy in a hotel sort of way.  We had a crib delivered...made up for her with little blankets and a tiny pillow.  Unloading suitcases...clothes, bibs, bottles, diapers, toys, emotions, years of waiting, carefully prepared paperwork that was years old, all unpacked on that hotel bed.  Some put away into the small dresser...but some left out to sink in and permeate the air.  And it did.

She was within reach.  She was arriving tomorrow morning.  She was real now.  No more excuses or renewing this or that.  Her time had come.  Our time had come.  And here we were, just like we always imagined we would be.  Here we were to take her home and make her a part of the "us" that had always been two, but had become three while waiting for her.  Now three was becoming four.  Only nineteen months in age separated one child from the other.  Could I do this?  Was I sure?

You might not think you would be having those thoughts on the night before the end of such a long wait, but let me illuminate my exact thoughts for you...

Can I do this?

Why did I do this?

Are we sure?

We have a good thing at home...are we nuts doing this?

Can I do this?

Are we sure?

What if...(enter a thousand things here)

and so on and so on and so forth...

I think you might be normal to go through this type of thinking a handful of hours before your life is turned on its ear, don't you?  It might be normal to be anxious before you change your life for the rest of your life.  I was anxious the day I got married.  I was anxious the day I met Quint.  Or  maybe I was nervous...and maybe the difference is that there IS a difference between nervous and anxious.  I do know that several times it went through my mind...what am I doing?  I'm barely cutting teeth on a toddler...and it was hard work getting this far.  What am I doing going back to the starting gate?

Loss aversion, that's what.

Come too far for too long with too many tears...and GOD BLESS we are not quitting now.  Holy cow!  You better suck it up and make it work sister!  That's what I told myself.  Looking in the mirror in the hotel bathroom...splashing water on my face and giving myself a shake.  Get yourself together.  What's the matter with you?  You can't get cold feet now!  Snap out of it!

I know it sounds harsh, because even to my own eyes reading what I just typed out...it reads harsh.  But I implore you to stick with me.  No stones.

I didn't sleep well that night.  I wanted to.  God, how I wanted to.  But I couldn't.  The bed was too hard.  I'm convinced that had it been a more comfortable bed, I could have slept through and through.  Down comes to mind.  Feather.  But not rocks or slab or Flintstones.  No.  I can't sleep like that.  So went the rest of the trip.  Sleep was no friend.  Shame on him.

The next morning, I awoke feeling cavalier.  Not really, but I acted all cavalier.  Like "I know what I'm doing and I've been through this like only a 'blink' ago and so big deal".  I "knew" what to expect and what to feel and what would happen and what we'd experience.  Been there.  Done that.  (cavalier...see I told you).  Also, I felt the rest of our group was not in our boat.  They had older children or no children.  It was either their first time, or they were no longer living the diaper/schedule/nap-time/feedings/baby life that I was still carrying on at home with my new toddler.  After all, he had "just" turned 2 in November.  We had "just" left the 1-year old stage.  I was still VERY familiar with what to expect when you're expecting...even if it was through an adoption.  We were still living it every day at home.  I felt this made our situation unique in that, unlike everyone else who was nervous and filled with jitters and wonder and amazement at what was coming...I was calm.  Relaxed even.  Cavalier, I believe is the correct term.  Arrogant even.  (bah...I'm cringing)  

It should be noted, we had a wonderful travel group.  They were some of the loveliest people and we miss them.  So this in no way reflects them.  It was me.  Stupid anxious-relaxed me.

And I was relaxed.  Dumb relaxed.  "Know it all" relaxed.  I would love to go back and punch myself in the mouth, but couldawouldashoulda.

We boarded the bus and off we went to the Civil Affairs Office.

Still, there I sat with that cavalier (I know, I've said it many times now, but it's so true...and I can't think of a better word for it) attitude.  Our guide had repeated several times over the previous days and even now "remember to be patient with your new baby...she is trying hard to please you, but she has been through a lot".  I felt for the other families.  Wondering how hard it would be for them. and hoping they had an easy time of it.  Knowing they might not.  (Please, hold your snickers...ok, go ahead...I'll join you)

I can snicker now.  Because now I see.  But then, all I had was a "gotcha" moment from a year and a half prior that was like gold.  If you need to relive it, you can HERE.  He was a lovely, lovely well-adjusted and happy baby.  He was.  And he was one month younger than her at the time.  And that was all I had.  It was like liquid courage to me in this moment.  Because it was my proof that these things go well (snicker) and that babies this young are impenetrable, resilient, and unaware. That they smile and laugh and coo...because they know no different.  That they're naturally happy. 

Right.  Moving on.

On the elevator, I was calm.  Smiling.  Resolute.

When we got inside the babies were already there.  We were escorted past them and into a somewhat small room.  A couple of people rushed over to me "did you see her?  did you see her?  Gawd, you can't miss those cheeks anywhere!"  Truthfully, I hadn't seen her.  Hadn't even looked.  I guess I was trying to save the moment for THE moment.  I didn't want to steal a glance - I wanted magic.  Magic.

One by one they called the families forward.  I finally felt the butterflies kick in.  Finally.  And I was nervously darting my eyes around, checking for her behind the heads of many.  I was sweating.  Profusely.  I was issuing anxious orders to AB like "make sure you're filming...are you filming?  Well, don't use all the tape...wait for her!  Are you filming?  Well, film for crying out loud...we don't want to miss it!"  I know.  I've apologized.  AB does really well under intense pressure and the constant nagging of his wife.  Bless that man. 

Then I heard the name.  Her name.  The name we were made to memorize so we would know when they called it.  Her Chinese name. And it doesn't roll off the tongue.  And it's hard to say and unnatural.  But it was hers.  And we knew it when we heard it.

It was time to see her.  Touch her.  Hold her.  Five years felt like it might start to drift away slowly...like a clogged drain...slowly, slowly...and hearing her Chinese name...almost like slow motion but very fast so you could barely make it out and know that it was HER they were referencing. 

AB filming and me...moving forward somehow.  Somehow.  Making my legs round that corner until I saw her.  Handing over our passports with shaky hands.  Waiting because we were told "you must wait until everything is verified before you can take the baby".  Waiting. 

We made eye contact, she and I.  For what felt like a lifetime, but was only a few seconds.  Just staring at each other.  Deep down staring.  She was in the arms of a nanny.  The director  of her orphanage was close by, observing...watching.  Our guide translating and talking back and forth.  It was hot in that room.  She had on layers and layers.  AB...I could hear him saying things like "there she is" and "she's so beautiful".  I wasn't saying anything.

I was just staring into her eyes.  And she was doing to same thing.  Staring into mine.  Her eyes boring into mine with questions. 

And I've come to know that it must have occurred to her.  Must have hit her right in the heart.  Must have simultaneously stunned her, scared her, and overwhelmed her...

She was coming to me. With me.  She was for me.  I was for her.

And you must believe me when I tell you, she knew....somewhere down inside she knew that it was permanent.  You must believe me when I ask you to throw away every notion you might have now that insists a baby doesn't  or can't know.  That somehow they are too young, too infantile to feel or experience or understand on some level.  You must believe me when I tell you that babies this young are not impenetrable, not always resilient, and not unaware.

So began, there in that small hot room in the south of China...in that tense and long anticipated moment...in those life-changing seconds...a deep and utterly painful cry from that little baby girl who would be my daughter. Who already was my daughter, though neither she nor I had accepted it.

A frightened, anxious, pitiful and unbelievably knowing cry that would last many, many days forward...

Believe me when I tell you that she knew

And oh how her little heart would break

To be continued

Gettin to it

I know, I know.  It's taking me forever.  Ack.  You'll be happy to know (or maybe you're indifferent either way) that I am constricted by time and not words.  I'm pretty sure the words are there now, just not the time to write it all out yet.  

I'm thinking of starting a draft that I can work on a little bit at a time. and come back to through the day/night, etc.  Say, in between diapers and feedings and playtime, nap-time, snack-time, wrestle on the floor time, and, well let's face it, kissy face time.  Come on, wouldn't you play kiss-kiss with these cheeks?

Meanwhile, holy cute kids Batman!

Somebody help me.  These two are gonna overload the Mom "cute meter".  Am I biased?  (Sshhhh)

Keira is such a gentle and DELIGHTFUL baby...her smile would knock you over and pick you back you up.  Also, she snorts when she laughs, and if that wouldn't melt you then you could possibly be dead.  I'm just sayin'...

More to come

Letter to Mom

Mom, I was remembering when I went on that Mexico missions trip for 7 days or whatever it was.  I was so homesick.  Hadn't showered the entire time except once in a public shower place for a $1 or something.

Then I remembered I got home really late at night from that trip.  And the house was quiet, because it was so late and everyone was in bed.  

But you.

You were waiting for me.  The TV wasn't on or anything.  You were just up and waiting for me.  And when I came in the door, there you were...taking my bags and hugging me.  Telling me you missed me.  Ushering me into my bedroom (which was all clean with fresh sheets on the bed...and turned down).  

You got me into a hot shower and when I came out, all cozy in my PJ's and with my tired eyes...you were waiting for me at the kitchen table.  And I sat down and you fed me.  I don't even remember what it was...maybe soup or ramen.  And you asked me all about the trip and let me regale as much as I had the energy for.  And you listened with interest and asked questions.  And then we went to bed and the next day our family life went on...

But I remember...

I remember that you waited for me

and that you took care of me, even when I was 16

and you knew my needs because you had spent a mother's lifetime uncovering them

and you knew what I needed that night...and many, many others

And now that I'm a mother..it touches my heart in a different way

because I'm struggling to take care of my own kids and to get through these days that I consider to be the "trenches" of motherhood

and you had four

and honestly, I don't know how you did it...

I just know that you were a good mother and you paid attention to the details for each of us

and you loved us well

and I remember