Our second "Gotcha Day!"

I can hardly believe it has been two years since I packed my suitcase for the last time in St. Petersburg and headed to Baby Home #1, also for the last time. Two years ago today I walked through the doors of that Baby Home with my arms full of clothes for RP, and less than 5 minutes later a scared, squirming little girl was thrust in my arms, and we were on our way to the airport where we would catch a flight to Moscow.

Where has the time gone? I honestly didn't know what to expect when I walked through those doors, proudly carrying my little girl on that cold February day. Although the courts had deemed it so 10 days earlier, I was officially a "Mommy" on that day... and scared to death. What did I know about raising a child? Was this the right thing to do for her? For me? How would she handle the flight to Moscow, and a mere three days later, to the United States?

RP did pretty well on the flight - well, the first half of it anyway. Then she screamed - and boy did she have lungs! I held on tightly, trying everything I could to calm her down and comfort her, but nothing worked. She hated being confined to anything - a seat, a room, anything (as we would soon learn at the hotel) - and was only content when she was walking around. She LOVED to walk, and actually still does, and walking the halls of the hotel was the only way to keep her from crying.

I remember landing in Moscow and calling the driver to come and pick us up. The orphanage had told me that RP had been running a fever the night before and seemed to have a "tummy ailment" so they gave me a blanket and a glass bottle with boiled water in it for her in case he tummy started to hurt again, and these two items have become treasured keepsakes for me, as they are the only two items we have of hers from her life in the orphanage. Turns out I would need BOTH of these items as RP became overheated on our very long trek to the hotel from the airport and proceeded to puke all over the driver's brand new, blinged-out Lincoln Navigator! Yes, this also means she puked all over herself and all over me, so thank goodness for Tide travel which allowed me to wash everything in the tub at the hotel once we finally arrived!

RP's big day ended with a bath, during which she sat in the tub, staring at me with big, blank eyes, as if wondering what else was possibly going to happen to her. It was clear she was scared out of her mind, and she almost refused to blink as she stared at everything going on around her. She went rigid during hugs and kisses, and seemed almost relieved to be placed in her crib for the night, sucking her thumb and rubbing the sheets between her fingers. It was only then that I cried - cried, and prayed to God for the little girl in the crib who was terrified, and didn't realize all the love that was around her.

Fast forward to today. RP is a smart, happy, and healthy little girl. She gives and receives affection willingly and knows that she is the center of the universe to a family who loves and adores her. She is active, going to preschool two days a week, and taking gymnastics, ballet, and as of tomorrow, ice skating lessons, and she makes friends easily. These are the days I dreamed of when I was going through the process of adopting her, and if I had to do it all over again I would in a heartbeat, as these have been the best two years of my life!

Happy Gotcha Day my little Russian Princess!

Offensive

I'll be the first to admit that I like a good joke now and then, and that there are times when I think that this world has gotten crazy-sensitive over the need to be "politically correct" all the time. Perhaps that is why I was so caught off-guard with my personal response to this cartoon that an acquaintance posted on Facebook:

Harmless, right? I mean, c'mon, what is offensive about cute little babies? I will tell you what - the "punch line" to this little "joke." Being adopted isn't a punch line. It isn't funny. It shouldn't be used as a derogatory term, an attempt to cut someone down or make fun of them. In short, it isn't funny.

As the parent of an adopted child I can tell you first hand that adoption is the most LOVING thing a parent can do for their child. No, I don't know RP's birth mother, and most likely never will. I do, however, know that she carried her baby full term, and took good care of her while she was in-vitro as RP was born completely healthy. She made the decision to place her daughter for adoption in order to ensure that her child received a life that she simply couldn't give her. She very easily could have had an abortion, or kept her into god knows what kind of life... but she didn't. I can only imagine the pain she went through when having to say good-bye to the child she cared for and nurtured within her own body, knowing full-well that she most likely would never see her again.

I know this because it has to be very similar to the pain I went through when trying to conceive a biological child. I knew in my heart of hearts that my family would be made not through giving birth to a child from my womb, but by opening my heart to adoption. I just knew - long before I even thought about the fertility treatments. Yet I went through them - five times. Each time was more difficult than the previous - stronger drugs, more labs, greater pressure for the process to finally work, and deeper devastation when it didn't. I think I cried enough tears to fill almost ALL of the Great Lakes, and then some. Each time the process failed, I felt that I died a little with those embryos - after all, they were my DNA, they were my "flesh and blood." It still hurts today - just as deeply as it did back then. The problem is, very few people will "let" you grieve for that loss. If you haven't experienced it, you wouldn't understand it. Oh, everyone meant well - cheery "you can try again next month" greetings and promises of prayers always accompanied the loss, and I truly appreciated them all. It just wasn't meant to be.

Deciding to adopt was difficult - not because I didn't want to be a mom, but because it meant putting my heart on the line again and risking more loss. I knew if I went through the process I would adopt internationally, and again, my inner heart knew for years that my child was waiting for me in Russia. I knew the risks of adopting a child from Russia - fetal alcohol syndrome, reactive attachment disorder, and scads of other potential problems and complications - and making this decision would open my heart back up to loss and disappointment, and I honestly wasn't sure that my barely mended heart could take more heartache.

I began the process scared, overwhelmed, and extremely guarded. I dragged my feet on the Home Study initially because I needed to rethink my decision. There were probably a thousand times during the process that I almost backed out, afraid that I couldn't go through with it. Yet I soldiered on, and the day I received RP's picture and information was the first time I truly let my heart open up to this process. I looked into her big, scared brown eyes and KNEW she was my daughter. I just knew. I also knew that even though I had never met her I would give my life for her a hundred times over and move mountains to bring her home and make her my family.

During the process some days seemed like an eternity, and others flew by before I could even blink. I don't remember much about the six months that went by while I was waiting to meet RP, waiting for my court date, then waiting to bring her home. One would think that with all that waiting I would remember LOTS of it - but I don't. I could only hold on for one more day, knowing that I was one day closer to having my daughter in my life forever. That thought kept me moving forward day after day after day, until it finally became a reality. I can't remember my life before RP, nor can I fathom life without her.

RP knows she is adopted. She knows she is from Russia. She knows she was born from her birth mama's tummy, and that she came home with Mommy and Nana on a big airplane from Russia, crying the whole time. She will never get to share a scrapbook of her ultrasound picture, newborn pictures in the hospital with proud family and friends vying for the chance to hold her, or remember blowing out the birthday candles on her first birthday. I have one very grainy picture of her as an infant, age unknown, that I pulled off the Russian database, four pictures of her at 16-months old, and then the pictures from our trips to the orphanage to see her, and finally bring her home. I dread the first school project that requires she share a family tree or bring in baby pictures because we don't have them - and I know kids can be cruel. I want her to know and understand how much she was loved and is loved by BOTH her mamas, and I want her to be proud of her heritage. I want her to be proud of her adoption and be able to speak freely to it.

Why is it that people can proudly say, "I adopted my pet from an animal shelter" or "Our company adopted this stretch of highway to keep clean in our community" but yet find it funny to use the adoption of a person as the punchline of a joke? I know I'm being too sensitive - I do. Yet my heart aches. I don't know why this touched a nerve, but it did, as evidenced by the tears that continue to stream down my face just thinking about it. I'm proud to say I adopted my little girl, and one day I hope she can say she is proud too - proud of her Russian mama who gave her the opportunity for a new life in a new family, and proud of her American mama who moved mountains to make her dream a reality, and while she isn't the perfect mama, she is perfectly happy being RP's mama.