The last supper {before adoptive parenthood}

March 16, 2017 by Beth Shepherd

Flavors filled my mouth as I tucked the amuse-bouche between my lips, and thoughts of parenthood filled my head. March 15, 2012. Our last supper. The final time we’d share dinner—just the two of us—without a child somewhere in the picture. Here we were, in London, dining at an impossibly elegant Indian restaurant with white linens covering our table, fine wine chilling in a silver ice bucket. Everyone around us was behaving in a very civilized manner, this being an upscale London restaurant after all, and no children as far as my eyes I could see. I couldn’t help but wonder. Would we ever enjoy an meal like this again?

Without a doubt, becoming a parent is one of life’s biggest game-changers. There are countless ways in which one’s life will be irrevocably altered. For us, in a mere 12 hours we’d board a plane bound for Armenia. And parenthood. I can’t tell you how much my mind mulled this fact over as I rolled each delicious morsel of food around in my mouth, listening to the clink of crystal wine glasses in the background accompanied by polite, subdued conversation.

What would it be like, sharing meals with an infant? A toddler? Would she be a picky eater? Enjoy the vegetables I lovingly grew in our tiny backyard garden? Food, whether cooked and served by my own hand or ordered at a restaurant was, for me, one of life’s greatest pleasures. At home, I spent a lot of time choosing which dishes we would eat and then cooking them. I found it exciting to explore new global cuisines. Reading about food, growing food, going out to eat, cooking at home…I loved it all!

Might my epicurean inclinations go the way of the dodo, along with private toilet time, gown-up music and Disney-free movies? What will become of my foodie self? Whenever I queried friends about what I should do B.P. (before parenthood), their advice was nearly universal. Watch movies—in—a movie theater! Go—out—for dinner at fancy restaurants! As we dined I was consumed by ruminations such as these, weighty as each of the five impeccably arranged courses laid out before us.

It’s all about the journey,

Beth

Driving to meet our daughter: Two men, two women, a taxi and a flat tire

October 13, 2016 by Beth Shepherd

You know you’re going somewhere when you find yourself in the back of a taxi bombing down an exceedingly bumpy two-lane highway at speeds exceeding 100 mph. And five years ago, we were in fact going somewhere important as we sped north on the road that connects Yerevan, Amenia to Gyumri. My husband and I were headed to meet the baby girl we hoped to adopt. Little did we know this would become the taxi ride we’d never forget.

We sat in the back of the taxi, watching the autumn scenery out our window. Hillsides in shades of gold, 13,419 foot Mount Aragats looming to the east, snow already coating its steep slopes, herds of sheep, cows and the occasional shepherd.

Our driver appeared to be in his forties, slim, dark haired with an aquiline nose and pleasant, unassuming face. I’m pretty sure he’d been driving a taxi since he was old enough for his legs to reach the pedals.

As the crow flies, the distance from Yerevan to Gyumri is roughly 75 miles, but because of the road conditions it can take up to two hours to go from one city to another.

Armenian taxi drivers know this route like the back of their hands. Ours swerved this way and that to avoid potholes. It’s very unusual to find seat belts in Armenian taxis, and ours did not have any. So that meant whenever we hit a bump or landed in a pothole we’d find ourselves airborne, like we were riding a mechanical bull at the rodeo, heads clonking hard against the ceiling of the taxi. By the end of the ride, my husband joked his spine was two inches shorter.

We’d been on the road about an hour when I heard a high pitched whine coming from the rear, followed by a thwakety-thwak as the car careened unevenly towards the median. Our translator asked the driver what was happening, and with an anxious look he pulled the car off to the side of the road. Cars flew by us as he stepped out. Flat tire.

So there we were, stuck on the side of the road, surrounded by an empty wind-swept valley. No villages. No gas stations. I silently crossed my fingers hoping the driver had a spare road-worthy enough to take us the rest of the way to our destination. We’d already missed the first day of visitation because the orphanage director was out of town.

Sure enough he did. Fiften minutes later, he had the spare on and we piled back into the taxi to continu on our journey. Another hour passed, uneventfully, until we reached the outskirts of Gyumri.

Gyumri is a city with roughly 122,000 residents, still reeling following a devastating earthquake in 1988. 25,000 people lost their lives in that disaster. Box cars provided as “temporary” housing nearly three decades ago are still being used today.

Our driver tell the translator he hasn’t been to Gyumri in years, which quickly becomes obvious to us that as he pulls the taxi over to ask first one and then two people for directions to the orphanage. We stop a third time to ask a police office who stares blankly when our translator tells him the name of the orphanage. So instead we drive in aimless circles, passing by the same statues, the same town square until we finally arrive at a corner the translator recognizes. Gingerly, our driver edges the taxi around several crater-sized potholes before pulling off the road beside a stone wall painted with faintly visible scenes of mountains and people, painted by children. A turquoise blue door opens to a driveway where a small scraggly brown and white dog greets us. We have arrived.

It’s all about the journey,

Beth

Favorite things: Street art in Yerevan

April 11, 2016 by Beth Shepherd

One of the things I loved seeing in Yerevan, Armenia’s capitol, was the street art. I am especially fond of the murals tucked into archways on many of the side streets throughout the city, over 100 buildings decorated with scenes of Yerevan, depicting nature and Armenian fairy tales.

Street art mural

Archway painting drying clothes

Buildings mural

Flying books mural

Yerevan picket fence mural

It’s all about the journey,

Beth

Autumn in Armenia

September 18, 2015 by Beth Shepherd

Four of my six trips to Armenia have taken place in the fall, so when the weather begins to change and the air becomes crisp, leaves turn color, and the smell of rain is in the air, my mind wanders to Autumn in Armenia.

Alongside roads, farmers set out fruit to sell.

Ripe grapes hang from trellises by many of the homes.

Every kind of canned fruit or vegetable imaginable can be found: apricots, cornelian cherries, pickles and okra.

Wonderful Armenian honey and honeycomb is harvested.

Unusual fruit like Sea Buckthorn are juiced or dried.

Strings of berries hang from trees waiting to be taken home and made into jam.

Fields filled with sunflowers and wild Cosmos.

Shepherds bringing their flocks down from higher pastures.

Always beautiful.

…and, of course, then comes the rain.

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Take the road less traveled, Beth

Armenian Genocide: 100 Year Remembrance

April 24, 2015 by Beth Shepherd

Every year on April 24, thousands of Armenians gather at Tsitsernakaberd, the Armenian genocide monument. But this year is significant in that it marks the 100th anniversary of the Armenian genocide of 1915.

Completed in 1967, Tsitsernakaberd is dedicated to the memory of the 1.5 million Armenians who perished in the first genocide of the 20th century. It is constructed with twelve pylons representing the twelve provinces where Armenians were massacred.

Inside burns an eternal memorial flame. The flame represents the Armenian spirit, which can never be extinguished. Tsitsernakaberd means “Citadel of Swallows,” and was so named because the swallow always returns to its nest, even if its home has been destroyed. The tall needle-shaped shaft beside the monument stands for the rebirth of the Armenian people. Nearby, on the same hill overlooking Yerevan, is The Genocide Museum, whose mission is rooted in the helping visitors understand what happened during that tragedy, with the hope that education and remembrances will help prevent similar tragedies in the future.

I have visited both the memorial and the museum on several occasions. It is hard to comprehend this horrific piece of Armenian history, yet what took place is woven into the fabric of my daughter’s roots. Tsitsernakaberd stands in testament to the atrocities of 100 years ago, and a reminder–as philosopher George Santayana once said–Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

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Take the road less traveled, Beth

“The” Dress Shop

April 9, 2015 by Beth Shepherd

There is a dress shop in Yerevan that those of us in the know refer to as “The” Dress Shop. Sharan Crafts Center employs talented local artisans who produce beautiful items for family and home including sweaters, pillows holiday ornaments, Christmas stockings, toys, hair accessories. And dresses.

I’ve heard the store is mostly frequented by tourists and while that may be true, whenever I see a child dressed in something from Sharan, all I can think about is Armenia. I know every single one of my fellow adoptive moms with kids from Armenia, swoon at the sight of one of our children wearing Sharan. Each of our little ones has her own unique charm, but those dresses add a certain je ne sais quois.

In 2009, when I visited Sharan, we went to the original location in a residential neighborhood. A sweater, a few dresses, a few hairbands, a knit cat, and a wonderful Christmas stocking all made their way into our luggage. A year or so later, they opened up a beautiful shop in the center of Yereven on Sayat-Nova 6. I’ve made sure to stop by–at least once–on every trip I made to Armenia.

The first dress our daughter wore featured a sheep. We are Shepherds, after all.

Clothing comes in an assortment of hues, from richly saturated like this dress she wore last year, to pale pastels. Every piece has delightful knit-work. I always find it hard to decide and I’m sure the shopkeepers wonder why I’m spending so much time perusing every last item on display.

You can find sweet floral hairbands and ponytail holders with a knit ladybug or a snowman. Little Bird still tries to squeeze her head into these hairbands she wore as a baby because she loves them so much.

There are hats too. And lest you think Sharan is just for girls, let me tell you that they are always well-stocked with sweaters, vests and all sorts of awesome duds for boys. Sharan also has pillows, stuffed animals, and a small assortment of table linens.

Whenever I’ve visited the store, I’ve found it nearly impossible to resist their delightfully decorated clothes. I always seem to leave with my purse heavier and my wallet lighter. The treasures I’ve brought home, especially the dresses, definitely fall far from my usual, I only buy second-hand clothing rule, but they are so darn cute.

Every time Little Bird puts on a dress from The Dress Shop, I think it must be the most adorable dress I’ve ever seen. Until she puts on another and I’m sure that one is the cutest, which is what I thought about this year’s dress featuring…a little bird.

Take the road less traveled, Beth

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Never forget: Commemorating the Armenian Genocide

April 24, 2014 by Beth Shepherd

April 24 commemorates the Armenian Genocide of 1915-1923, where it is estimated that 1.5 million Armenians perished. April 24 was chosen as the starting date for the genocide, because, on this day the day Ottoman authorities rounded up and arrested some 250 Armenian intellectuals and community leaders.

During our trips to Armenia, we made several visits to Tsitsernakaberd, a memorial dedicated to the Armenian Genocide on a hill overlooking Yerevan, Armenia’s capital city. We also visited the Armenian Genocide Museum, a sobering testimony to the atrocities of genocide.

Armenia’s genocide is one of many ethnic genocides our world has seen. Ninety-nine years have passed since that time. The farther we get from such atrocities, the easier it is for people to forget what happened. And we should never forget, lest we continue to repeat history.

And the spirits of all the dead, tonight,
Through my own eyes and soul,
Are awaiting the dawning of the light,
So that, to humanize the cruelty
Of our inhuman lives,
Perhaps from above a drop of light
May fall upon the murdered and the murderer alike

Armenian poet, Siamanto (1878-1915)

For more information about the Armenian Genocide, the Armenian National Institute (based in Washington, D.C.) provides exceptional information about the genocide including a ‘Frequently Asked Questions’ page, which you can find here.

The Armenian Genocide Museum-Institute website is another great resource. The link to the museum is here.

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

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!

Two weeks in Yerevan

April 3, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

After leaving Gyumri, the three of us spent two weeks in Yerevan. We stayed in a large apartment on Tumanyan Street which was very close to the center of the city. In between applying for a passport, a visa and trying to secure a flight home, we walked all over the city. It was my fifth visit to Yerevan, Big Papa’s fourth and Baby Bird’s first visit to the capitol of Armenia.