Pampers and Paklava

Great expectations

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Wearing a Kate Middleton mask in London

When I heard the news, Kate and William are expecting, I couldn’t help but remember the last time I was in England. Nine months ago, I passed through London on the mother of all trips, the trip where Big Papa and I would bring home Baby Bird. London was, if you will, our last hurrah before parenthood.

Big Papa and I enjoyed two days of Big Ben and Buckingham Palace, all the while feeling a heady mix of emotions: excitement that, after years of waiting, we were finally going to be parents; fear that something might go wrong at the last minute–a situation we were all-too-familiar with; and, a certain suspension of belief around the myriad ways our lives were soon to change.

We had been a couple for seven years. Seven years of hours spent working in our garden, of wine tasting trips to Walla Walla and Willamette Valley, of weekends away at remote B&Bs, and of dinners with friends that started at 7:00 and lingered for hours.

Friends who were parents themselves would tell me: Eat out at romantic restaurants as much as you can. See movies_in_a movie theater. Finish any lingering home improvement projects. Travel! I would smile and nod my head as I imagined our child giggling and jumping in the leaves we’d rake each fall, ordering Mac ‘n cheese off the kid’s menu at our favorite dinner spots, or toting a little suitcase packed with stuffed animals as we boarded a flight.

And I continued to conjure up these images until I sat, that last night, at Zaika, a high zoot Indian restaurant in the Kensington district, that a friend had recommended to us. I sat at that table, with its white linen tablecloth, gleaming silverware and crystal goblets, amidst elegantly dressed diners, listening to the din of their chatter. I sat there and stared at my Tandoori chicken. I stared at Big Papa and he stared back at me.

I know we both felt ready to run like scared rabbits. In 12 hours, we would pack our bags and board a flight that would take us to a place we’d never been, a place we could have never imagined in our wildest expectations.

“Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.”

~Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

Hurry up and wait

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

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

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

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

Sit a spell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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