good night, and good luck

So, now I'm grabbing a few hours' shuteye before I take off for St. Louis in the morning. The reason? Small but dangerous.

What is this trip in aid of, gentle reader? Well, after Friday's what-have-you, we got an email this afternoon from Caseworker #1. She conveniently sent it 12 minutes before her office closed to say that before she could send our homestudy addendum to St. Louis, would we be so kind as to refresh her memory. She could not find the information on the child we wish to adopt, the medical condition of that child (note ambiguous gender), nor the social welfare institute that child calls home. She even left blank the space for our last name, just so we felt helpful.

Now, I don't know if she wanted us to feel a sense of ownership, or if she's too meticulous to call St. Louis and ask them for that information, but I figured out why she can't access it onsite. When, way back in crisp November, Shane happily carried our Letter of Intent to the Brentwood office to let trusty Caseworker #2 send it to St. Louis (and from there to China!), he realized as he did one last careful triple check in her office that I missed a signature (stupid!stupid!), and I couldn't get there before closing. She helpfully suggested that he forge my signature, but because he spent days (which he will never get back) in assorted police and visa offices in Chengdu, China, last year, watching me jump through hoops to avoid the Chinese gulag and get a passport replaced, he said no, he'd just as soon I signed the form, as the Chinese happen to expect honesty in these matters. She pressed him a second time, and he decided that since we were taking students to St. Louis the following weekend anyway, we'd just take a detour to the home office and deliver it by hand, with my signature. Thus, that entire set of papers never was privileged to be copied in Brentwood, nor does it grace their files now-I assume.

But what am I complaining about? It was a mere $1800 for the Homestudy process, and this is an addendum, for which we paid no extra. You get what you pay for. Don't you?

At any rate, we're at an even dozen now for gigantic gaffes, so I figure a field trip to St. Louis is in order to clarify my position about wanting to start a family is in order.

We welcome prayers. Really. We do.

what they do to you

There is no photo here-only angry.

I got an email today from our agency's St. Louis office. It cheerfully informed me that a new batch of Seeking Confirmation Letters had arrived and the recent speed of waiting child adoptions necessitated a new policy. Our homestudy addendum was needed in St. Louis so they'd have all paperwork before finalizing travel.

I panicked. We must have gotten our Seeking Confirmation Letter!! We asked Caseworker #1 on October 29 for the homestudy addendum, after confirming that we wanted to adopt Youyou. She told us she'd get it done right away.

But this email, arriving near the end of the school day, made it seem that the addendum was lost. I tried to find Shane, thinking, "What if they haven't even looked at our file and there it is and it stands in the way of us bringing our son home?!"

Somehow, we made it through that last class and then rushed home, making frantic phone calls. The first was to the home office for clarification--I left a message. Shane made the second one to our nonplussed Caseworker #1, who seemed unable to remember the addendum. The home office rep called me back to say she'd just heard from Caseworker #1, who HAD NEVER EVEN DONE OUR PAPERWORK!!!! The reason? The process from letter of intent (where we ask China for Youyou) to the Letter Seeking Confirmation (where China acknowledges our request) normally takes 4 to 6 months, so SHE THOUGHT SHE HAD MORE TIME.

I was calm. Dead calm, in fact. There's no Seeking Confirmation Letter waiting for us, it so happens--the email was just a friendly way of telling all the waiting child families that the agency wants to be sure we all have our papers in order, and we apparently were some of those who did not have all our paperwork completed.

A deep breath, and a pause.

If I'd known at the beginning that we would be yanked around like this at every turn, I would NEVER have begun the adoption process. I would have concluded that God did not intend for us to have children. Ever. The irony of it is that we were so prepared for difficulty from CHINA!!! It has instead been THE AGENCIES, from start to finish, which have been horrible. Horrible. There is one conclusion to be drawn from this.

ANY agency, no matter how it throws the name of Jesus around or Bible verses or phrases about "having a heart for children," is no more than a business whose market is prospective parents, many of whom are infertile. And that desperate wish to have children makes those infertile couples especially prime, worth at least $ 22,000 each.

I thank God that I did not see this tunnel and out of fear turn away, because I would not ever know this little boy who will be our son. But if anyone wants to ask my advice on adoption, now is not the time.

far away, so close

Just when you thought it was the wierdest, something new happens to make this journey ever strange.

The friends with whom we traveled to China last year are returning to Beijing next week. Last year's trip began with an artists' conference, at which we were the guest speakers, and moved on to include a visit to a medical foster home (where our hearts changed forever, sans sentimentality), the opening ceremonies of a training center for worship leaders (very hush-hush), and of course seven days near Tibet (where it would be nice to start an apple-canning business).

This year's trip has a different itinerary, but the one item that keeps this blog by invitation only is a jaw-dropper. They're going to Youyou's house. THEY'RE GOING TO YOUYOU'S HOUSE!!! The guy with the tickets and the itinerary is from Singapore, as is the woman who helped start YouYou's home, and when it first seemed that we'd be traveling "in February by the latest" to get our little boy (how I remember those days), this guy decided to schedule this year's trip to coincide with our own adoption travel, just because he wanted to share in that moment. Turns out, we don't know when we'll be going, but his group is traveling next week, and since they'll be passing "the Riviera," the area immediately outside of the Beijing airport which is filled with expatriates and has Youyou's home on its fringe, they're just going to casually drop by...

...and meet our little boy.

across four aprils

Ok, so there's this thing about having a child on the other side of the world that makes a body uncertain. Sure, there's the "almost & not yet" chorus in my mind, but there's also increasingly on my part a growing realization of my cognitive limits. Of course Chinese New Year brought with it some more fresh yummy pictures, and Youyou is indeed the most adorable little guy, but I don't even know him yet!! There is no rush of fond emotion, as in, "My son!"--there are moments when I am soooo very thankful for his caregivers, women who must love him immensely to connect with him in the manner they do when armed with a camera. Just look at that photo! It's the kind of photo I would want to take of my son, and there it is, and it's been taken by a strange woman who will always be his first love. It's so strange to think now that when he does get here--and by the way, April certainly seems to be the earliest that could happen at this point--he'll cry at some point for want of his ayi, his first day-to-day mother. And this new mother will be at a loss. Yikes!

The couples who have been fortunate enough to request waiting children through the new electronic process don't know how good they have it. Yesterday marked 12 weeks since we sent our letter of intent requesting our little boy. It also brought a fresh newsletter from our agency, in which they happily proclaimed that two couples who requested children via the new CCAA system submitted their letters of intent on January 24 and have received their Seeking Confirmation letters just 2 weeks later. They're slated to travel before we will. That little boy, born in April 2005, may well be three before we see him.

God grant me patience.

frustration

I'm holding my breath, waiting. Of course, I'm waiting for Youyou, the Little Prince, our son. But I'm also holding my tongue, biding my time, until he is in my arms and his adoption is complete. And then a torrent of words will come forth in letters and conversations to express my frustration over this whole thing.

I knew that international adoption would be a long process requiring our flexibility. As a result, I don't mind it so much when unforseen things happen, like China's shift from manual files to electronic in the way that they offer Waiting Children (children with various "Special Needs") to agencies. The change means that we were the last under the old system. The new one is so much more efficient that, to my understanding, an adoptive parent who was approved by our agency for a child posted last week could send their child a package or communicate before we'll be able to. I don't mind that. The electronic process is a much-needed growth within the adoption system, and I'm stunned that the CCAA has been able to pull it off, because it's a massive endeavor.

What does frustrate me is that I have a new caseworker. The third, in fact, in the eleven months we've worked with our agency. The first layer of that irritation is about money. If I'm paying upwards of $22,000--a portion of which goes to the agency--then I'd feel safer with some consistency. It's not too much to ask for the same caseworker the whole way through. I know that pregnant women can expect to be attended to by any number of OB/GYNs during the course of their pregnancy, and more often than not, my friends have delivered their babies under the guidance of a different doctor than they expected. But it goes deeper than that. Imagine that you've tried for a decade to get pregnant, only to find that you have to go someplace else for it to happen. Once you get there, you don't speak the same language as any of the doctors at your clinic. Only one nurse speaks your language and can translate to you. This nurse screens you in advance to make sure you're worthy of being a parent--she records your medical history, education, finances, background, marriage, and asks for photos of your home before giving you the go-ahead. You're dependent on this nurse to walk you through your pregnancy, to translate the doctors' observations, diagnoses, and advice, even to run your insurance through and to handle your payments. She schedules your appointments, handles your neonatal education, walks you through the legal processes, everything. You know that when the time comes, she won't be in the delivery room, but you'll be ready, even though nobody in the hospital speaks your language or can tell you what's going on if an emergency arises during the birth, because she has prepared you.

You get through your first trimester. Suddenly your nurse transfers. In her place is a hopeful, dedicated new nurse, who earnestly wants to help you. She's given birth before under similar circumstances. But where your first nurse had many years of fluency in your language, this nurse is in her first year. She is still learning your language. She can't translate everything yet. She works hard, but she makes some beginner's mistakes-it's not unexpected-and she consistently seems unclear on what your first nurse prepared you for. When you ask her questions, she always has to contact someone higher up to get the answer. She asks you for information that you've already given the first nurse before she tries to find it in your file. You try to read as much as you can about pregnancy, with the help of a language dictionary to translate. Then it gets complicated. Not dangerous--just different than what you expected when you started out. Your baby has some pretty big medical needs that will affect his whole life. He's safe and healthy--and you can choose to go ahead with the pregnancy or not. You choose to go forward, but the nurse doesn't have any information about your baby's condition. You have to find it all and translate it for yourself. The doctors can see your ultrasound and know the baby's size and the exact supplies and medicine he'll need every day, but they can't tell the nurse yet, so she can't tell you. You're not allowed to ask the doctors this; one visited from your home country and you talked to him for 5 minutes, but you were informed that if the conversation lasted any longer, your pregnancy could be terminated. Then you find out that the first nurse forgot to give you a pregnancy book in your language. It has a lot of information that you've needed before now, stuff that you've been trying to find and translate. You read as much as you can, you ask the new nurse every question that you can think of, and you get into the last trimester. You're so afraid that you're going to make a mistake that will cause you to lose the child.

And you get another new nurse. This one is newer to the language than the last one. She can talk to either of the other nurses, but you can't. She doesn't know your baby's condition, what you've learned from the other nurses, or that you're in your last trimester. She, too, has given birth, but even as she adjusts to the new job, she has many patients who share your language to meet and translate for. She's eager to contact you, and then you get a call from the hospital saying that your due date was miscalculated and your pregnancy will be longer. The hospital is changing its procedures every day, and you keep getting letters from the nurse to tell you of these changes. You know that they won't apply to you, except to prolong your pregnancy. You wish you had someone to turn to.

You know that if you leave the country or try to find another clinic, your pregnancy will be terminated. How long before you're tempted to think that maybe God just didn't want you to become a parent?

This is what working with an agency is like.

destiny, child

Just for the heck of it, a list of Christmas presents for Youyou, given by friends & family--see if you can spot the trend:

1. A Carhartt jacket, XS (Who knew that they made child-sized clothes? Daddy did.)
2. Camoflage shirt, XS (love, Brandon & Erika)
3. Construction safety hat (love again, Brandon & Erika)
4. Plaid shirt & overalls (Hi Thomas)
5. Camoflage socks (because Craig doesn't DO outfits)
6. Work boots (Really, Andrea, did you have to beat Daddy to the punch?)

Let the nature vs. nurture begin!!

"Special Needs"

For the 100th time the other day, I was explaining our adoption, and I heard "Special Needs" come out of my mouth as I attempted to communicate.

In spite of teaching, I forget how words are received. To use "Special Needs" to describe the condition of our son is concise, accurate. Youyou has needs which require special planning and supplies every day. His physical needs will impact other areas of his life--casual conversations, friendships, play...

I think that everyone might have needs which are special--specific to the individual or the result of a specific combination of circumstances. Not everyone is aware of it, nor is everyone willing to admit it might be possible. It messes with being ok. Perhaps because of that, "special needs" becomes code for, "There's something wrong with that boy."

The official terms for Youyou's adoption include "Special Needs," but I don't want to use words which cloud any person's ability to see him without fear or pity. I don't want to handicap him. I don't want to reinforce the code. When we began the journey of adoption, I didn't want a child labeled "special needs." I didn't trust that we'd get accurate medical information. I didn't think I could handle it. I looked at the fear of an ugly or disabled child in the face and flinched--hard. I told Shane that God would really REALLY have to work some change in me for me to be willing to adopt a child with special needs, and as I said it, I defied Him to. It's to my shame that I couldn't resist my idols of perfect children and uncomplicated childhood. I felt entitled, as though I had earned the right to a pass because of the crushing sadness of infertility. No matter how much I love my best friend, that love will not (that we know) bear fruit in the form of a child in my womb. Isn't that enough, I wondered. Besides, there isn't enough money for us to take care of a child with special needs. It takes a special person. You have to mourn the death of a dream.

I don't see it that way now. The dream that died was, I think, an idol dressed like motherhood, and she still haunts the corners of my mind. Youyou has some big issues, but more than that, he needs a Mom and a Dad and maybe a dog. He doesn't need to know he's ok, he needs a family. We need a child. That works out pretty well, I think. I want to write that it is a relief to be free of that idolatry and entitlement, but I can't yet, because there is still so much I need to learn.

What brought all this on? A friend's grandmother said in passing, "You two are saints to be adopting a child like that." And I was overcome with inner laughter, thinking, "Like what?" because it sounded as though we're doomed, signing our lives away. Then I remembered that I'd thought the same thing about others before I was willing to adopt children with special needs, and then I remembered that sometimes even now I think we're pretty special for doing this. And I'd like it to stop. Because my boy certainly doesn't need that, and neither does anyone.

Who has special needs now?