The king and the castle

November 2, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

“If you want to beat the pants off your friends, here’s what you do,” Big Papa told my 11-year old niece, April, on our recent trip back east to visit family. “When you control the center of the board and keep your king safe, that’s how you’ll win the game,” he continued to her rapt attention. “So, I’ll give you a tip. You need to move your king to a safe position away from the center and your rook into the king’s place in the center.” “It’s called ‘castling’.”

“Ok, ok,” she says with one eye on the miniscule travel chessboard set and the other on the piece of cheesecake lying in front of her on the table. Big Papa explains how it’s a special move that you can only pull out of your hat once. Plus, it’s a showstopper because you get to move two pieces at the same time.

April considers this advice and zip, zip, her rook and king do the do-si-do, sidle by each other and trade places. She sits facing Big Papa with a smug grin on her face. “Good job,” he tells her.

My heart is just beaming. I’m so in love with my husband. Seeing him coach her makes me proud. He is smart and sensitive and patient. I know he will be an amazing father.

Having a good time with an 11-year old is easy with April. In our oh-so-very-biased opinions, she is by far one of the coolest kids on the planet. That she’s even interested in chess, takes her coolness quotient up a notch or two. But April is not our kid, she’s my sister’s kid and she lives 3,000 miles away.

Every year when we see her, she’s shot up another foot or so and has acquired at least a dozen new interests. We feel fortunate that she’s still in the phase where she thinks Aunt Beth and Big Papa, are funny enough to generate a few laughs, know a thing or two, and are a blast to hang out with. It’s only a matter of time before hormones and teen-age years kick into high gear and then all bets are off. As long as it lasts, we try to enjoy every giggle and hug that comes our way.

As I watch the two of them jostle their chess pieces and each other, my mind drifts off imagining how it might be when we have a kid of “our own.” I know raising a kid is a lot of work and it won’t always be chess and cheesecake. Still, I long for moments like this, together, in the comfort of our castle, the Urban Cabin.

In my fantasies, I walk with my kid to the Central District Friday Farmer’s Market and watch the chocolate drip down his face as he nurses a Snoqualmie ice cream bar while we pick out potatoes and peas for our weekend feast. I visualize Big Papa explaining why it’s important to hold the nail just-so, when you bring the hammer down, so you drive the nail, not your thumb, into the 2×4.

For now though, it’s all a dream. I’m watching other people’s cute kids, not mine. Lately I find it incredibly hard to believe this will be us one day. After our trip to Armenia a month ago, I feel numb more than anything else. The truth is right now we don’t control a darn thing on the board.

Back home from our east coast adventure, Big Papa and I distract ourselves with talk of tiles and cabinets as we remodel the Urban Cabin. For the time being, we’ve moved our castle to the center, to create a safe haven and protect the king and queen.

What the wind blew in

October 13, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

Author’s note: Pampers and Pakhlava first posted on April 13, 2009…six months ago today!

I started this blog because I figured that when all was said and done I’d have a recording of what happened, how it happened and when it happened to share with our child. Along the way, I thought I might explore what felt like to become a mom at 50. And, since my blog appears in a women’s travel website, I knew I’d be able to showcase photos and travel experiences that feature a country few people adopt from, travel to or even know much about.

Writing about adoption in a travel website was daunting. Nearly three decades had passed since I’d been overseas. In my dreams, I’m traveling the world, but in the light of day I could rarely afford to get much farther than my own back yard. I imagined most of the Wanderlust and Lipstick readers were, well, wanderers. Whether they traveled solo, with kids, or to exotic locales they were all likely headed somewhere farther than the living room sofa.

When I began blogging, I didn’t have a clue if anyone other than family and close friends would crack my blog open. Even if my readership was comprised of just those near and dear, telling tales of my inner-most angst left me with a feeling of prickly anxiousness. What would it be like to publicly divulge the roller coaster chain of events and Pandora’s Box of emotions that go hand-in-hand with adoption? Not to mention my own insecurities about tackling motherhood at midlife.

Faced with a veritable hip-deep list of what-if-I-do, I reminded myself of the high cost to what-if-I-don’t. Since I was a little girl, in my head I’ve concocted books for children, memoirs and assorted homage to family members and significant friends. I’ve oft promised myself that tomorrow, no next week I’ll put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and anchor these stories.

Here I was, looking square in the face, at an opportunity to do what I’ve longed to do. Plus there would be deadlines. Beth asked for at least two posts a week. Since I’m the kind of gal who tries to fulfill my obligations, it seemed like a good motivator to get my fingers moving and keep them doing so on a consistent basis.

I took a deep breath and jumped in. I’ve never been much of a journal writer, though I wish I was. I haven’t been published (yet) in a magazine. I have done my fair share of scholarly writing (read: term papers and two masters theses) and I did spend twenty years in the field of training and development where I wrote and edited training manuals and developed classes. Writing about me, however, is a brand new gig.

The sheer act of writing is meditative for me, like cooking which I also adore. First I imagine the recipe. Next I gather the ingredients. Then I set about the business of putting it all together. My brain enjoys writing. Putting form to my ideas feels like finding the puzzle piece with the teardrop shape that fits in the upper right hand corner just so.

Blogging also creates an opportunity to insert photographs into my posts. I’ve been passionate about photography since childhood, when I saw the magic in my father’s darkroom. I snapped my first shot with a Kodak Brownie and haven’t stopped taking pictures since.

Six months into this venture, I’m smitten with writing. I lose myself in it. I craft posts in the shower and in my spinning classes at the gym. I hear a song, read an article or the air smells a certain way and my mind starts churning. There is a thread between my heart and my head where words and images percolate. Out topples a tale. Of late, I find it hard to imagine not writing.

The blog has helped me work through the sturm und drang of our adoption journey. Before, some issue would get stuck in my craw and fester into a big raw psychic wound. Now I write about it and set it free. Sometimes it sets me free too.

Even though I post what I write on a website, writing is a solitary pursuit. That people read my blog, and tell me it resonates with them, is a source of tremendous joy. I didn’t imagine complete strangers might “find” me, follow my blog or send notes sharing their experiences. I’ve been deeply touched by the support I’ve received after writing emotionally difficult posts and it’s exhilarating, in the short time I’ve been writing, to be mentioned in magazines like Adoptive Families.

I started this blog because I figured that when all was said and done I’d have a recording of what happened, how it happened and when it happened to share with our child. What the wind blew in turned out to be another story altogether.

Breathe

October 9, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

In, out, in out. I fill up my lungs with air and exhale. “Blow it out like you’re blowing out a big birthday candle,” advises our spinning instructor. My lips form a big ‘O’ and I send the air flying out in a loud whoosh. Blood courses through my veins and sweat pores down my skin. My breath comes hard and fast and I can almost hear my heart beat. I feel so alive.

Spinning classes are my sanity. I look forward to getting on that bike and riding hard. If I miss more than a couple days, I get crabby and feel like my body and mind aren’t working quite right. Working out helps me relax and focus. The hours I spend on that seat are some of the most productive hours of my week because they’re all about me.

“We need to take care of ourselves first so we can take care of others,” we’re reminded in class. Taking care of me is an ongoing challenge. It’s ironic because many of my childhood memories converge around caretaking. My father had a stroke when I was twelve and that same year, my sister had a brain tumor. I was raised to be a caretaker.

Caring for others is selfless. Sometimes we do it because we love, other times we do it because it’s the right thing to do and many times we do it because we must. In contrast, caring for ourselves can feel selfish or frivolous, even though it is absolutely essential. When I don’t make enough time to take care of myself, my reserves are quickly depleted. My ability to be patient is strained. I have less to give and give it less willingly.

I’ve thought a lot about how important it is to take care of me first, particularly when I imagine becoming a mom. It’s one thing that scares me about parenthood, not being able to create space in my life for me and for my relationship with Big Papa.

Once I become a mom, I know my priorities will shift. I fully expect that days will be rearranged in ways I can’t even imagine. So I feel even more committed now, to work towards maintaining balance.

It’s not easy. The stress of pursuing adoption is hard to imagine if you haven’t been through it. The questions that intrude into your home life, the checks of criminal status, the financial obligation, and the agonizing waiting and wondering that puts many prospective adoptive parents through the emotional wringer. On occasion, as we experienced, the added disappointment in finding a child only to “lose” that child.

There are days when I feel enveloped by it all. The lack of control over so much of the process seeps into any vulnerable crack. I question my resolve to see it through. I feel angry and lost.

Fifty-five minutes pass by in class. I’ve pedaled twenty-two miles and have taken countless breaths. My muscles are warm and loose and I feel tired in a good way. My mind eases into a calm place.

“Leave it on the bike,” he tells us. And today, I do.

Gettin’ busy

October 6, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

A couple years before I met Big Papa, I dated someone for about six months. When that relationship ended, it really took the wind out of my sails. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming, but there I sat, in an all-too-familiar and very unhappy place. In the midst of my misery, I managed enough self-awareness to observe that I kept repeating dysfunctional dating patterns with some knock-off version of the same kind of guy. Like Einstein said, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

I was done with walking in circles only to find myself back where I’d started. First, I found a fabulous therapist, which turned out to be a brilliant and life-changing maneuver on my part. Then I started knitting.

Knitting had experienced a renaissance about the time I gave it a go. This was not our grandmother’s tea cozy and afghan sort of knitting. The age of ‘Stitch ‘n Bitch’ had arrived. I joined the cool and hip take back crafting revolution.

When I was knitting, I was completely absorbed in some other-worldly dimension. Time passed without notice. Sound faded into the background and, miraculously, the tornado in my mind stopped spinning.

During this time, I remember one time when I was at my friend Jena’s house watching ‘Six Feet Under.’ She’d invited a few gals over and attempted to convince me, a non-T.V. watcher, that this was a show worth falling for. She kept trying to draw my attention to what was on the screen in front of me, but I was completely oblivious, enveloped in a world of my own.

I spent the better part of the next six months glazed over in a knitting haze. My first project was a cute little sleeveless top knitted with burgundy ribbon yarn. Next I tried my hand at felting, knitting up a purse big enough for an entire family, only to toss it in the washer and come out with a soft fuzzy raspberry-hued stylin’ bag. I knit and purled my way through a few classes and several chicks-only knitting circles. And then I stopped.

Maybe knitting had finished serving duty as a distraction in my life, or maybe it was just time to move on toward new goals. I still think fondly back on knitting and hope I might pick up the needles at some point down the road. In fact, I’ve thought about it quite frequently as our adoption journey saunters along.

If I had a penny for the number of times folks have advised “just keep busy,” I’d be sitting on a windfall. Countless adoption articles suggest a plethora of activities to “take your mind off the wait.”

Knit a blanket for the baby. Have a yard sale or donate old household items. Start a scrapbook. Go shopping for kid stuff. Go on vacation and enjoy time with your partner. Read about adoption. Join an adoption support group. Take classes and learn about your child’s culture, language, cuisine and traditions. Keep a journal or write letters to your child. And, the ever present, decorate the child’s room.

By now, if you’ve read a few of my posts, it’s pretty obvious I’m not a sit-on-the-couch-and-watch-Oprah sort of gal. I maintain two blogs, this blog about our adoption and another about our remodel of the Urban Cabin. I try to write two posts per week for each. I’m also a part-time editor for a non-profit organization that develops international HIV/AIDS/TB curriculum. We’re in the midst of our house remodel which is many small projects all rolled into one. I take spinning classes and lift weights six days a week. My father, who is in assisted living (and recently fell and broke six ribs) needs this or that on a weekly basis. I do my best to make time for a small cadre of friends. Recently there was all the planning involved in our trip to Armenia and, prior to that, the onslaught of paperwork, classes and dossier preparation.

Saying I’m a busy babe would be an understatement. But the truth is I still stress-out about the adoption. It’s not that I don’t have moments when I find myself in a blissful, mindful and unworried place. I do. Writing, cooking, photographing, spinning at the gym and time spent just hangin’ with Big Papa put me in a peaceful frame of mind. I don’t think about the adoption all the time, but it isn’t far removed much of the time.

It’s fair to say I still have a ways to go when it comes to quieting my mind. My brain easily slips into multi-tasking mode more than I might want it to. For someone who is a doer, like I am, I expect not-doing will always be a challenge. But I sure would like to work on finding my way down that path. Because despite what everyone tells me, I find that “keeping busy” only alleviates just so much mental gymnastics. At least for me.

Climbers climb and runners run

October 1, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

Today, in my spinning class, our instructor divided us into two groups. One group would sit and put on a “big boy gear” and climb while the other group would rev up the RPM to stand and go for a run. “Climbers climb and runners run,” he frequently tells us. “We run to lose weight and climb to add shape.”

I’ve been in classes where the two groups were split into the front and back of the room, left and right or occasionally men and women, but today’s division was novel. If you had two kids or more you were in first group and one kid or less you were in the second group.

As the music kicked into high gear, those with two kids or more started as runners and those with one kid or less started as climbers. Women rose to the left and right and to the front and back. It felt as though I was surrounded by a throng of runners. I counted ten women standing, mothers all and at least twice over at that.

Five climbers and me cranked our gear up to 18 and chugged up the imaginary mountain. Our instructor was in our group. He’s in his early 40s, single, and from what I’ve gathered, not terribly interested in making any mini-me’s. Two of the climbers are young gals, in their 20s, with plenty of time to move from the one kid or less camp to the two or more. That left me, Grace* (not her real name) and one other guy. I know Grace doesn’t have children though I heard through the grapevine she’d wanted kids in her younger years; I’m not sure about the guy, who appears to be in his 50s.

When our hardy little crew of six took our turn to stand and run, my mind traveled through the gamut of thoughts and emotions. Only a few of my cycling mates know about the many months we’ve spent pursuing our adoption. A handful are aware that things went south on our recent trip to Armenia to meet the child we’d hoped to adopt.

Still, I felt positively ‘outed’ in class. There I was sweating with the masses in all my childless glory. Did they notice, I mused? While I rarely get pegged for a fifty year old, I’m sure it’s no secret I’m past my child-bearing years. If anyone did notice, did they wonder why I’m kid-free?

I realize that while my wheels were turning this over and over, the likelihood was that no one else had given it a second thought. I didn’t feel angry. It was a completely innocent and playful decision to split the class this way. I doubt there was a soul on two wheels who’d even considered the implications of standing with the runners or sitting with the climbers. Still, it was hard not to feel like I had the scarlet letter, B, for ‘Barren’ emblazoned on my Lululemon-clad behind.

Choosing not to have children or being unable to should not be viewed as a badge of dishonor, even though at times our society makes it seem as though it is. I heartily support the range of choices individuals and couples may make about whether or not to procreate. Parenthood is not for everyone. For many years, until I met Big Papa, I wasn’t completely sure it was for me. I certainly didn’t see myself taking it all on solo and hadn’t met anyone who wanted to parent with me or who was parent material.

Even if our adoption is eventually successful, it’s unlikely I’ll make it to the two or more kiddo category in our spin class. Still, I did some deep thinking about what it would feel like to stand in the smaller of the two pods, if and when we do adopt. Will I hold myself a bit taller and pedal a tad faster knowing I’m a mom at long last?

The autumn rains started this afternoon, more ferocious than we’ve seen in quite some time. Slate gray clouds fill the sky and droplets race down our window. It’s the sort of day when you just want to crawl under the covers with a steamy pot of tea, a cuddly kitten and a good book. Given my mood at this moment, it’s exactly the kind of day I need. A quiet introspective day to sit anonymously behind my computer, wrapped in my own private cocoon, rather than perched publicly on a bike.

Love at first sight

September 28, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

Before Big Papa and I became an item I spent a few years in the land of internet dating. Clicking on a profile is the first step down fantasy lane. You see a picture or two and read a bit about the person. Sometimes they answer standard questions, like “Would you rather be at the beach or in the mountains?” or “Given the choice would you prefer beer/wine/ martini/milk?” Typically there’s also free-form essay where your prospective date tells their story. A few minutes later, you feel as though you’re beginning to develop a sense of someone.

Then you exchange a few emails before deciding to get together. When the moment of truth arrives, “great on paper” might not translate in real life. Outdated photos promise youthful physiques and many profiles showcase creative marketing, where “I’m ‘intellectual” means “I read the Sunday New York Times.”

In the online phase, it’s easy to let your mind run amok. I’ve heard more than one tale where china patterns have been chosen before a potential paramour is even within spitting distance. Creating faux relationships is tempting. “He likes to hike,” I muse as my mind wanders to a sunlit September afternoon and the feel of the dappled light as we laugh and meander up the trail. The conversation flows easily like the alpine stream running beside us and…WAKE UP…oh-yeah-right, we haven’t met yet.

International adoption is a bit like online dating. You get a few photos and maybe a video or two. Accompanying the visuals is a ‘fact sheet’ that might include height, weight and head circumference and a random assortment of medical details.

Emotions surge as you imagine the first time you hold your child or the first time they jump in the autumn leaves. You conjure up imaginary memories of the day you put a Band-Aid on a skinned knee or made popcorn before snuggling on the couch for a movie. You create a virtual bond in the corners of your mind. I would even venture to say doing so is a survival technique of sorts to make it through the painstaking process of adoption, where months pass without a shred of information and time feels like it’s standing still.

‘Love at first sight’ adoption stories are plentiful. “I knew he was ‘our child’ the moment they sent me our referral photo.” “She was born in April and my mother’s name is April, so it was meant to be.” Revisionist history or not, it is easy to fall in love with a dream. You invest so much of yourself into making it happen, and so much of your soul into wanting it to be true. For some of us the stakes are high, with adoption our only option for parenthood.

The trouble is, at this stage, the relationship is one-sided and only exists in the safety of one’s mind. You haven’t met this child and this child hasn’t met you. While I feel the heart has infinite capacity to love, I also believe depth of connection comes from the flesh. You rise at 3:00 a.m. to change a diaper or soothe a nightmare. You plan for a morning feeding and anticipate an afternoon nap. One is not born a mom, but becomes a mom by meeting the most basic needs in life which, in my opinion, is how love grows and lasting bonds are formed.

At one time or another, every adopted mom will hear the question, “Who’s his real mom?” Adoptive parents will tell you that being a “real” parent has little to do with the biology of birthing and everything to do with the moments that exist from birth and beyond.

I remind myself of this as I look back on the past six months and reflect upon what happened during our recent visit to Armenia. While I feel tremendous loss about what is not to be, I also feel incredible hope for what will be, when we find the child who is the right match for us.

The baby lust I experienced prior to our September trip was powerful stuff. I spent half a year imagining and hoping, only to discover that this little boy had some serious issues we didn’t feel prepared to take on. As heartbreaking as our decision was, I know it was the right decision for us. When we say ‘yes’ to a child it has to feel right and be backed by reality; we parent in the world of flesh and blood, not fantasy.

It’s the climb

September 2, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

Most days, when I think about becoming a mom I get pretty excited. Then, there are the days when fear takes hold and grabs my brain like a vice.

Sometimes it’s the unknown. Will our kid love and bond with us? What health issues, other than those we’ve already signed on for, might we face? Is he going to thrive, be happy and feel secure?

Fear also stems from my own insecurities. I’m 50. Am I going to be able to take on all that’s needed to raise a child? Will I figure out how to care for him and juggle new responsibilities? Can I maintain my own health and sanity?

Change can be scary as all get out too. Life is pretty darn good at the moment. Big Papa and I have a wonderful relationship. We go wine tasting and take little trips. Right now, there’s no shortage of peace and quiet for writing, and I can spend two hours at the gym if I want to. When two becomes three, how do we hang on to even a smidgen of that?

This is where I land when fear clouds my mind and I let doubt creep in. The irony is that it’s not like I haven’t experienced challenges or adversity in my life. I’ve had plenty. My sister had brain cancer when I was twelve. A few months later, my father had a major stroke, which paralyzed his left side. As for myself, I’ve been unemployed, in debt, have been through four surgeries of my own, and have enough dating horror stories to fill a very long novel.

Even in my darkest hours, I managed to keep my head above water. I’m a trouper. In fact, sometimes I credit life’s trials for making me a stronger, more empathetic and even more interesting person. When I’m feeling fragile, I try to remind myself that I found my way through the past 50 years, and I can tackle parenthood.

Today, in my cycling class, our instructor Don played ‘Life’s a climb’. My muscles burned and sweat poured down my brow as I listened to the lyrics. I thought to myself, yeah that’s it. Life is a climb, and parenthood is just another mountain. Truth is I relish it, the exhilaration I get from pushing myself, trying something new and stretching myself just that much farther. I get one go-round in this life to taste it all, and I want to savor every bite.

Ain’t about how fast I get there,
Ain’t about what’s waiting on the other side
It’s the climb

Smart cookie

August 27, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

Paperwork, official documents, a home study and a dossier are just a few hurdles we have to clear on our path to adoption. Our adoption to-do list also includes 35 educational credits.

In 2007, when the U.S. signed the Hague Convention Treaty on International Adoption a minimum of ten hours of parent education was required. Most adoption agencies increased the number of required hours to twenty. Hopscotch Adoptions, our agency, bumped their standard up to 35 educational credits. “The more you know, the more successful you will be,” is a quote from our agency.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m pro-education. My Bachelor’s degree is from Cornell University and I have a Master’s degree from Stanford University and the University of Washington. I spent over twenty years in the field of training and development. I worked at a community college for five years and taught a class at the UW for over a decade. And, I love to learn.

Study hall
That said, when I took a look at what was required of us, in addition to everything else we needed to do or collect, I felt a bit faint. First, Children’s Home Society, our home study agency required a two-day, ten hour class, ‘Adoption Orientation.’ Then, before we would be able to receive a referral and travel abroad, for Hague and Hopscotch, we needed to do the following:

Choose a pediatrician familiar with the care of internationally adopted children (1 credit)
Locate an early childhood intervention program or other services (1 credit)
Arrange appropriate child care, if applicable (1 credit)
Complete an infant/child CPR course (1 credit)
Join a local international adoptive family support group and/or an internet international adoptive family support group and/or meet with a family who adopted internationally (1 credit)
Complete the these online courses through Adoption Learning Partners:

Conspicuous Families (1.5 credits)
Let’s Talk Adoption (2 credits)
The Journey of Attachment (2 credits)
Finding the Missing Pieces (2 credits)
Cope with Grief and Loss (2 credits)
Adopting the Older Child (2 credits)
Medical Issues in International Adoption (2.5 credits)
Eyes Wide Open (4.0)

Read ‘Raising the Adopted Child’ by L. Melina (2 credits)
Read ‘Adoption is a Family Affair’ by P. Johnson (2 credits)
Read ‘I Love You Like Crazy Cakes’ by R. Lewis (1 credit)
Read ‘A Blessing from Above’ by P. Henderson (1 credit)
Read ‘Boyra and the Burps’ by J. McNamara (1 credit)
Read ‘Through the Stars and Moon and Night Sky’ by A. Turner (1 credit)
Complete culture and heritage education (3 credits) by doing any combination of the following:

Watch a videotape or movie about the country, history, culture (1 credit)
Read a book or take an online course on the country, culture (2 credits)
Study a language tape (1 credit) or take language lessons (2 credits)
Attend a class or workshop on the some aspect of your child’s heritage (2 credits)
If you have not before, attend a service of the primary religion of that country or your child’s religious heritage and talk with members of that group (2 credits)
If you have not before, attend a cultural or artistic event in your community related to the cultural heritage of your child (2 credits)
Make a visit to your child’s country (3 credits)

Dear reader, I’m willing to bet you skimmed through that full-page educational summary list, didn’t you? Completely understandable. As for us, skimming was not an option.

Teacher’s pet
We attended Children’s Home Society ‘Adoption Orientation’ in August of 2007. The training was held in Tacoma, about an hour south of where we live, so we turned the two day class into a mini-getaway and booked a room at the Hotel Murano. Hotel Murano had lovely glass art exhibits housed on each and every oh-so-sleek-and-hip floor. Big Papa and I took turns calling out a floor number on which to stop and explore.

There were four other couples at the class and we were the only couple not adopting from China. We did our best to be good students, listen closely and throw ourselves enthusiastically into the role play activities. The highlight for us was the one thing not stipulated as required on the course agenda, a visit from Julie and Patrick with their adorable two-year old daughter in tow. They’d adopted Devi a year ago from India. I tried to imagine, wistfully, that one day this would be us, sharing our trials and tribulations with other hopeful adoptive parents-to-be.

By the book
As far as completing Hague and Hopscotch requirements was concerned, locating a pediatrician and intervention services was a snap. Adoption support groups are in abundance these days. There is a Washington State chapter of FRUA-Inc (Friends of Russian and Ukrainian Adoption including neighboring countries) and our agency offers an invitation only Yahoo chat group. Reading the kid books was a fun pre-snooze activity for Big Papa and I, and while the adult books took a bit longer to read through, we managed to find our way from cover to cover.

The online classes were another story. While I want to believe we’ve finally entered the age of effective and interesting online learning, the reality is that many of these courses are a snooze. We did enjoy the personal stories from adoptive kids or their parents that were occasionally included, but for the most part, the material was anything but riveting. We let months elapse between the eight courses until finally we decided to power through the remaining few classes. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that ‘Eyes Wide Open,’ the last online class, was twenty chapters long…twenty nifty little courses rolled into one! Our eyes were indeed wide open and rolling up in our heads. After we finished that course, we broke open a bottle of champagne.

A+
I can finally say that the end is in sight and ‘graduation day’ is just around the corner. We’re signed up to take an Infant/Child CPR and First Aid class. By October 2009 we’ll be able to bandage an owie and pop a chunk of cookie out of a choking child, all important skills to be sure.

That leaves one last element to our educational journey, completing three credits of cultural education. We’re excited as all get out to check that off, since we picked the last option on the list, “make a visit to your child’s country.” Armenia, here we come!

Hurry up and wait

August 24, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

Waiting makes me grit my teeth, pull my hair and worry. I’m a take charge, can do sort of gal. I like to get stuff done and make things happen. Patience is a virtue I’d do well to cultivate a bit more.

When we were doing our home study and getting all our documents together for our dossier, my to-do list was broad and deep. During that phase of the adoption process we were able to exert some semblance of control over the process.

Twenty questions to write answers to, no problem. A few online courses we need to chug through. Just log on the computer and get down to business. Five references to collect means we pick up the phone and call our friends. Fingerprinting, notary stamps, police clearances….check, check, check.

Once our dossier was safely translated and waiting in Armenia, then the real fun began, waiting, waiting and more waiting. Calling the shots goes out the window. You are at the mercy of bureaucratic process. Months can elapse without word and what is going on behind the scenes is a mystery.

Even once a family receives a referral or chooses a special needs child from the waiting list, there is still more waiting in store. In fact, when adopting from Armenia, receiving the Prime Minister’s approval is just the first step in the process. Several ministry committees still need to review your request before first one and then a month later, a second court date are assigned. Only then is your child officially yours to bring home.

It is maddening. With a few exceptions, if you get pregnant, nine months later there’s a baby. Not so with adoption. People always told me that the “waiting period” was the adoption equivalent of pregnancy. From where I sit, this feels different. Granted, I have never been pregnant so I am speaking from a place without experience. But it seems like pregnancy is a waiting period with known parameters, whereas waiting to adopt feels like limbo.

I walk through the world carrying my secret. Unless someone knows me and is aware of my story, there is no evidence that I am “paper pregnant.” I see round-bellied women at my local market and strangers walk up to them and ask, “When’s the baby due?” People give advice, bond over shared experiences, and celebrate a family in the making.

When friends and family ask me, “What’s taking so long?” I’m not sure how to respond. I wish I knew.

Truth is, even when I do get a snippet of information, I’m not able to share much. Most international adoption agencies request that families sign a non-disclosure agreement, requiring you to keep quiet on details such as the orphanage’s name for the baby or exact date the baby was born, the name of the orphanage and photos, until the adoption is finalized.

We’ve been advised that our adoption and the adoption process itself could be jeopardized if we do not adhere to the non-disclosure agreement. And even though we are given permission to, on a case-by-case basis, share a picture or general information, it is recommended that we do so cautiously.

So while I may ache to run through the streets screaming, “I’m gonna be a mom!” I need to sit mum, meditate privately on my good fortune and hope that folks occasionally divine the reality from the juicy tidbits and subtle clues I occasionally dole out.

XY

August 20, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

Pink was the color of my childhood bedroom. In the morning, when the light was soft, the walls were the color of our Magnolia blossoms in spring. Later in the day, the color would deepen to a rosy hue. As a little girl, I loved pink.

I was a girly-girl. My favorite pre-school activity was playing dress-up and I had lots of dolls. I still remember ‘Thumbelina,’ one of my very first baby dolls. I fed her and changed her and cared for her as I fantasized about the baby girls I would raise when I grew up and got married. Our home also had the requisite Easy-Bake Oven, which got plenty of use, and I organized my fair share of tea parties.

Girls-only families go back a couple generations on my mother’s side. I have one sister and no brothers. Mom had two sisters, no brothers. My Nana had two sisters, and although she also had a much-loved brother, he died in World War II, so I only knew my great-aunts.

My sister adopted a daughter who loved pink too. She’s starting to move into her blue phase, but ballet, dolls and all things girly are still quite appealing. Our family has been all about girls for as long as I can remember.

Girl names I’ve liked are still lodged in my memory. As many girls (and women) do, I always had a few favorites that I’d knew I’d choose if I had a daughter. When I find myself at a kid’s store, I’m not immune to ooh-ing and ah-ing over the immense selection of adorable dresses and flowery hair do-dads.

I like clothes and confess to owning more pairs of shoes than any one gal really needs. Though I’m a consignment and thrift-shopper from way back, I read ‘Lucky’ magazine, pay attention to what’s in style and smile proudly when compliments on my outfit are sent in my direction.

So the fact that I’m completely over the moon about adopting a little boy, might come as a surprise to many. And, I’m most definitely an on the fringe in the world of international adoption, where upwards of ninety percent of prospective adoptive parents want to adopt girls.

How I became a crusader for parenting boys is something of a mystery to me. At some point it started to dawn on me that I can share all my passions with a son or a daughter. My love of gardening, cooking and writing are not bound to gender.

In recent years, I noticed that my collection of antique trucks and ferry boats had grown quite large and nary a doll is in our home. Truth be told, I am a bit of a science geek too. Some years ago, I convinced my friend Marshall to stand in line with me for four hours to see Halley’s comet through the telescope at the University of Washington. I have a strong stomach and don’t shrink from blood and gore. I like to hike and camp and can start a campfire with the best of them.

Thinking it would be cool to be a mom to a boy also turned a corner when I saw friends interacting with their sons. Credit is due to some of the amazing moms and dads I know who are raising equally amazing sons.

My friends Eric and Alice were the first to have one and then two boys. While I don’t see a lot of them, I can tell from stories Eric shares, that they are really awesome kids. Our godparents, Julie and Byron are parents to a son as well. On our last visit, as I laughed watching Nate run Big Papa ragged around the yard and felt pride when I managed to discover heretofore unknown abilities in Nate’s Anakin Skywalker action figure.

At the gym, one friend Britta is mom to three boys. I have been inspired hearing her stories about how she’s raising loving sons. In fact boys easily outnumber the girls with the moms I’ve met there. Rayna and her sister have two boys each. One day I watched Rayna stroke her son Jared’s back while he sat in her lap. I felt my heart warm knowing I could hug and snuggle a son as easily as I could a daughter.

Our friends Karen and Tim are parents to Casey, who was one of the first boy kids Big Papa and I got to know together. Granted Casey is a trooper when it comes to hanging with the grown-ups, but spending time with him, gave us a better picture of what it would be like to have a kid around. And, we stocked up on parenting tips from the stories Karen and Tim have shared with us.

My dear friend Sherri is another role model for parenting sons. She has adopted two boys, one from Armenia. She says boys rock and I believe her.

Sure, I quiver a bit when I think about the day when I’ll need to teach him how to pee standing up and I’m fairly certain he won’t want me to be the one to show him how to throw a baseball. That said I’m tickled to trade sugar and spice for snips and snails and puppy dog tails.

Plus, the man I married helped me see just how fantastic boys can be. I couldn’t be happier that Big Papa is in my life. So I’m hopeful that raising a boy means I’ll double my bliss. I’ll be the lucky girl who gets to spend her days with two great guys by my side.