Leaving the orphanage

March 25, 2014 by Beth Shepherd

I will always be grateful for the care our daughter received, during the first year of her life, as a child in an orphanage. Whenever I talk with her about the nannies who watched over her, I make sure she knows they did the best they could. I’ve told her they changed her diaper, bathed her, made sure she was fed and put her to bed. But when she asks me if they read her stories or played with her, I tell her that they had a lot of babies to care for and, even if they wanted to, they couldn’t give her the kind of love and attention she gets from her mama and dada.

After we came home, and especially in the two years that have followed, I’ve come to understand how much I underestimated the impact of life in an orphanage. I thought–and people told me (even people who are deeply involved in the world of adoption)– “She won’t remember those first months in institutionalized care.” I believed, because she was so young, her transition would be relatively easy. I knew to expect that the first 3-6 months might be difficult, everything would be new to her (smells, sounds, tastes, sleep), but we’d have smooth sailing after that.

Then, when she started walking, I noticed she would approach strangers, climb into their laps or take their hands at the playground and walk off. At first I thought, “What a friendly child I have,” and indeed she is. As months passed, however, I felt more and more uneasy as I began to realize some of these behaviors weren’t helping her attach to our family, and even put her at risk.

It’s true: she will not remember spending her first year in an orphanage. She will only know the nannies who cared for her from the stories and pictures we share with her. She might learn their names, but she will not have any memories of them as “real people.” However, I now firmly believe that her experience of living in an orphanage is deeply imbedded in her psyche.

No matter how good orphanage care may be, it is not a healthy substitute for being part of a family. Our daughter did not experience the security of knowing the same person would meet her needs, or even that her needs would be met at all. It makes sense now, she might be reluctant to trust her parents won’t leave her, because all she knew was a constant rotation of caregivers, all of whom “disappeared” when we took her out of the orphanage. And it also makes sense that her brain would tell her it’s “in her best interest” to be really nice to that stranger who just smiled at her in the park, because that woman might be her next mama.

We have come a long way, literally and figuratively, in the past two years. When I look back on March 24, the day she left the orphanage, I remember feeling excited, terrified and filled with hope about our future as a family. I still feel excited (and sometimes terrified, though thankfully less often) and filled with hope for our family and the years together that lie ahead. At the same time, I am now much more cognizant that her life didn’t start with us. She carries within her the experience of life with three families: the family of her birth, her orphanage family, and now us.

Take the road less traveled, Beth

The Magic Cabinet

November 26, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

The world is full of magic things,

patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.

~W.B. Yeats

Each Tuesday, Baby Bird and I have a standing appointment with Miss. K. Miss K. helps us overcome challenges Baby Bird has faced after spending the first year of her life in an orphanage.

We park our car in one of the designated spots in the lot across the street. Then we ride the elevator to the third floor and try to guess which of two elevator doors, front or back, will open. Next we sign in, and note our parking space, on the sign-in clipboard which is on top of a pine cabinet in the lobby. Baby Bird always peeks inside. She has done so since our first visit, more than a year ago.

During our early visits, she would open one of the double glass-paned doors and search, sweeping her tiny hand over each shelf. Occasionally there was a piece of paper or a pen, and she would try to take it.

This is not ours. Please put it back.

Months later, she opened the cabinet and lo and behold–stickers. Baby Bird reached inside and took the sheet of farm animal stickers off the shelf.

Those stickers are not ours. Please put them back.

At that moment, a voice behind me calls out.

Those are her stickers.

I turned around to see Miss T., the building receptionist, with a twinkle in her eye.

My heart swelled. Wow, I guess those stickers are ours after all.

We carry the stickers with us to our appointment with Miss K. and tell her about the Magic Cabinet. She smiles.

Week after week, Baby Bird checks inside the Magic Cabinet. Some weeks there is nothing to find and other weeks she discovers a small token: a plastic cup, a miniature toy parakeet, a little pail. I always ask Baby Bird to say thank you, even though I’m pretty sure she doesn’t understand the connection between the Magic Cabinet and Miss T.

While I know she enjoys the gifts, her interest in them doesn’t seem to last as long as her interest in the Magic Cabinet itself. Her delight lies in the quest more than the acquisition. She was just as curious about the cabinet, before there were gifts, as she is now.

One week, I tell Miss T. that we don’t expect to always find a surprise in the cabinet. I don’t want her to feel she has to keep the Magic Cabinet stocked.

I truly enjoy watching her excitement from simply looking inside. I love her curiosity, is what she says.

Hasn’t anyone else ever looked inside, I ask.

No. She’s the only one.

As the holiday season approaches, the Magic Cabinet reminds me:

Curiosity opens doors

Magic lies in the mystery

Be thankful for life’s simple blessings

It isn’t the gift that matters, but the giving

Take the road less traveled, Beth

400 posts–140,000 words

November 20, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

Last Friday, I published my 400th Pampers and Pakhlava post (truth be told, my total post count is at 430, but two years ago, I made 30 posts private). Assuming an average of 350 words per post (many are longer, but I also have posts with photographs and few words), I have written over 140,000 words. The average novel is between 100,000 and 175,000 words. I have blogged the equivalent of a novel.

Coincidentally, this November is NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month) where, beginning November 1, participants work towards the goal of writing a 50,000-word novel by 11:59 p.m. on November 30. Granted, I achieved my 140K word count over the course of 4-1/2 years (my first post was launched in April 2009), not one month. Nonetheless, I feel a certain sense of wonder when I see I’ve written that much.

Writing more was one of the goals I set for myself five years ago, although “more” was an easy accomplishment because, at that time, I wasn’t writing much at all. When I joined my fellow bloggers on the Wanderlust and Lipstick website, I hoped blogging–and the expectation to post twice weekly–would help make writing a habit. And it has.

Blogging has also inspired me to write more outside the blogosphere. I’ve compiled a small collection of short stories and, for a couple years, I participated in a writing group. I have ideas in my head about pieces I’d like to write and, like many writers, dreams of getting my writing published.

And while I can’t say for sure how long I’ll continue to blog, or predict whether I’ll ever publish a novel, a memoir, or a magazine article, one thing I am certain of is that I will keep on writing.

Take the road less traveled,

Beth

Two years ago in Armenia

October 17, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

Two years ago in Armenia…we awoke in Yerevan and made ourselves a cup of Armenian coffee. Okay, we made several cups.

Next we had breakfast: Matsun (yogurt). I heart Matsun.

Omelets (nice work Big Papa!)…and more Armenian coffee. of course.

Then we walked down the stairs of our apartment and waited for our taxi and translator.

We don’t look nervous, do we? But we were!

Our taxi took us to the Ministry of Justice, where we could see all of Yerevan and Mt. Ararat. There, we expressed our intent to meet and register a child for adoption.

Next up was a taxi ride from Yerevan to Gyumri. It’s a long, desolate highway but I love the landscape, stark and lovely.

Until our taxi got a flat tire. Not so lovely.

But after the flat was fixed, we made our way towards Gyumri. There were one or two unplanned stops along the way.

Finally. Gyumri!

We drove through the city.

Past old buildings,

monuments,

churches,

and people.

Until we reached the blue gate at the orphanage, where you lived.

We went inside and waited, and waited, and waited.

Staring out this window,

looking at this cup,

and intently watching this door, because this is the door you would come through. Time passed slowly. At one point we got very excited, because one of the nannies brought in a baby. We jumped up, but it was the wrong baby! So we sat down and waited some more. We waited for nearly an hour.

And then there was you…

There were birds in the sky
But I never saw them winging
No, I never saw them at all
Till there was you

~Beatles

To Baby Bird and Armenia: both in my heart forever.

Take the road less traveled, Beth

Du lait s’il vous plait: milk in another language

September 25, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

Du lait s’il vous plait.” Milk please,” my daughter requested at school yesterday. In French. Unprompted.

Baby Bird has been attending two half-days of French preschool. She has only been to preschool six times and is already asking milk in French. Not that I’m surprised. Language is her strong suit. She LOVES books and reading, and this is a skillset Big Papa and I encourage. Plus, Baby Bird spent the first year of her life hearing Armenian being spoken, so her brain is already wired with the capability to acquire another language quickly.

I don’t have many regrets in my life, but one is that I wish I was fluent in another language. I know a bit of French and Dutch, and a handful of Armenian words and phrases.

When I was in school, we didn’t have the option to learn a language until high school. By then, the idea that “milk” is called milk, is pretty well solidified in one’s brain. I studied French during my junior and senior years, which has helped me read menus, ask for directions, and order meals at restaurants when in France. But what I’d really like to be able to do, is have a conversation.

My junior year in college, I spent a semester in Amsterdam. In the six months I lived there, I was able to speak (and understand) more Dutch than I ever managed with French, even though I had studied it for two years. Being immersed in the culture, seeing and hearing the same words and sounds every day, fostered a much quicker acquisition of the language. This is one of the reasons why I enrolled our daughter in French school: I wanted her to have the opportunity to learn another language, and begin as soon as possible.

Baby Bird’s language immersion is also an opportunity for me to dip my toes back in the water. Her preschool also offers French language classes for parents and I plan to sign up. I know I am at a disadvantage, trying to pick up language skills later in life. And to be honest, I’m a bit envious of my daughter, being able to start at two-years-old. But, I still want to try to learn as much as I can.

The other reason why I enrolled our daughter in French language school, is that I also hope she will learn to speak Armenian, the language of her birth country. Our local Armenian church offers language classes for children (and adults), beginning at age six. I know that if her brain learns to speak and understand both English and French, that picking up Armenian will be much easier. My set-in-its-ways brain will have a much greater challenge, but I intend to give it a go.

In a world that is increasingly global and multicultural, I am still amazed (and disappointed) that here in the U.S., learning another language isn’t viewed as a necessary skill. In many countries, children learn at least one additional language, and they begin their studies at a very young age. And while more public schools in the U.S. have begun to offer a wider choice of language classes (such as Japanese or Russian), I still believe we don’t start soon enough.

I know that becoming a multilingual society isn’t going to fix all the world’s problems, but it’s one step forward. Because once we comprehend that milk isn’t always called milk outside the U.S., the greater the likelihood we’ll be able to understand the nuances behind the words, and the lives of the people that speak them.

Take the road less traveled, Beth

Want to learn about du lait and more? Check out Wanderfood Wednesday!

Lovely Lancaster

August 22, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

We spent a long weekend in lovely Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Green rolling hill, cows dotting the landscape, horses pulling buggies, and Amish men and women dressed in plain, simple clothing.

“Miracles come after a lot of hard work.”

~Sue Bender, Plain and Simple: A Journey to the Amish

Want to see more simple beauty? Check out Delicious Baby Photo Friday!

Armenian Angels in the Sunlight

August 15, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

We shall find peace. We shall hear angels.

We shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.

~Anton Chekhov

Want to see more angelic shots? Check out Delicious Baby Photo Friday!

On being a real mom

May 9, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.

”Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit.’Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘

When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.

”Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,’ he asked, ‘or bit by bit?

”It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

~Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

On March 22, 2012, I stood before a judge, with Big Papa by my side, in Gyumri, Armenia as we agreed to care for an 11-month-old baby for the rest of our lives. Once the papers were signed, I announced to the world: I’m a Mom!

Legally, I was. But many months passed before I felt I could say: I’m a real mom.

References to real moms can be the source of great angst for many adoptive parents, when faced with (generally well-meaning) family or friends who ask: Do you know anything about her real mom?

We are fortunate that we have some information about Baby Bird’s birth family and know the reason why she was placed for adoption. This is not true for many adoptees, particularly those who were adopted from countries outside the U.S. Our daughter will grow up knowing names of her birth parents and where they were from, and we will do our best to explain to her the circumstances which resulted in her birth family being unable raise her.

I will never forget how I felt when Big Papa and I tucked ourselves into the taxi with Baby Bird and headed south, from Gyumri to Yerevan: Oh-my-God-we-are-parents …and we are clueless. And I remember our deer-in-the-headlights fear when Baby Bird screamed at the top of her lungs while we changed our first diaper, and when we gave her a bath for the first time.

I’m sure many first-time parents experience these feelings and wonder: How are we going to do this? Am I going to be able to keep this baby alive?

We had many more unanswered questions: Will our child bond with us? Will we bond with her? What challenges might we encounter that resulted from our child being institutionalized? Did our child spend the first months of her life faced with neglect, abuse, poor nutrition? Did her birth-mother smoke, drink, do drugs? How will we form our new family and honor our child’s culture while creating new traditions to share?

Now, a year later, we have a few answers to some of our questions and—no surprise here—we now have many new unanswered questions. Ah, parenthood.

I’ll be honest, our first year together has not been easy (not that anyone’s first year of parenthood ever is), but as Big Papa said to me: We are doing it. However imperfectly we muddle along, we are doing it.

So when someone asks me: Do you know anything about her real mom, I will say: Yes, I do. I see her every morning when I look in the mirror.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there

—no matter how you got there.

Take the road less traveled,

Beth

Brandy and baby food

April 10, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

Our five hour flight from Yerevan to London passed without a hitch. Baby Bird even fell asleep for a couple hours. I couldn’t believe our luck.

When we landed at Heathrow we knew a long layover awaited us. The airport was hot and sticky, and once we finished our requisite lunch of bangers and mash, we scratched our heads. Four hours left. What are a couple of tired, jet-lagged new parents to do?

“I heard there’s a play area here in the airport. Let’s see if we can find it.”

Find it we did and spent a relaxing hour watching Baby Bird delight in colorful toys the likes of which she’d probably never seen before. Watching her expressions, as she touched and discovered, was pure joy.

When we could see her energy was starting to wane, Big Papa strapped her into the Baby Bjorn and headed for the concourse. Back and forth he paced until she slumped, asleep. Sweat glistened on his neck and arms as he continued to walk, and walk for another 45 minutes to an hour. I’d catch them every lap or two, say hello and then off they went.

She woke up shortly before it was time to head for security and board our flight to Seattle. We were a few feet from the scanners when I saw the sign. No alcohol. I walked up to one of the security agents.

“I see the sign says no alcohol. That doesn’t apply to duty free, right?”

“Yes, it does.”

I pleaded. “But it’s in a sealed duty free bag from our departure city?”

“Sorry, but as London is not your final destination, your duty free liquids will be confiscated.”

Now I was desperate. “What can we do? It’s a very expensive bottle of Armenian brandy.”

“Your only option would be to check it through.”

She was polite but stone-faced. My brandy and I would not be able to board this flight together. We either had to find a way to check it or drink a few shots before parting ways.

“We have to check it through,” I said emphatically to Big Papa. “I wonder if I could make it downstairs to the British Air desk and back through security in time for our flight.”

I could see the terrified look in his eyes.

“What if you don’t make it back?”

While I knew our main objective was to bring our baby home safe and sound, the thought of having to toss that bottle of brandy in the trash really irked me. I was stewing about this when I turned and saw a small British Air counter just feet before the security line, and then I had a brilliant (or at least I hoped) idea: we could check one of our carry-on bags and stow the brandy inside.

“Let’s shuffle a few things around, and put the brandy in one of our two carry-on bags,” I said eagerly.

Big Papa looked at me like I was nuts.

“Come on, we don’t need everything we’ve brought with us on this flight,” I asserted as I knelt down on the carpet, unzipped our two carry-on bags and started tossing diapers, second sets of clothes, magazines and sundry items this way and that. In a few minutes I’d managed to repack our bags with the “essentials” in one and the non-essentials in another—and the brandy tucked safely in the middle.

I walked up the ticket counter.

“Would it be possible to check this bag? We really don’t need it on our next flight.”

“Yes, absolutely,” she replied with her lovely British accent.

And there went the bag and our brandy. See you in Seattle.

Crazy as it might sound, I felt relieved. I smiled, feeling clever that we’d pulled it off and happy at the thought our future adoption milestones could be accompanied by a proper toast, with Armenian brandy.

And then came the moment, which I’d heard would come, when I had to taste the baby food we had with us in carry-on. “Squeezable” foods like baby food, feel into the LAGS (Liquids, Aerosols and Gels): If you can pump it, pour it, spread, smear, spray, spill or squeeze it, it is considered a LAG. But they were willing to bend the rules, if you taste a small amount right then and there.

So that’s exactly what I did. I opened three jars, put my finger in the jar and stuck it in my mouth. Down the hatch went a sampling of the baby food. It wasn’t as horrible as I’d imagined (read: I didn’t gag), but I wouldn’t order any of them again if I saw them on the menu.

With the security check behind us, we headed to the gate. Only one ten-hour flight stood between us and home. All I could think about was how good it would feel to be in our own house and snug in our own bed, and how much I’d probably want a shot of that brandy.

Want to toast to more great food and drink? Check out Wanderfood Wednesday!

Two planes, 26 hours and 6,336 miles

April 8, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

We set our alarm for 3:30 a.m. and awoke, bleary-eyed, to what would be the start of a very long day. A full, luminous moon was the only light in the pitch black sky. Two floors below us, Tumanyan Street, lay silent: no horns blaring, no cacophony of people passing below on the sidewalk. It felt as though all of Yerevan was asleep, except for us.

Big Papa rolled out of bed with a groan. On soft feet, so as not to wake Baby Bird just yet, he padded over to the bathroom. I heard him turn the squeaky handles to the shower, grunt and then, in a loud whisper say: NO water.

During our two week stint in this apartment, we’d experienced water “issues.” We would wake up, one of us would make coffee and the other would saunter to the bathroom only to find there was no hot water. We’d wait a few minutes and try again and then again, until eventually one of us would call our translator and she would call the building management and they would send a man to reset the hot water heater.

This became a daily routine. Every morning we would wait until a respectable hour to make our phone call, and sometime before noon someone would make an appearance and fix it. Once or twice we felt brave or impatient enough to bathe under a bracingly cold stream of water.

But today, on the morning of our departure, before we would spend the next 26 hours traveling 6,336 miles, half way around the world to our destination—home—with an infant, there was no hot water. In fact, it turned out there was no water at all. No water for a shower, even a cold shower, no water coming out of the tap. Thankfully we still had a bit of bottled water left, albeit only a half-bottle, enough to make Baby Bird’s formula and—if we were lucky—enough for one espresso-sized cup of Armenian coffee for each of us. And we really needed that one cup.

We were scheduled to leave for the airport at 4:30 a.m. There wasn’t time to do anything about the shower. I dampened a washcloth with a sprinkling of bottled water and gave myself a sponge bath.

Big Papa made a bottle for Baby Bird and I got her up. I hated waking her and hoped she would sleep once our plane was airborne. Our first flight, which left at 6:30 a.m. from Yerevan to London, was close to five hours long. Then we would have a five hour layover in Heathrow Airport before boarding our final, 10 hour flight to Seattle. After passing through U.S. Customs, we would need to meet with a U.S. Immigration officer and catch a taxi home. We’d figured we’d be home, at our house, around 5:00 p.m., Easter Sunday.

When our agency’s attorney arrived, he handed us a large manila envelope. THE envelope we’d heard so much about during our four year adoption journey, the envelope from the U.S. Embassy in Yerevan containing all the adoption documents U.S. Immigration would need to process our daughter as a new U.S. citizen. We were told do not open this envelope under any circumstances, do not let it out of our hands, and do not let anyone else open it until it is safely in the hands of a U.S. Immigration officer.

We drove to the airport in the darkness, talking about the trips we’d made to Armenia, the emotional upheaval of our failed adoption, our deep appreciation to all the people who helped us along the way, and our elation that we were finally parents. I felt sad watching the lights of Yerevan fade into the distance. As much as I wanted to get home and begin our life as a family, I knew I would always feel a longing for Armenia, the curve of the hills on the road to Gyumri, the rose-colored tuff of the buildings. I would miss the people we came to know, and crave the amazing Armenian food we’d be hard-pressed to find in Seattle. Even though I was certain we would come back one day with our daughter, that day could be years away.

At the airport we checked our luggage and made sure we indeed had seats on our flight, including a “lap seat” for our daughter. Obtaining berth for her on our flights had been no easy matter. Before we left for our court trip, Big Papa and I had reserved two seats, one for each of us, on two different flights, one flight with British Midlands from Yerevan to London and one flight with British Air from London to Seattle. Our travel agent told us we couldn’t reserve a lap seat for Baby Bird until she was legally our daughter, but to simply give her a call when we had her passport and she would be added on to our ticket.

That’s what we did, and though she tried, she was unable to reach British Air. “Go to the British Midlands office in Yerevan and see what they can do.” And so we did, and what they told us was that they could reserve her lap ticket for the first leg of our trip, but not for the second leg with British Air. Apparently British Midlands and British Air ticketing systems were unable to “communicate” with each other because they did not share codes. The ticket agent told us we could try to get her a seat when we arrived in London…but, “if we couldn’t, we’d miss our connecting flight.”

The thought of being stuck in London for more than the five hour layover was unimaginable. Baby Bird only had a visa to enter the U.S. so we couldn’t go through customs and leave the terminal in any other country except the United States of America. Visions of “The Terminal” with Tom Hanks flashed through my mind. In this film, an eastern immigrant finds himself stranded in JFK airport, and must take up temporary residence there.

We didn’t know what to do, but the travel agent said that British Midlands and British Air were merging their ticketing systems, tentatively on Friday March 6, 48 hours before we needed to board our plane. The only thing we could do was cross our fingers and wait.

Friday arrived, and merely hours before our “interview” at the U.S. Embassy in Yerevan (where we would receive a visa for Baby Bird) we made another trip to British Midlands. I’m sure the agent could see the worry in our faces. She smiled and said the two airlines had indeed worked out the kinks in their systems, and started sharing codes, which meant we were able to get her a seat on my lap for the first flight and a “cot” on the second flight.

And now here we were the three of us, about to board the first flight of our long journey home. We hugged our attorney, and walked through security, stopping in the duty free shop to buy a much coveted bottle of 20-year Armenian brandy.

“You won’t be able to take this on your flight out of London. It’s a customs’ regulation,” the clerk at the cash register told us.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I replied, feeling annoyed. “We’ve taken brandy home on all our previous flights through Paris.”

“It’s your decision, but you’ll be taking your chances with an expensive bottle of brandy.”

We decided to take our chances. He zipped up our bottle in a duty free puffy plastic bag and we headed for our gate.

Sitting in the hard plastic seats, waiting for our boarding call, I could see Mt. Ararat standing tall in the distance, lit by the rising sun. My stomach was in knots. Two flights, 16 hours flying time, five hour layover, 12 hour time difference, one 11-month old baby. Big Papa later told me how scared he felt, thinking about what we were taking on, the flight alone, never mind parenthood itself.

As our plane pulled away from the gate and we taxied onto the runway, I glanced at Big Papa and Baby Bird, my family, as my eyes brimmed with tears. I squeezed his hand tightly. We were homeward bound!