Pampers and Paklava

Je ne sais quoi

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By the time I met Big Papa, I’d done my fair share of online dating. I figured out pretty quickly that no matter how good someone “looked” on paper, there was no substitute for meeting in person. It’s impossible to define chemistry. Plus, I’d come to realize that what I sought was more than just a handsome face.

Big Papa had that certain something. There was no pretense, no smoke and mirrors. He played it as it lay. He was what I called, ‘a good egg.’

Reflecting

It took me longer than I care to admit to know myself and be true to the things that mattered most to me.  When I reached my 40s, I made a long-due personal commitment to clarify how I wanted my life and relationships to look. Getting to that point, took plenty of soul searching, but when I did, my life began to fall into place.

Finding each other has been rewarding on many levels. We are a good team, “a force to be reckoned with” Big Papa has been known to say. We’re both straight-up honest, down-to-earth, what you see is that you get sort of people.

Our relationship has also helped me believe in serendipity. Some might call it fate or even faith. It is deeply comforting when good karma finds me, but only in more recent years have I found an awareness of the role I play in making this happen.

Big Papa likes a quote from W.H. Murray, a Scottish mountain climber. I like it too.

“This may sound too simple, but is great in consequence. Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamt would have come his way.”

Adopting a child holds many parallels. Adoptive parents think long and hard (and answer many questions) about what they are “looking for.” Race, ethnicity, gender, age and a host of physical and medical challenges, we tick these off as we form a picture in our heads of who our future kiddo might be.

For many of us, when we receive a referral or choose a waiting child, our whimsical fancy deepens. We fall in love with a photo and a description. A feeling takes hold in our heads and in our hearts that this child is our son, our daughter.  We find ourselves drawn in by a twinkle in a little one’s eye or the magic in his laughter.

Taking that next step and making the commitment turns fantasy to reality. It’s daunting, to say the least.  For those who haven’t adopted, it’s hard to put into words. Limitless hope, unrestrained excitement, and tremendous fear all manage to find a small corner of your mind to set up shop.

I’m not implying that parents who give birth to biological children don’t experience the same roller coaster of emotions, but with adoption two becoming three doesn’t just happen. You can’t simply climb under the sheets and get pregnant. You really have to put it out there with a dossier or a birth parent profile, countless investigations, interviews, and piles of background checks. Lots of hoops.

The Road

And then, one day, you find yourself staring at a photo of a kid who might become your kid. Something in the universe changes when you make that decision to commit. You grab hold of your heart and jump and the road rises up to meet you.

Row, row, row your boat

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“Row, row, row your boat…” sang the little voice just feet from my bathroom stall.  “…gently down the, Mommy how many times do I need to sing it?” she asked plaintively. “Twice,” her mom replied as I walked out to suds up my own two hands.

I can’t remember learning how to wash my hands. Or brush my teeth. These daily habits are so deeply ingrained, that I take knowing how to do them for granted. I put on my pants without giving it a second thought. Left leg first? Right leg? Both at the same time? Truthfully, I’d have to stop myself midway to know what I do for sure.
Baby Bjorn
Yesterday, Big Papa and I spent at least fifteen minutes trying to figure out how to strap a Baby Bjorn carrier to him. I’d picked one up at a yard sale for a good price. When brought it home, we figured we’d give it a spin. It was a sobering experience trying to decipher which strap went where, what this or that buckle was for and how to adjust the carrier to fit Big Papa who is 6’1”  versus me at 5’5″, much less perform this task with a wriggling little one waiting in the wings.

Many of my same-age peers will laugh reading this. They’ve already mastered these skills once, twice or many times over. I’m sure they could diaper an infant with their eyes closed, and may already be doing so with their first grandchildren.

Not us. Big Papa breaks into a cold sweat at the thought of trying to give a squirming kid a bath without drowning him, and I feel a bit nauseous when my mind runs through the list of feeding, dressing, diapering and bathing skills I’ve yet to acquire. Between us our baby savvy is about a 1 on a scale of 1 to 5.  Big Papa was the youngest in his family, and I was only three when my sister was born so we have no family history with any of this and virtually no babysitting experiences to fall back on.

We’ll have to figure it out all if we plan to keep the kiddo alive when we bring him home. And, as time goes by, we’ll need to teach him all the tricks of the trade too. If we want reassurance that he’ll aim to hit the toilet bowl and not the wall, we’ll want to come up with our own personal arsenal of training techniques.

Thankfully, we live in the age of the internet. Our moms hauled out the latest edition of Dr. Spock or just asked the neighbor when they needed to figure out how to soothe a teething infant, but I envision yelling, “I’ve got the diaper in my right hand and I’m holding him upside down by the legs with the left,” as Big Papa Googles ehow.com and calls out the steps.

Some days thinking about it gives me a headache and puts me into deer-in-the-headlights mode. Other times I’m proud to learn the sign language word for banana and hopefully excited as I imagine teaching my boy how to plant tomatoes for the first time.

My feelings are a jumble of sheer fear and unbridled joy. From what everyone tells me, that’s what parenthood is all about.

The call

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“Honey, could you get the phone?” Every adoptive parent talks about the day when they got “the call.” It’s the proverbial equivalent of two pink lines on the pee stick. “You’re pregnant!” In a sense you are pregnant, with information. Pictures, video, and medical statistics arrive one by one in your in-box. Sometimes you receive pages worth, but most times very little.

Blackberry

I know adoptive parents who have screamed, cried or passed out when they got the call. Years later, they will retell the story of this moment in vivid detail. It reads like a remembrance of the day the Apollo 11 landed on the moon. You recount where you were, what you were wearing, who you were with, how you felt and what it all meant in the spectrum of your life. Adoptive parents recall the time of day, whether the sun was shining, and what was blooming in the backyard.

When my sister got the call, some eleven years ago, she was ecstatic. Later, a single picture arrived of Chun Yuan, now my niece April. She was all of a couple months old and bundled tightly in a blanket. The photo was a head shot surrounded by a deep red background. Her dark shock of hair was cropped short and stood enthusiastically on end like she’d just rubbed a balloon and touched it to her head to make her locks defy gravity. She was sticking just the tip of her tongue out through the side of her mouth as if to say, “Puleeze. Can we just move on to the talent portion of this program?”

A brief medical record accompanied the photo, which my sister took to have translated. “Healthy baby girl” is how the report read. The details didn’t matter much because my sister and her husband had already fallen in love with her: this little baby half the world away.

For adoptive parents who choose a special needs or waiting child, however, the circumstances are quite different. In effect, those parents make the call themselves by expressing interest in a child they see on a website or via an adoption agency posting.

Since we are considering a child with special needs, it occurred to me that I won’t get the call. A small part of me feels disappointed to miss out on this universal experience (universal, at least, for adoptive parents). A larger part of me feels relief that, by intercepting the referral process, we won’t have to endure months of waiting and wondering about when “it” will happen.

I also think I would feel some pride in being able to tell my child that I chose him. I saw his eyes and something spoke to my heart. I watched him move and saw a stalwart trooper. It felt right, so I reached out and made the call.

The trifecta

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A 30-something year old friend of mine was married this past weekend. It was a good-sized affair, with nearly 200 in attendance. The ceremony was outdoors at the Columbia Winery. After they tied the knot, we milled around the tasting room before we were ushered into the dining area with roughly twenty round tables, each holding eight guests.

Just married

Once nestled into our seats at Table 16, Big Papa and I were relieved to be sitting next to a couple we know and like. We always have a good laugh together and feel at ease, plus they are in the loop on the details of our lives such as when we got married, where we live, and our pending adoption.

Otherwise, truth be told, Big Papa and I find events like this uncomfortable. That awkward moment when you’re seated next to strangers or standing at the buffet line. We know we’re connected to each other by a few degrees of separation, yet it can be dicey getting conversation started.

At weddings, I find that people generally ask a trifecta of questions: ‘How do you know the bride/groom?’ ‘What do you do?’ ‘Do you have kids?’

In the many years I spent as the perennial single girl in so-so jobs, gatherings like this were excruciatingly painful. I felt like I had a scarlet ‘S,’ for single, plastered on my dress. As my solo years stretched into my forties, I was all too aware that I was the which-one-isn’t-like-the-others at most bridal and baby showers.

When people ask, ‘Are you married?’ or ‘Do you have kids?’ I understand they’re not trying to be judgmental, but rather searching for a common bond, and a launching off point to share their own story. Still, I feel challenged not to feel “less than” when I can’t respond in kind.

For me, the sadness I would feel as I drove myself home was that I wanted to be able to talk about my loving husband, share pictures of my dimply-faced child and talk proudly about my career accomplishments. Each time, as I mulled over my post-revelry depression, I’d remind myself I need to come up with a cheery elevator story for the next event.

It’s not that I have no appreciation for the grand diversity of life circumstance and the path that is uniquely ours to claim. Life isn’t a competition. Our stories unfold in their own time and at their own pace. Marriage, jobs and kids aren’t like Girl Scout badges of honor. Not having one or any of the three doesn’t signify lack of ability, motivation or character.

I’ve certainly seen enough marriages implode and parent-child relationships that struggle mightily. I know that what you hear in cocktail conversation doesn’t always match up to what’s going on behind closed doors. Still, I admit that I struggle with not feeling like a member of the club when I attend celebrations like weddings, baby showers and class reunions.

These days, my life looks quite different than it did just a few years ago. I walked in to this wedding on Big Papa’s arm. We’re in the midst of adopting a child. We live in a cute, little house. I spend a good percentage of my time writing, which truly satisfies my soul. So, you’d think I could upgrade my outlook to match where I’ve transitioned to in life.

In part, I think my brain is so used to being the odd gal out that it’s hard to make the switch to glass half full. And, I’m sure, like many folks, I’m influenced by the messages our society spreads on what’s “normal.” Marriage at 48, adoptive parenthood at 50 and stepping off the career carousel is a bit out of the box. There are plenty of people who say “That’s great!” when I tell them we’re adopting, but I’ve also experienced my share of raised eyebrows and “Wow, you’re taking this on at 50?”

We left the din of the wedding to walk to our car. I took Big Papa’s hand and gave it a tight squeeze. I am deeply grateful for the love in my life, the roof over my head and the baby waiting in the wings, in Armenia. My life may have taken the longer, winding road, but I’m by far the wiser and infinitely happier with where it’s led me.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

~Robert Frost

Gift from the heart

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It isn’t the size of the gift that matters, but the size of the heart that gives it.
~The Angels’ Little Instruction Book by Eileen Elias Freeman

Yesterday, I received my first baby gift. It was a moment that was both touching and quite unexpected. I was on a shopping excursion to pick up a prescription from Pharmaca when I stumbled upon the Madison Park neighborhood sidewalk sale.

I confess to having the garage sale gene. If it’s marked down, lovingly used or sitting on a table on some sidewalk, driveway or front lawn, it already has a leg up in appeal for me. Wandering past candles and coasters and assorted knick-knacks, I slowed when I came to ‘The Original Children’s Shop.’

Rockin' red pottyBright colored geegaws lay splayed across the table, pint-sized clothing, toys and sorts of goodies for kids. All on sale at fifty percent off! Before I knew what hit me, I had a good stash piled table-side.

I should mention that, until this point, I have not been one of the mothers-to-be who already furnished her child’s room, packed the closet with outfits and the shelves with toys. I read about these moms every day, in online chat groups with prospective adoptive parents nattering on about coordinating crib bumpers to match the color scheme of nursery walls, all before they’ve even completed their paperwork.

My hesitation isn’t due to lack of thought about my future kiddo. I think about him every day. I imagine holding him in my arms, quieting his cries and watching him learn about the world for the first time. And, I’m definitely not a procrastinator. I don’t want to be in a last minute retail feeding frenzy, racing around the city to locate all the items we need for our wee one’s homecoming.

Some of my slow-out-of-the-gait buying behavior is self-protective caution. We haven’t received our approval from the Armenian Prime Minister yet, much less a referral. I don’t know whether our kiddo will be ten months or fifteen months when we bring him home.

The Urban Cabin is very small. With space at a premium, I need to edit my desires for stuff. There is also a small part of my brain that worries I’ll “jinx” the outcome by prepping too soon. Or that I’ll find myself more despondent spending months staring at a fully-furnished nursery sans kiddo.

I’ve allowed myself a few indulgences, mostly in the form of children’s books, which I love and have loved even before I imagined myself as a mom. I had a pretty healthy collection going for years. Turning the pages of a children’s book gives me outright joy, from the colorful pictures to the simple messages, whimsical story lines and side-splitting humor.

So there I stood, chatting it up with the sweet and friendly staff at The Original Children’s Shop. I told them my story of adopting from Armenia, as a first-time mom, at fifty. I asked for advice about rattles, teethers and Onesies…at what age would my kid still like this thing or that.

I fell for a few of the obvious, velvety soft My Own Monster Penguino and orange Two-Dees cat. I rationalized a couple of practical purchases: a plastic bib with a cool train on it, a rockin’ red Baby Bjorn potty chair, and plate and spoon set.

Sassy toy setFilling in the mix were an assortment of rattles and teethers from Sassy, a brand of products that promise to nurture and edify at the same time. I debated, the ‘Shake and Sprout’ plus the ‘Coolin’ Teether’ or the ‘Fascination Station’ and the ‘Smile Baby Camera.’ Then I saw it, the Sassy ‘Welcome Baby! Gift Set with nine toys.

All the while, the Children’s Shop staff patiently answered my questions, listened supportively and smiled enthusiastically. I gathered my loot and laid it on the counter. As one young gal started to ring it in, she turned to the woman on her left and said, “Which one mom?” “This one,” the mom replied, pointing at the Sassy Gift Set. Turns out the owners are a mother-daughter duo.

Then she looked up at me and said, “This is our gift to you.” “Congratulations on your upcoming adoption. We hope you’ll bring him in once you get him home.” Tears welled up in my eyes and I thanked her. I walked to my car clutching my purchases and my gift, my first baby gift from a mom with a generous heart to a mom-to-be with a hopeful heart.

Born on the 4th of July

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This Saturday our nation honors its 233rd birthday. Big Papa, also born on the 4th of July, turns 45. When you’re born on the 4th of July, the entire nation is celebrating on “your” day. It’s a national holiday and families have the day off. There are picnics, BBQs and, of course, fireworks.

July 4th

In our neighborhood, the festivities get started days prior. Bottle rockets and M-80s fill the silence of the night and for Big Papa, a good night’s sleep on his birthday, can be nigh impossible. A few years ago, when we started dating, I asked him what he wanted for his birthday. “Peace and quiet,” was the response. I laughed, “The only place you’re going to get that is in another country.” Then it hit me. “Canada!” I exclaimed. “Brilliant!” said Big Papa. And so our Canadian birthday tradition began.

One year we went to Salt Spring Island off the coast in the Canadian Gulf Islands. Twice we visited the little town of Ladner, just north of the Canadian border on the Frasier River, where we stayed at the lovely River Run Cottages.

This year, we’re going to Vancouver. I’m embarrassed to say that in our mutual 24 years of living in the Pacific Northwest, neither of us has ever been to Vancouver proper, just three hours (plus a border crossing) north from where we live. I’ve heard wonderful things about the city, both its physical beauty and thriving cosmopolitan culture. Big Papa and I are really excited about this trip.

Big Papa’s holiday birthday got me ruminating about birthdays in general and the significance of the day you are born. I marveled at the irony of being born on Independence Day. Big Papa’s birthday was his first independent day from his mother’s womb.

CupcakesBirthdays that fall on holidays are fraught with competing interests. I have a few friends whose birthdays fall between Christmas and the New Year. They have commented that presents get “combined” and their birthday plays second fiddle to the hubbub surrounding the holidays. Other friends with birthdays on holidays have said that it was tough to find attendees for birthday parties because their friends were celebrating the holiday with family or out of town.

The day, month and year of your birth is also filled with meaning. We typecast by the Zodiac signs, chit-chatty Gemini twins and cautious Cancer crabs. Following Chinese astrology, Year of the Pig folks are known for chivalry and Year of the Dragon people are thought to be energetic.

In anticipation of my adopted niece’s arrival from China, I bought all sorts of bunny-themed gifts to commemorate her birth in the year of the Rabbit, or so I thought. Her birthday falls in late January. Since the Chinese astrology is based on a lunar calendar, the new year shifts, sometimes by as much as several weeks. It turned out that my niece was actually born in the Year of the Tiger!

Not knowing the exact date of birth is a common conundrum for adoptees. Orphanages frequently make an educated guess as to the window of time when the baby may have been born and assign a birthday. In thinking about birthdays, my mind wanders to our child, who has by now, likely entered the world. I look forward to the day when I can set a candle on his cake to honor his birth, even if the date turns out to be something of a mystery.

A tree grows in Seattle

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A Kapok tree grows in Seattle! Kapok trees grow in tropical climates like Mexico, Central America and the Caribbean, Northern South America, India and, apparently, Santa Barbara, which is where Big Papa got his little sprout from a friend about five or six years ago. Full-grown Kapoks can reach an impressive 200-230 feet in height and 10 feet in diameter. The fiber in their seed pods was once used in life vests as it’s waterproof and buoyant.

When I met Big Papa, the Kaypok sat potted in his kitchen window box, and was about six inches tall with a couple leaves. I quickly grew very fond of this little sprout, a stranger in a foreign land. I wanted the Kapok to feel welcomed and loved and come to know the Urban Cabin as home. I made sure the Kapok got water and fertilizer and I turned it every week to give each side equal bits of sunshine. Big Papa and I even got the Kapok its own Tiger.

Tiger

Every time the little Kapok put out a new leaf, we made a big fuss, like two hens nurturing their brood. The little Kapok grew and grew. Soon it needed a new pot. By now the Kapok had several levels of leaves. Each time it would bust out a new set of leaves, the lower set would drop and the little Kapok would take the entire trunk up a notch.

Two summers ago we thought we should introduce the Kapok to the world outside. I carefully set it on the back deck in the sun. Within 24 hours, the leaves were burned and it soon dropped most of them. In a panic, I brought the Kapok back indoors and worried for a few weeks that I’d killed it. But I hadn’t. That little plant just kept on growing.

This summer we set the Kapok outside again, but this time, in dappled sunlight underneath a couple friendly old yellow plum trees. The Kapok has been out there for a solid month, through rain and wind and more sunny days than Seattle typically sees this time of the year. I go out and check on it daily, give it water if it’s dry and make sure the Tiger has a good view. And, of course, every time we see more leaves, we make a fuss.

Today I took out a measuring tape and I’ll be darned if that little Kapok isn’t a few inches over three feet. It’s still got 197 feet to go, but I’m darn proud of our little tree. I’m also fairly certain we’ve got the only Kapok in Seattle.

Kapok

At three feet plus the pot, the Kapok now exceeds the height of its former abode, the window box. What do we do? Our sprout has become a toddler. I’m not sure it’s ready for life outside year-round, but it’s definitely outgrown its old digs. Big Papa and I discuss the future of our Kapok. Should we try to donate it to the Volunteer Park Conservatory, home to many exotic and tropical plants? Or possibly plant it in our backyard. We smile when we imagine a 200 foot Kapok dwarfing even the 80 year old, 60 foot plus cedar tree in front of our house.

On many occasions, when I think about our Kapok, I also think about our kiddo. The little sprout we have yet to bring home and nurture. I hope Big Papa and I can give him a home where he will thrive and grow. Seattle is not Armenia. The soil is different and so is the light. But I hope that as time passes, our child will feel welcomed and loved. One thing I know for sure is that he can count on us taking good care and making a big fuss.

Spasiba

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As a treat to honor of my upcoming 50th birthday, I took myself to Frenchy’s Day Spa for a manicure and pedicure. There’s nothing like looking down at ten shiny toes to put a smile on a girl’s face. It’s rare that I splurge on self-indulgences these days, so I couldn’t wait to have my hands and feet massaged and primped.

‘Ludmilla’ calls me over and gestures to have a seat. In a heavy Russian-sounding accent, she asks the usual “make the customer comfortable” questions as she goes about the business of turning my tootsies into treasures. “You married?” she asks. “Yes,” I answer. She follows with, “Children?” “Not yet, but we’re in the process of adopting.” “Oh blessing,” she says softly touching my hand. “We’re adopting from Armenia,” I tell her.

Her eyes grow wide as saucers. “My husband Armenian. I Azerbaijan.” “Armenian friends,” she says excitedly, gesturing toward two women bent over customers on the other side of the salon. She tells me that her father was Hungarian and her mother Azerbaijani. The conversation becomes very animated. Ludmilla doesn’t speak much English and all I know of Russian besides borscht is Spasiba, thank you. So I keep saying Spasiba and trying to answer her questions.

She wants to know if we will adopt a boy or a girl. Probably a boy, I tell her. Most families seem to want girls and we said boy or girl, so probably a boy. I’m not sure how much of the commentary she’s taking in, but I know she understands boy. Do I have picture? No. Name? No.

Age? Maybe a year or a bit older. We don’t know. We haven’t met him yet. I try to explain that we are waiting still for Armenian Prime Minister approval. I mention Tigran Sargsyan, the Prime Minister and Ludmilla helps me say his name correctly, rolling the r’s.

She tells me over and over that what we are doing is a blessing. I want to wrap my arms around her and give her a hug. Her words make me, an outsider, feel welcome. I am truly touched since I know that for many from that region, the Diaspora is hard. Of the nine million Armenians in the world, only three million live in Armenia.

I ask about her family, mother and father? All dead. Her husband’s family? Also dead. She has one daughter, who is twenty-two and living with her.

The hour passes quickly. My calluses have vanished, my fingernails are a luminous pink and my toes twinkle with red like fresh-picked Bing cherries. The deepest glow comes from within. My heart has been pampered too.

Twinkle Toes

I stand up to leave, and as I press a tip into her hand Ludmilla presses her business card into mine. She tells me I must bring a picture in to show her the child we will adopt. I promise than when I have one, I will.

Walk a mile in my shoes

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A year ago, at the end of May, Big Papa and I started our adoption journey. I suppose the exact anniversary date is a bit hazy. It’s a bit like trying to pin down when a romantic relationship started. First date? First kiss? Everyone seems to have their own unique way to define when “it” all began.

I find that most everyone is amazed by how long international adoption takes and how much sweat equity is involved. When I’ve shared the news that we’re adopting people are incredulous when, some months later, they ask if we’re close to getting a kiddo and I tell them the blessed event could still be a year out.

We’re now at the stage where our dossier is in Armenia, translated and sitting in the Prime Minister’s office waiting for approval, which could take months. To get to this point, we had two major hurdles to vault, our Home Study and our Dossier.

Adoption Home Study

Everyone who adopts has must have a Home Study, which is a thorough background investigation by a licensed professional (generally a social worker) to determine whether the prospective adoptive parents are suitable to adopt. Big Papa and I filled out pages of answers to questions about our backgrounds, our family, our beliefs, our strengths and weaknesses, why we want to adopt, our relationship, a chronological history of each of our lives, jobs, hobbies, education…and much more. Between us we wrote twenty-six pages. We also attended a ten-hour training class which is required for anyone adopting from a Hague-convention country.

Then, our social worker interviewed us individually and twice as a couple, once in our home. I can’t tell you how many people make sure their homes are spic ‘n span, bake cookies, and primp and prepare for this moment. We tried not to obsess too much. I didn’t think our social worker was going to show up and perform the ‘white glove’ test. Where the rubber meets the road is the list of documents you collect:

1. Birth certificates for each and every resident of the household
2. Marriage certificate
3. Copy of three most recent Federal Tax Returns
4. Two most recent pay stubs confirming employment
5. Proof of insurance: health, life, other
6. Physician’s Report for each member of the household
7. Guardians: The complete name(s) address and phone number of the guardians of this child in the event of the death(s) of the applicants, and how this has been established
8. Five references, only one of which can be a family member
9. Child abuse clearances from every state and/or country you’ve ever lived in
10. Criminal clearances for all adult household members (this includes fingerprinting at the local police department)

Whew! I get tired just rereading the list. Completing the Home Study process took us about four months. Next, we filed our I-800a, which requests U.S. government permission to adopt an international orphan. This process took three months from submission to approval. We had to get FBI fingerprints and clearance for this stage. While we were waiting, we got busy putting together our Dossier.

my-moccasins

Adoption Dossier

The dossier is a large packet of documents that the adoption agency submits to the country in which prospective parents are adopting from. Most of these documents also need to have both notary signatures and apostille seals (subject for another post!). Here’s a list of what was in our dossier, which was shipped late February:

1. Letter to Prime Minister requesting adoption of child
2. Copies of Passports
3. Authenticated Birth Certificates
4. USCIS Approval, also known as the I-171H or 797C form
5. Home Study (notarized agency license attached to back)
6. Personal Residence Description
7. Three blank white sheets of paper with signature
8. Employment Verification Forms
9. Letter of Recommendation
10. Letter of Recommendation
11. Letter of Recommendation
12. Letter of Recommendation – Pastor
13. Financial Statement: Liabilities and Assets
14. 1040 Form Copies – three years
15. Medical Exam Reports
16. Local Police Clearance
17. Marriage Certificate
18. Power of Attorney
19. Photo Page (Family, home, work, church, pets, vacation, nursery)

Yay for us! Our dossier is signed, sealed, delivered and speaking Armenian. It’s been one heckuva year, and Big Papa and I know we’re in for more of the same over the coming year. Adoption is a phenomenal paper chase. The accompanying waiting game is the mother-of-all-waits. The entire experience tests your metal and stick-to-in-ness.

Now when we see a family with, what appears to be, an adopted child, I smile and nod knowingly. We’ve walked in their moccasins.

Beauty is Only Skin Deep

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“She canceled with only forty minutes to spare,” a job-searching friend told me describing a recent interview with his potential new boss. “We rescheduled for the next day and she was fifteen minutes late,” he continued. “But when she walked into the room, I forgave her because I was in awe of her beauty.” This said by my gay male friend, who wasn’t harboring an “I-want-to-date-her” hidden agenda.

Beauty alone won’t take you the distance, but the truth is, sometimes it provides pretty good traction. In my single days, I let plenty slide if someone floated my boat in the looks department and, if they didn’t, I doled out fewer ‘get out of jail free’ cards. Many times my vote of confidence, based primarily on attraction, was sadly misdirected.

 

LLama Face

I’ve been giving ‘beauty’ some thought lately, as Big Papa and I talk about ‘the face’ of our future kiddo, particularly as we consider adopting a child with special needs. There are so many kids in need a loving home who are, on the surface, less than perfect. They may have a club foot, be missing fingers, or possibly have cleft lip or a large birth mark, covering their face.

We try to imagine the impact this might have on our child in terms of the physical challenges he might experience, and also relative to the negative reactions or preconceived expectations he might encounter. At my gym, an instructor and a gym member were recently comparing pictures of their young tots. “Look at his face. What an angel,” one cooed. “Your daughter is gorgeous. You’ll have to keep her locked up when she gets older,” ventured the other.

I imagine pushing my cleft lip baby in his stroller down the sidewalk, only to have passersby shriek or shrink back when they peer inside. What do I say when well-meaning family members and friends ask for pictures of our bundle of joy. Do I preface what I share with cautionary statement?

When our child is old enough to understand hurtful comments directed his way, how do I handle the sadness or anger he may feel? In school, kids can be vicious. Even children without disabilities are subject to intense scrutiny and teasing. Do I teach him to be tough and stand up for himself or do I teach him to be forgiving and compassionate toward those who are ill-informed or just don’t get it? What can we do, as parents, to instill healthy self-esteem and a confident outlook on the world, particularly if our kid looks a bit different from your average Joe?

On some level my fears are based on my own history. I’ve often wrestled with feeling that if only I could lose ten pounds, I’d get the guy or just be happier. Maybe the buck stops with me. If my hope for our child is that he won’t let his life be controlled by how he thinks others see him, it’s time for me to nip my own insecurities in the bud. Be the role model I want to be by starting with how I see myself. Here’s looking at you, kid.