Pampers and Paklava

A Fork in the Road

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Adoption is not for the faint of heart. Navigating the twists and turns that you expect to encounter sounds relatively straight-forward at the onset. You figure you’ll gather this form and that form, find a few people to say nice things about you, get some fingerprints, pay a few fees, wait awhile and, voila, parenthood. You expect there’ll be a lot to track and do, but that it will be doable nonetheless. Anyone who has been down the road to adoption, particularly international adoption in a “post-Hague Convention” world, knows that the reality is something else altogether. Not to mention traveling this path while trying to retain some sanity.

This week we reached another fork in the road. Our agency informed us that while things are still moving in Armenia, they are moving very slowly. Emphasis on very. Since implementation of The Hague Convention, which sets forth guidelines and procedures to prevent abduction, exploitation, sale, or trafficking of children, international adoption has slowed to a snail’s pace. We hear that adoptions in China are now taking 37 months, after dossier submission. The U.S. has closed the door, indefinitely, for several countries that are not “Hague-compliant,” such as Guatemala and Vietnam .

Fork in the Road

We were proud to choose a country that is Hague-compliant and happy to find a reputable agency that is also Hague-accredited. But I will tell you that it has been a wild ride.

International home studies required child abuse clearances from each state we’d lived in, which between Big Papa and I was nine. Hague was newly implemented in April, and states were changing policies right and left. We filed and re-filed our California clearances three times. Colorado returned Big Papa’s clearance, along with the check for $15 he’d written on August 15. They had raised their fee to $30…on August 15!

Then, just as I was about to send our home study to USCIS (U.S. Center for Immigration Service) along with our I-800a (U.S. government for permission to adopt an international orphan), I noticed our home study agency’s notary had a nearly expired license. Two more weeks passed before finding a notary whose license would be good for at least six months, and our home study was revised and reprinted. Pre-Hague, waiting times for I-800a approval had been 30 days. We began hearing that I-800s were being rejected for a multitude of revisions needed, and the process was taking upwards of four months. Submitting ours with a notary whose license might expire in that time period would not be a wise step.

Now that we’ve learned that the process is going to take longer than we first thought, what do we do? Cross our fingers and hope that this will be one long hiccup but we’ll still “get there?” Abandon Armenia and try for another country that our agency represents? Change our parameters for the type of child we’ll consider? My head is swimming with questions and uncertainty.

“When we walk to the edge of all the light we have and take the step into the darkness of the unknown, we must believe that one of two things will happen. There will be something solid for us to stand on or we will be taught to fly.”

~Patrick Overton

Strap-on Baby

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He had a cute little body, an upturned nose, half-sleepy eyes and light brown skin. I knew he was ours from the moment I laid eyes on him. We picked him up, put on his diaper, dressed him in a cute Onesie, plopped him into a snug carrier and strapped him closely to my chest. He was everything I imagined our baby might be. Except that he was plastic.

Big Papa and I drove to Portland this past weekend, to attend a Northwest Adoptive Families (NAFA) class on baby and toddler care. As instructed, we arrived promptly at 8:00 a.m. to “pick out our baby” before class began. Oh, if only adoption was that simple.

Pick a Baby

Our first challenge was to select a baby who would tag along with us for the remainder of the class, lunch and bathroom breaks included. All the guys and gals bellied up to the bevy of babies, diapers, outfits and baby carriers. This was where the rubber meets the road. Gender bias was clearly influencing our choices and I’m not referring to what kind of ‘bits’ our baby was sporting. My selections for baby carriers were decidedly hip earth mama, sarong stylin’, Ikat print how-does-my-baby carrier-look-with-my-outfit accessories. Big Papa was tried and true REI meets Techno Geek, preferring the messenger-bag style baby carriers with buckles and rain-proof Gore-Tex.

The day proved to be a fascinating experience that we shared with roughly a dozen couples. Most were first-time adoptive parents, like us. A few had several birth children and one couple had adopted a baby girl just a week prior to the class. Little ‘Zoeylee’ sat just a few feet in front of us with her proud mom and dad, a hopeful reminder of what we all dreamed we might become one day…parents.

Eight hours later, Big Papa and I knew a lot more about infant development, feeding, bathing and the culture of adoption. During our day-long class, we bonded well with our plastic baby, who we adoringly nicknamed, Bubba. Of course, Bubba didn’t squirm, scream or poop.

We really enjoyed the break-out session on baby massage and were amused by the live baby bath demo (let’s just say that one 5-week old baby boy was decidedly not pleased with his fifteen minutes of fame), but the moments that really took our breath away had little to do with how-to and need-to-know.

Lani, a Korean adoptee, shared a moving story. Her story. She told us of being welcomed into a family of four as a two-and-a-half year old, and recalled what it was like being the only person of color in rural small town Oregon nearly forty years ago. Lani gave a loving portrayal of her adoptive parents and siblings, along with the traditions they created as a family.

One other moment is seared forever in my memory. John, a single adoptive dad, who was helping with the class, talked about his journey to find and parent his daughter. He described the challenges he faced as he made this brave and somewhat unique decision that would shape the rest of his life. As his eyes welled up with tears and his voice choked, he told us, “Adopting her was the best decision I ever made.”

Thank God we’re not Mothers Day

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Back in my 20s, every second Sunday in May, my female friends and I would congratulate each other on “Thank God we’re not Mother’s Day.” For us that meant we’d managed to survive another year without an unplanned pregnancy. We were invincible. Youth and fertility forever! We never gave a moment’s thought to menopause. Ah, the days of blissful ignorance.

In my late 30s and early 40s, I still believed pregnancy was possible. All the tabloid stories were proof. Gina Davis got pregnant at 47 with twins, as did Holly Hunter. Around my 45th birthday, I nonchalantly mentioned this at a visit with my gynecologist and she matter-of-factly informed me that they most certainly used donor eggs. I was dumbfounded. You certainly don’t read about that in People Magazine. I’m not sure I heard much of what she said past that point. I wallowed in pre-menopausal grief, as it dawned on me that chances were the only eggs in left in my basket were the chocolate eggs from the Easter bunny.

Duck Mama

Now, six weeks away from turning 50, I fantasize about actually experiencing Mother’s Day, as a mother. It is almost inconceivable (pun intended). I conjure images of dry toast and runny eggs appearing bedside with cheery daffodils from our yard, as I wipe the equally runny nose of my child. I imagine cute syrupy cards from my husband telling me how proud he is of me, mother to our child.

Each Mother’s Day that passes feels painfully empty to me, just as Valentine’s Day did during my long stint of singlehood. I just want to get it over with. Quickly.

Friends share the news of their ‘blessed events’ and bouncing bundles of baby love seem to pop up out of nowhere. I see little ones every place I look – at the gym, the grocery store or giggling as they run by on the sidewalk in front of our house. Facebook announcements reveal that my high school peers are welcoming grandchildren. And the truth is that I find it harder and harder to genuinely share their joy.

Finding love that would last the rest of my life took 46 years. Big Papa was worth the wait. I’m certain choices for a husband that I might have made, even ten years earlier, would not have been happy or lasting unions. I know he’ll knock it out of the park as a Dad. Every day, I count my lucky stars that I landed a keeper.

As an adoptive mom-to-be, I’ve heard over and over again, that the angst and grief will disappear the moment my child is placed snuggly in my arms. Adoptive mothers say that I will forget the agony of month after month spent waiting, just as women who give birth soon forget each painful contraction of labor. That’s what they tell me. All I can say is bring it on. I’m ready to celebrate Mother’s day, with a child to call my own.

All in the Family

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“He has your nose, can’t you see it?” I commented recently to a friend, on the resemblance she shared with her son. “Wow, where’d she get those curls?” I asked another. “You look just like your father did at your age,” my mother has said of pictures where we are both around twenty years old. “Yup, I’ve had a lipoma in my foot for years,” my father told me when I shared the news of my recently discovered and unwelcome growth.

Bremen-1946

For good or for bad, we carry with us the genes of ancestors past. We use it to define families, “Those O’Connors all have that red-as-Maples-in-Autumn hair.” We anticipate the various ailments that we’ve seen befall our parents and grandparents. And, we take pride when our genetics bless us with good looks. “My mother still has the legs of a teenage girl at 74,” a friend at the gym said when I complimented her on her own shapely gams.

I’ve thought about this quite frequently as a prospective adoptive mom. When questioned about the Armenian people, I’ll describe them as “Mediterranean looking with olive complexions, brown eyes and dark hair.” “Oh, that’s good,” will be the response. “Your child will look just like you.”

Nana and friends

Replicating my genetics has very little to do with my reasons for adopting. Sure, there’s a small part of me that would get a kick out of seeing a mini-me running around the playground, or might get misty-eyed if I see our kid, use that same bite-the-bottom-lip expression Big Papa pulls out when he’s really trying to focus. But seeing us in him, for me, goes so much deeper than the curls on both our heads.

Friends have asked us about how our parents feel about our pending adoption. Fortunately, Big Papa and I have very adoption-friendly families. His two older siblings are adopted. My sister’s daughter is adopted. Big Papa’s mother, in the 1950s no less, even traveled by herself to Germany to adopt her first child. Because of this, our families are nothing if not supportive of our decision

That said, Big Papa is the last of his lineage. On his father’s side he’s the only biological child of an only child. Neither my sister, nor I were able to give birth. Her ovaries gave out before they even got started and mine just plain gave out. So we are also the last to be birthed in our family.

Big Papa's Pop and Grandma

When all is said and done, in the moments I imagine a friend telling us there is something in our child that reminds her of one of us, this is what I want to hear. That our kiddo has Joel’s sense of humor and generous heart, my green thumb or way around the kitchen. If they say he’s kind to those less fortunate or works hard to make the most out of life, that’s good enough for me. In fact, it’s better than good.

Our essence is not our dark, curly hair, easily tanned skin, large hands or tendency toward high cholesterol. It’s not my luck in aging so well that I feel compelled to pass down for generations. I don’t want to be remembered for everything on the surface, but rather everything beneath it. If our child inherits any of this from us, my heart will swell and my soul will sing. I’ll be as proud as any parent can be.

The Reward is the Journey

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This past October, my husband (hereafter referred to as Big Papa) and I were fortunate enough to be able to visit Tibet. He was completing a work project that required a trip to Beijing and I decided to join him. We talked about taking additional time for a vacation after the project launched. Initially we considered Yunnan, after a friend of mine traveled there and told us about the diverse ethnic groups who live in that province.

Looking at the map, I noticed it wasn’t much farther to Tibet. One of Big Papa’s lifelong dreams was to see the Himalayas, so I angled for Tibet. We chose Wisdom Tours to guide us (independent travel is not allowed in Tibet), because they use Tibetan guides and we wanted an authentic perspective.

Our itinerary included a few days in Lhasa, with visits to the Barkhor market, Potala Palace (where Dalai Lamas lived for centuries) and Jokhang Temple, along with stops at monasteries and smaller towns as we wound our way through the countryside until we reached the highest spot on earth, Mt. Everest. We were unbelievably excited to see Everest. All the rest was the cherry on our sundae.

Potala Palace

Arriving in Lhasa

We arrived on September 26. The elevation at Lhasa is 12,000 feet. Climbing the stairs to our hotel room left us breathless. That afternoon, we strolled through the Barkhor market. Buddhist pilgrims, many who had traveled thousands of miles, circumambulated clockwise around Jokhang Temple, one of the holiest temples in Tibet. They spun hand-held prayer wheels, sending prayers to the heavens.

Clouds of juniper incense perfumed the air. Colorful prayer flags adorned every rooftop and waved their rainbow of mantras between every building. Monks in beet red robes mingled with the throngs of tourists. Golden rooftops of the temples rose to a crystal clear turquoise sky.

On the road to Everest

Two days later, a bit more acclimatized to the altitude, we began our four-wheel trek to Everest. On the way, we passed tiny mountain outposts. We saw villagers, faces bronzed and filled with lines from hard labor in harsh conditions. Tibetans live simple lives in humble dwellings. They are devout in their beliefs and practices which are woven through every aspect of their lives, like the warm colors in a Tibetan rug.

Tibetan Woman

Visits to several monasteries were mesmerizing. Monks chanted so deeply, I could feel my chest vibrate. Rich saffron orange walls and a king’s ransom of coral, turquoise and precious stones adorned golden Maitreya Buddhas and Taras. Salty yak butter tea was served to us by playful monks who scratched Big Papa’s beard and laughed.

The food was surprisingly good. Thick, tangy yogurt laced with honey. Ginseng roots slathered with rich yak butter and tossed in rice. Hearty yak nestled beside carrots and potatoes in a tasty stew. We did not expect to write home about the cuisine and yet , here we were, praising each meal and looking forward to the next.

We headed skyward, driving by nomads herding noble yaks in remote vistas of spectacular beauty. Three days later, we arrived at Chomolangma National Park (Chomolangma means ‘Goddess Mother of the Universe’ in Tibetan). We hiked the final three miles in to base camp, at 17,000 feet. Finally, we stood facing the mountain, in all her glory.

Seeing the Goddess Mother of the Universe is awe-inspiring. I will never forget the time we spent in her shadows. There is something indescribable about being in that place, achieving a dream, traveling the distance and seeing the unimaginable. It was only nine days and, at the same time, it was life-changing.

Mt. Everest

Had we not experienced the days preceding that moment, I’m not sure it would have meant as much. Before our trip, visiting Everest was a mere dream. Now it was 29,000 feet of rock solid reality. And, we understood more about Goddess Mother by learning about her people and the land beneath her snowy base.

The Dream

Our trip to Tibet and Mt. Everest has many parallels with our adoption journey. Becoming parents is a long-held dream. The road to adoption covers many miles and is very steep. There are many obstacles en route and the unexpected greets us around every corner. With each step, we learn more. We work hard together as a team. There are times of laughter and also times when we have shed many tears. As we make our way, we craft an incredible story. A story we hope to share one day with our child as we encourage him to pursue dreams of his own.

You say Baklava and I say Pakhlava

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It was 1980. I was twenty and studying abroad in Amsterdam. Most of my fellow students were headed to the south of France for spring break. I had other plans.

My destination was Greece. I traveled by train through Germany, Austria, what was at the time Yugoslavia, before entering eastern Greece at Thessaloniki. I eventually made my way south to Athens, through the Peloponnese peninsula before taking a ferry to the island of Crete. It was decidedly adventurous undertaking for a young, single, and solo, female traveler.

I had read about Matala, a small village in southern Crete on the Mediterranean. Matala was famous for the artificial caves, carved into the rocks. These caves were first inhabited during the prehistoric period. Tombs found in the caves date from Greek, Roman and Early Christian times. During the 70’s the caves were hosting an international hippie community. Hippie chick that I was, this sounded like the ideal place to spend spring break.

Matala did not disappoint. I enjoyed several glorious days camping on the beach below the caves, where I connected with two women, traveling from Sweden. We spent our days soaking up the sunshine at Red Beach, the most famous nude beach on Crete and our nights dining at the cafes drinking Ouzo while feasting on Moussaka, Dolmades and Baklava.

Ah, Baklava. Flaky, nutty, buttery layers of syrupy goodness. Baklava consists of 30 or more sheets of phyllo dough brushed with lots of butter, and layered with finely chopped pistachios, walnuts, and/or almonds. After baking, simple syrup of honey or sugar, rose water and lemon juice (sometimes spiced with cinnamon, cardamom, cloves) is poured over the pastry and allowed to soak in.

Pakhlava

Twenty-eight years later, when my husband and I began exploring international adoption, our discovery of Armenian cuisine was a contributing factor to our decision to adopt from this country. Yoghurt, hummus, lamb, Shish Kebab, mint, stuffed grape leaves – we enjoyed them all. Along with Baklava, which in Armenia is, called Pakhlava.

History of Pakhlava

The exact origin of Pakhlava or Baklava is a bit of a mystery. Many ethnic groups, whose ancestry goes back to the Asia Minor or the Mediterranean, lay claim as the creators of this dessert. And their claims are all partially accurate since the origins of Baklava predate the many shifts that have occurred over the centuries with boundaries and borders of countries in these regions.

Around the 8th century, B.C., the Assyrians were the first people who layered chopped nuts between thin layers of thin bread dough, added honey and baked it in their primitive wood burning ovens. Historically baklava was considered a food for the rich until mid-19th century, as the earliest versions were baked only on special occasions.

Greek seamen and merchants traveling east to Mesopotamia soon discovered the delights of Baklava. They brought the recipe to Athens. Armenians, whose lands were located on ancient Spice and Silk routes, added cinnamon and cloves, Arabs introduced rose-water and cardamom. Each nation and region put their individual stamp on this delicious pastry.

From their table to our table

Paklava will most certainly be a welcome visitor at our dinner table. I am excited to share this treat, along with many Armenian culinary traditions, with our child. I believe it’s important to explore the rich histories of our ancestors as well as create new traditions that celebrate our uniqueness as a family.

Above my stove, is a magnet that reads, “She didn’t always follow the recipe.” I’d say it’s a good bet that I too, like those who preceded me, will find ways to make this dish my own. I might incorporate hazelnuts to celebrate our lives as Northwesterners, or add local lavender honey. Whatever the variation, it’s safe to say that Pakhlava is at our table to stay.

If I should die before I wake

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We spent four glorious days in Walla Walla this past weekend, our third trip to the town as a couple. We lay our heads to rest at the bucolic Inn at Woodhaven Farm, filled our bellies with gourmand delights at Creektown Café and swilled enough Syrah to satiate a small village. Temperatures were in the upper 70s, skies were blue and we didn’t have a care in the world. Two city slickers could hardly ask for anything more.

The icing on the cake was visiting with our friends Byron and Julie and their young son, Nate. Byron and Julie have known my husband for the better part of two decades. They even rented an apartment together long ago and can recount the years my better half dined exclusively on noodles and canned baked beans. While I have only known them for as long as I’ve known my [now] husband, nearly four years, I feel like we’ve been friends for much longer.

nate-and-tip-copy

There is a comfortable camaraderie between us and I’m certain, if we lived nearer to one another, that we’d spend many an evening noshing, chatting and “watching the wheat grow” (as Julie puts it). They feel as close as family, which is why we asked them to be the godparents of our adopted child. And our child’s guardians, should we both die at the same time, unexpectedly.

Happily, they agreed. Young Nate added the caveat that he hoped we wouldn’t die. We’re with you on that one little buddy! It is a strange feeling indeed to contemplate your own demise, much less ask two friends to commit to caring for your yet-to-be-adopted child for the remainder of his life.

Julie and Byron even one-upped the offer. They said that [while we’re living, of course], we can drop off the kiddo at their place for one week every year and head off to go wine tasting or jet away on any adults-only adventure of our choosing. That’s pretty remarkable. Particularly since none of us have met said kid and have no idea how manageable or unmanageable this offer might be in reality.

While many aspects of the adoption paper chase are daunting to say the least, few were as sobering as deciding who we should ask to be our child’s guardian. That said, and choice made, there is nothing as soul-satisfying as knowing you’ve got good friends who’ve got your back. Life is full of hurdles and friendships that have stood the test of time are one of the grandest blessings living on earth has to offer.

“We are all travelers in the wilderness of this world, and the best we can find in our travels is an honest friend” — Robert Lewis Stevenson

Ticktock goes the clock

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Counting the days before Christmas feels like fun as a kid. Ticktock. Ticktock. Watching time ebb away. Ten days left. Now eight. Now three. Giddy anticipation builds and you imagine the mountain of glorious goodies that await your discovery.

When THE day arrives and your eyes catch that first glimpse of boxes, wrapping paper and bows, the clock chimes. Bong. Bong. Bong! I remember well that, at that point, any further delays feel like eternity. My patience is threadbare and my ability to stave off desire has altogether disappeared. I want it all and I want it now.

ticktock

The adoption waiting process feels like Christmas morning. You complete truck loads of paperwork. Every minute detail of your relationship, finances, home and value system is analyzed and recorded on some piece of paper. You pay fee after fee to the government, agencies, or lawyers. And then you wait. You have control over information up to this point and then, suddenly, you have virtually none. And the thing is, by the time you start this waiting game, you’re pretty much done with waiting.

When I engage in conversation about adoption, I almost invariably face the question, “Why did you wait to get married?” Or “Why did you wait to have kids.” I didn’t wait by choice. I didn’t consciously postpone taking part in these life passages because I wanted to.

Over the years, I was certainly no stranger to dating and I’d had a few longer relationships, but nothing that led to, “Will you marry me?” When I finally did find “the one,” I was 46. By the time we said our “I do’s,” I was 48. It was the first trip down the aisle for us both. We talked about children and our options for creating a family early on in our relationship, and had several lively debates about the direction this path might take along the way. My own biological clock had wound down at the young age of 46. Using donor eggs was a contender in our quest to become three, as was adoption. We chose adoption.

Here we are, nearly ten months past that initial decision. We are “paper ready” as they say in the world of adoption. Our pile of paperwork has been collected, notarized, apostilled, and government (ours) approved. Now we call it a dossier, and it sits in Armenia, in the process of being translated into Eastern Armenian. Then (hopefully quite soon), it will sit on the desk of the Armenian Prime Minister, the first signature of approval we need to move forward and receive our referral.

Waiting feels interminable. I really don’t want to wait any longer. I’m ready to be a mom now. Past ready. So every delay, every month that passes, every redo or stall in the process is pure agony. I have moments when I am able to be more Zen about it than others. And, I have just as many moments when I feel like a bronco ready to buck from his pen, just before the barrel race.

Where the heck is Armenia?

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“Hey, do you have any travel books on Armenia?” I ask the bookseller at Elliott Bay Book Company in Seattle’s Pioneer Square.

“Armenia? Where’s Armenia?” he queries. “East of Turkey,” I respond. “Oh, OK.” He starts to wander off but, a few steps later, turns around. “How do you spell that?” “A-R-M-E-N-I-A,”. He’s disappears down the stairs and I scan the shelves in the travel section. Nothing under ‘A.’ Nothing under Eastern Europe. Nothing under the Middle East. Nothing.

A few minutes go by and he pops his head around the corner. “Sorry. Could you spell Armenia one more time.”

I admit I felt defensive, even though it wasn’t long ago that I fell into the “Where is Armenia?” camp. Until my husband and I began our Armenian adoption adventure, I would have been hard-pressed to offer anything more than a cursory understanding of Armenia’s geographic location.

map-of-armeniaMap of Armenia

Here I was, with someone who lives in the age of global information, works in the world of books and has no clue where Armenia is. Or even how to spell it. If this was the scenario with my bookseller, what would happen when, down the road, we become adoptive parents and try to field the many questions about where and what and who to our child’s friends, classmate, neighbors and relatives?

The experience was a potent reminder that I have so much more to learn. And so much more to teach. Part of my role as an adoptive mom of a child from Armenia will be to glean as much as I can about the history and customs of this rugged land, instill a sense of pride and create an aura of respect for our child’s heritage.

Armenia is an ancient country, located in the highlands surrounding the Biblical mountain of Ararat, upon which, according to Judeo-Christian history, Noah’s Ark came to rest after the flood. (Gen. 8:4). Nestled in southwestern Asia, Armenia is slightly smaller than Maryland and borders Turkey, Azerbaijan, and Georgia.

Over the centuries Armenia came under the sway of various empires including the Roman, Byzantine, Arab, Persian, and Ottoman. The culture, food and customs of the Armenian people reflect these influences.

And for me, adoptive mom-to-be, Armenia holds another fascination. This will be the birth country of our child, and traditions my husband and I hope to learn more about, share with our child and embrace in our home.

From Here to There

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Kazakhastan, Kyrgystan, Taiwan, Marshall Islands, Ethiopia, Georgia, Armenia – what did I know about any of these countries before I entered the world of international adoption? When you’re nearing fifty, newly married for the first time and interested in adding a child to the mix, the learning curve for adoption is steep. Domestic versus international? Africa, Asia, or South America? Boy or girl? Infant or toddler? There are so many questions to ask, information to research and decisions to be made.

Exploring this new territory helped increase my understanding of the adoption process, bureaucratic formalities (ours and theirs), along with the adoption rules and regulations and cultures of many countries I’d heretofore had very little exposure to. Not to mention geography.

Armenia is under the little blue star

Armenia is under the little blue star

Hours were spent combing the internet, browsing sites on U.S. adoption regulations, Wikipedia and Wikitravel, adoption agency ratings and more adoption agency sites than I can possibly count.

It didn’t take long before ruling out China – I’d be too old (50) by the time we’d been married long enough (two years); India – our combined ages needed to be less than 90; Nepal – just starting to accept applications again and four years minimum marriage requirement (though single women are accepted); Ethiopia – five years of marriage and a maximum age of 50, and Guatemala – currently closed until compliance with Hague Convention standards is achieved. I could easily list similar requirements and restrictions for a host of countries. Additionally, prospective adoptive parents might be ruled out for being overweight (China), gender (most foreign countries do not allow single men to adopt) or income.

While I understand that ‘50’ in most countries looks quite different than 50 in the United States and marriage requirements are based on assumptions of family stability, it still feels restrictive. Hundreds of thousands of orphaned children around the world need loving homes. Though the regulations are created with the best of intentions, to prevent child trafficking and create financially and emotionally stable family units, the reality is that many families who are willing and able to care for a child are kept from doing so because they don’t meet international requirements for adoption age, marriage, gender and income.

My husband and I thought long and hard about our beliefs, our abilities, our finances, and our dreams for what our family might become. Our decision to adopt from Armenia was a good fit for us in many respects. No upper age limit or minimum length of marriage requirement. Ratings for Hopscotch Adoptions, the adoption agency we chose, were unequivocally thumbs-up. We found the topography mesmerizing and the culture and traditions a fascinating blend of old-world mysticism and new world sophistication. And Armenian kids are just so dang cute. Plus, it didn’t hurt that our weekend dinner menu frequently featured all-foods Armenian. Lamb, hummus, yogurt, and Shish Kebab made regular appearances at our table.

So we raise a glass and offer a toast to our adoption adventure. To Armenia, a match made in geographic and gastronomic heaven. To life! Genatzt!