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?

what's all this, then?

Maybe it's happened to you, and perhaps it hasn't. You look back at what you've written within a year or a recent week--and you think, "What? No really, what?" I'm sure that I know what I mean when I write, that I'm trying to wring out some sense from my teaspoon-dense black hole of a brain, but seriously.

I thought of everything I ever wrote when I heard the good Doctor (Who, that is) exclaim, "Here we are at the end of the universe, and you two are...BLOGGING!"

And so am I. (And so is she.) I'm standing at the edge of the universe I know, peering at this land of adoption, parenting, and special needs, and I'm writing about what probably will be the smallest parts of it all. It's clear to me now that I don't even know how to use the time in between the finding out and the getting to weave a good cliffhanger. I mean, really--what kind of suspense is there in reading, "I don't know how to get things ready" for the 15th time? I can't begin to tell you what measure of suspense resides in thinking it for the 115th time. In a day.

I didn't send out Christmas cards this year--I overplayed my hand. I kept stalling, thinking "BIG BABY NEWS" was just round the corner, any second, wait for it--and then Christmas was over and I hadn't mailed a single card. And to top it off, I got an email yesterday listing two families who chose children from the same waiting list in which we found young Master Youyou-- they received their "Seeking Confirmation Letters" (that's Chinese beauracracy for "Ok, he's yours") on Dec. 21. Egads!

So, no Christmas cards, no presents to my son who is not yet my son but who really truly is my son, good ultrasound results, and tantalizing photos of the foster home happily celebrating Christmas. The best present? A crisp new photo of young Mr. Suave, casually lounging in the ball pit.

That's my boy.

what next?

How does one prepare? There's a bed from Ikea, a cabinet standing sentry, a handful of toys, blue paint on the walls...

We're editing photos from Tibet, hoping to send letters to all who helped us travel last March. It's a diversion, a way of navigating time when it is interrupted. In a few short months our lives will completely change, but here I am at midnight, writing while my neice, nephew, and in-laws sleep, with pie settling in my belly as my son wanders toward lunch on the other side of the world.

And the questions of our holiday guests..."Is he small for his age?" "Will he get to keep any of his toys?" "Can he drink milk?" "Can he speak any English?" They're from loving friends and family who are honestly and wonderfully hopeful with us...and some are echoes of the same questions that keep me awake at nights, wondering when and how I will know, wondering how long one can live in parentheses.

We have friends who adopted from Guatemala, and they had a nightmare process...they know how long almost and not yet can be. They were courageous and persistent, even and especially when there was no getting their son home as a reward for their faith, nothing that could change the agony of their wait while their daughter asked when her brother would be home. Now he's here, and for the first time in over a year, I have seen them exhale.

So I can't complain. I don't know yet what we'll do, how we'll live. It's one thing to see the photo and to know that this will be, is indeed, our son, and yet to know that numbers don't add up yet. And then I'm asked, "Are you sure you should pay all that money to get one that's broken?" If I'm willing to listen, I can hear the fledgling love in that voice as well, I'll know we're both wrestling with the mighty question of how far one can force the hand of God. Where does that plan, begin, and if the kindgom is at hand, how present is that truth? Sentimentality is prone to undermine faith. Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. Not wished for--there are no stars to light this way--hoped for. The hope is some kind of tiny glimmering light when all else is gone. Is it the beginning of Shalom or the fulling of the fruit? Is it the flower in the crannied wall, roots and all?

a house divided...or at least stretched

This Christmas will go on record in our wee upstart family as the busiest-strangest one. Currently, we have applications out for a number of grants and we're working with a unique outreach organization in an effort to complete the financing of this adoption and the initial medical expenses we'll incur immediately upon returning to the States with our son.

Our son. It's weird to write that. I have no right to do so, really, as we're still at the mercy of the CCAA and its approval system before we can make that sort of claim. That's why everything I write here is accessible by invitation only. How can I think about him yet? When is it safe--for us, for our family, for him--to call him our own? He is our own, in so many ways, and he is not our own. Almost and not yet.

In the meantime, Youyou has visited Shanghai, where he received an ultrasound to assess the health of his lonely kidney. All is well, I learned, after waiting up until 4 am for the third straight night after the ultrasound was done, compulsively logging in to my email nearly every hour in hopes of seeing, "He's ok." He is ok, and as I went back to his foster home's webpage for what must have been the 100th time, I stumbled into a whole new section of archived information about him, including his first photo, taken shortly after his arrival at BlueSky. He was only a few days old, and clearly not well, and my heart swelled until it flowed from my eyes as I looked, and I suddenly realized, reading, that we are so far away from each other. There is something in the process that is not unlike the relationship a teenager develops with her perception of a rock star as she scrounges the web for every morsel of his life and likes, one-sided, groping, a figment of the imagination.

BlueSky celebrates Christmas, and they had posted photos in years past of celebrations. I was suddenly aware, as I looked, that I know--or hope--who and where my son is, but I cannot send him anything for Christmas. We cannot send him anything until we receive the final approval from the CCAA, and now it is too late to send anything that will arrive in time. Does he know of this? Does he know of us? What does he understand of it all in his toddler mind?

It is so all out of my control, beyond my means to act just yet, and this is hard. What should I hope for? In what direction must I turn my thoughts? For more than two years this little prince has lived, has flirted with death and returned with a smile, has charmed his caretakers and doctors across the globe, and we did not know, and our thoughts and energies knew nothing of him and did nothing to aid him. Now we know about him, and we read his story and collect his photos and carry them like icons, but he cannot be ours yet, and our energies and thoughts, though they have emerged from ignorance, can do nothing new to touch him directly, save to arrange what we can for his transport here. All the while, we speak of the Advent. How profoundly bizarre. How wondrous.

yikes!

So, yesterday was the first time in weeks--ok, months--that my husband didn't work at school on some project or other. We celebrated by having our very own financial summit. It was exactly the thing we had feared it would be, the sort of "!" that we'd studiously avoided for six weeks now.

We came down to facts, pushing aside dreams of chubby hands and catheters and latex allergies for a wee bit. And we reached the conclusion that it can't be done. Once that smiling little guy arrives, our income drops by more than a third, and we'll have negative $10,000,000 a month without even counting the cost of novelties like food, gas, or medical supplies.

So, I guess our little prince will have to start out eating grass, because, after all, that is a natural diet, very high in fiber. He'll get here in winter, presumably, so he can suck on icicles to fight off bladder stones--hey, that reminds me of stone soup! I'd almost fogotten...

I wonder if e-bay will let me sell my soul...I have an empty peanut-butter jar. Shane calls it my Depression-era hoarding, but I just knew that jar would come in handy someday.