The Russian Princess and the Pea
Posted in: Russian Adoption | Comments (0)
Alrighty, I’m on my fourth hotel room of the day and it’s only 10:00 am. Sweaty Starii Krai is living up to its name: I am sweaty and this hotel is starii (old).
My normal abode, Room 601, delightful in the fact that I had a few centimeters of floor space around three sides of the bed, an unheard-of commodity in many budget hotels of the region where at least I could walk if I shuffled sideways, sprang a leak overnight. The torrential downpours not only wiped out much of the ceiling in the prohzdoor’ (corridor), they moved to the ceiling of my bathroom: drip-drip-drip. You could sit on the toilet and take your shower at the same time. But judging from the color of my once-white towels, the water was a rusty, dirty mix, one that could be bothersome if dripping on your head. In essence, the princess could not take a pee.
Up at the crack of dawn, my hair was half dry when everything broke loose. Workmen in the hallway recoiled when I peeked out to report that the deluge had come knocking at my door, too. Here was this vision of beauty: no makeup, and wild, frizzed hair that had yet to be tamed for the day. I was cheered in the fact that these laborers had no idea what to do, so what should I care what they thought about me: they were cutting out ceiling tiles, placing plastic sheets on the floor, then painter’s drop-cloths, and finally, strategically positioning buckets.
“Oo menyah’ yest stah’ree dom,” (I have an old house) I explained to them. “You need to attack the problem from the outside.”
No joke. But just like we had a bucket up in our old house’s attic, these things cost money. And most of us had no other choice for the time being than to take the easy and cheap way out of it. A $2.59 bucket, or $6,000 roof patch which may need to be expanded next year?
And thus began my quest for a new hotel room. The dehzhoor’nayah (floor lady) recommended “Reception”, so down I went to the front desk. It was all of 8:00 am. The girls there were always helpful, but even those who spoke a modicum of English really overestimated my Russian abilities, ratting off rapid-fire post-graduate phrases that I would then have to boil down to kindergarten level.
“It is raining…” I begin.
“Yes, it is raining,” they nod, ever helpful. “Do you need an umbrella?”
“It is raining in my room,” I continue.
“In your room-?!” one picks up the phone, ready to get the workmen who seemed infinitely more concerned about the hallway than my bathroom.
“They already know upstairs,” I assure them. “Now, about a new room….”
The rain looks like it will never stop. Much as I hate the idea of gathering up all of my stuff and shlepping it to my third room, the ceiling drip was growing stronger, coming out here, and then there, splatting on the floor and richocheting up to the wall. Soon, the Volga River would be winding through. It’s at a time like this that I remember a song from my childhood, “Song of the Volga Boatmen”: “Ay-ay-OOX-nyem, ay-ay-OOX-nyem, li, li, li-li-li-li, ay-ay-OOX-nyem!”
The girls give me a new key and tell me to eat breakfast. The next room will then be ready.
I enjoy my sausages and hot mustard, confident that I will have a new room that’s dry and suitable. The first time I changed rooms was when my husband left to come home. They made it easy on me by allowing me to stay on the sixth floor. In a few days, I will need to change again when the girls arrive and we will be three. Now I see the new number is Room 502.
I try to make the move as painless as possible, throwing any odds and ends into big tote bags, so I don’t have to actually pack so much. It doesn’t help. I have so many little items, that it requires several bags, back and forth between floors and between rooms, figuring out which card key is which, and trying not to leave anything in the bathroom, the closet, the refrigerator, or by the side of the bed.
My heart sinks when I see Room 502, rather small, but I can do this. I put things in the closet, in the refrigerator, removing my jacket as perspiration drips from me. I look for the air conditioner. There is none. Hot and humid summer air pours through the window.
No.
Back to Reception I go to consult my desk clerks.
“There is no air conditioning,” I begin.
“No air conditioning,” they nod again.
“It’s hot. I need air conditioning.”
“Oh.” These are not my usual girls, it’s Monday morning and the new shift looks due to arrive at 9:00 am. They issue me a third card key. Just trying to keep the card keys and the room numbers straight is an effort without my reading glasses, while holding onto my monumental, brick-like purse and camera bag. I did not sleep for the last half of the night because of the loud dripping noises in the hallway buckets. I’m not feeling 100%, but I need to concentrate and negotiate.
Once again, I remove myself, presently to Room 515, another postage-stamp room, but with air conditioning. At least now I’ll get a discount. However, my stuff barely fits. I glance inside the bathroom: a space capsule of a shower, with revolving door suitable for a cosmonaut to stand upright and suction dirt off of his body. An overweight person would never make it. So I go from room to room, reliving my very own “The Princess and the Pea” story, only I never try any of the beds. The bed is the least of my worries.
Exhausted from the multiple trips yet again, I take the card keys to the front desk, laying out all three of them, and keeping one. I’m ready to settle on the diminutive Room 515.
“So I would imagine that this new room is a less expensive room?” I start, wanting to know what to expect when the bill comes due at the end of my stay. I do not like surprises.
The girl looks up the price.
“No, the same.”
“How could it be the same, it’s smaller, much smaller,” I shake my head.
“It’s the same category room as your first one,” she insists.
“No, but it’s small….. Maybe I need to go back to the rain room…..” I’m feeling at a slight negotiating disadvantage. When the workmen were in my bathroom, I had to do my hair and makeup in the bedroom where there was not a lot of light. My eyebrows have not been pencilled in properly and I’m not sure whether they’re projecting a straight-across angry type of look, an arched and startled type of look, or a too-heavy “Mommie Dearest” Joan Crawford type of look. I did have some questions about whether or not to move the clothes hangers between closets….
Just then, my regular desk attendants come on duty. They flip through the reservations, checking what’s available. One says she will show me a different place and see if it’s any better, Room 505.
Apparently, my sixth floor wing has been declared a disaster area. There’s no going back, much as I want the rains to stop, and for life to return to what I once knew in relatively big and beigey Room 601. Heavy fog is currently rolling into the city, thick as pea soup, just like when I came to Starii Krai for the first time in February and my plane had to divert three hours away.
The new room is much better, still not on par with my original Room 601, but entirely workable. The walls, draperies, and bedspread are… pea green soup. One of my clerks offers to help me move my stuff.
“Davai,” she urges, telling me that the two of us can do it quickly together.
I thank her for her kindness, but tell her that I have so many little items, it will be easier for me to do it myself. She knows that I will have yet another move when the girls come to stay with me, and says she’s sorry for all of the problems.
“It’s not that I have a lot of stuff,” I confide in her, as though she’s going to believe me, a person with oddly unbelievable eyebrows at this point. “These are all the things we have for the girls….”
And thus begins my last move of the morning: back and forth, back and forth, I close Room 515’s door, arrive at Room 505 and suddenly realize that I’ve left my water bottles and piroshki in the refrigerator. The dezhurnaya comes to my rescue and unlocks the door, since that I no longer have the key.
I am breathing heavily in my new room, everything hung up, toiletry bags in the bathroom that has a little more space this time, when there is a knock at the door. A maid holds out my toothbrush and toothpaste, obviously left behind in the bathroom of 515.
“Spaseebah, spaseebah,” I thank her as we both chuckle. “And that’s IT!” I call as she shuts the door behind her.
I get out my computer and settle in to do some work. And that’s when I find out, there is no internet signal on this floor.
admin @ July 1, 2009
The Accidental Adopters
Posted in: Russian Adoption, Spirituality | Comments (0)
I’ve heard the question, terribly nosy and nervy though it may be, asked of those couples who become pregnant repeatedly: “Was this a PLANNED pregnancy?”
The best response: “It is now,” followed by the vague and popular, “Why do you ask?”
But the average bystander never imagines that you can somehow “happen upon” adoption. It doesn’t accidentally follow a night of passion. It is deliberate, and costly, and time-consuming. And yet, here I am in Russia, wondering if we ever “planned” for this to happen.
Not really.
Benedetto and I were basically workaholics, traveling the world for the good of mankind, happy to come home at night and collapse. No little people to feed, tend to, worry about, console, mediate, monitor, wash or dry. Just us.
Then after twenty-some years of marriage, we started talking about kids. Biologically, the two of us seemed healthy enough to reproduce, yet we never felt the urge to replicate ourselves and our big noses. We knew of the many orphans in the world and how they needed families, stumbling by chance upon Russian adoption when we started to research. Given my family background, it piqued our interest and we embarked on that path.
We started out wanting baby boy twins if at all possible. Get two and be done with it. Which led us to an older, school-aged boy. Figure that one out. Long story.
After he came home, we tried to adopt his friends left behind. Another long story. No can do, they insisted. Following four years of blood, sweat, and tears, we got one of his friends. That was not accidental in any way.
By this time, the boys were both eleven and more than enough to fill our lives. Yet we started to update our paperwork, wondering if perhaps—maybe their friends in foster care would be returned to the orphanages? Best to be ready. Or maybe some siblings, younger children in the five to seven range?
Interviewing various international adoption agencies, a couple of them started heavily marketing us. All the agencies had waiting older children, those who had very few chances of ever finding a home. They sent us photos of exotic gypsy children, cross-eyed children, problem children with cute grins, boys with the same names as our sons.
Then one day we received a photo of two girls, sisters, gazing tentatively at the camera. My heart stopped for a brief second: they looked exactly like me. I searched their faces, somewhat sad and troubled in countenance, only one photo out of three with a half-smile. Did I see any sign of life? It was there, barely, calling out to me, as though these were flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone.
I tried to dismiss my feelings for them. After all, we had just been wiped out by a long and protracted four-year adoption, taking us through several scams ($$$), that finally ended in summertime travel for the four of us ($$$). Our savings had been diminished, then the stock market plummeted. This was not the time. And girls? We were more interested in boys, or maybe a boy and a girl.
But across the oceans, across time zones and nations, these girls called out to me. I was to come and get them. We asked all sorts of impossible questions: could I travel alone on trip one? It was winter time and I could go fairly quickly, whereas Benedetto would tend to our professional and family responsibilities and then travel on trip two.
Yes, they said. For only one person to travel, this already saved us thousands. Naturally, we made up those thousands with traveling again in the summer and paperwork that was ten times the amount of our last region, but it got us going down this path we had never planned. I think if we were fully informed about any major change of life, we might not ever pursue it.
So here we are, the accidental adopters, you could say. We have been awarded two beautiful sisters by the Russian Federation and their lives will be richer and more rewarding than could have ever been imagined, as will ours. Sometimes the twists and turns of life bring us into a beautiful place, unplanned though it may be.
“In all your ways acknowlege Him, and He shall direct your paths.” (Proverbs 3:6)
admin @ June 24, 2009
Stuck in Sweaty Starii Krai
Posted in: Russian Adoption | Comments (0)
(Note: This is my fictitious name for a funny, but real place in the south of Russia.)
The Russian Federation is playing hardball with hapless adoptive parents. Only a few months ago, their Supreme Court passed a law whereby all regional courts must enforce the ten-day appeals waiting period for all court decisions. Traditionally, this waiting period was waived for adoption hearings, because there are not a lot of interested parties looking to appeal any ruling on behalf of an orphan. But now judges’ jobs are on the line, and they are more and more enforcing the ten-day wait directive, handed down from Moscow.
That’s how I came to be stuck in Sweaty Starii Krai. Technically, I am the mother of these two wonderful girls. Yet, they continue to live in their tiny village Internat (orphanage boarding school). Each of us dreams of being united, and there is even some talk of them possibly coming to stay with me in my humble hotel after the court decision is typed up. Meanwhile, I’m on my own in a place with spotty internet connection and no tourist appeal whatsoever.
I could come home during the ten days. That’s an option. Many parents are now urged to make three and even four trips to accomplish their adoption. No doubt the Ministry of Tourism smiles kindly upon Supreme Court legislation leading to such desperate measures. But not for me. Much as I long to see my sons and my dogs, I will stay put, while my husband returns home.
My airline ticket cost $1536 to get to this region. It might have been much worse, but we have an excellent travel agent, and I then need to add on $200-something as a change fee and fare increase because I was NOT PLANNING to be here for the ten days and had different dates booked. So that’s about $1800 total in airfare alone in June. Prices will continue to climb throughout the summer. (Sorry to bring up the financial side, but we ARE talking Russian adoption here.)
Here’s how I figure it: staying at my budget accommodations for around $90 a night (double the bed size, room size, and bathroom size as when I was here in February and paid $60), it also includes a breakfast buffet. These cabbage and potato salads, cold pasta, breads, the occasional sausage, blini pancakes folded in quarters—you add the jam or sour cream, some variation of egg souflee, salami and cheese, cucumbers and tomatoes, yogurt, mannaya kasha (sweet, cream of buckwheat porridge—think “condensed milk that’s been further thickened” if that’s possible!), and the choice of coffee, green or black tea, carbonated water, fruit compote, milk or kefir is enough to sufficiently satisfy anyone’s appetite for most of the day. One time there were meatloafy meatballs at the buffet, and today, a type of fish fillet. I make the most of it, testing as many food groups as possible.
“Pahzhal’istah,” (Please, help yourself) the waitresses greet me. Thank you, I will. They stop encouraging me after the third or fourth day. I am like a one-lady horde of locusts descending upon their buffet, holding my own with balding or beefy Russian men. The anorexic Russian young ladies pick at a salad or two and call it a day. But back to the economics of being stuck here….
In terms of food, I pay around three or four dollars (90 or 120 rubles) to buy several cold waters or a diet cola at the local gastronom, along with a sloika (squarish pastry), pirog (football shaped pastry), or pohnchik (a hot, puffy donut), which mirrors what I feel like in this weather: a hot, puffy donut. Some of the savory ones are filled with potato, mushroom, cabbage, or meat mixtures, the sweet ones I prefer with cottage cheese and raisins. I round out this repast with an apple.
So economically, keeping my expenses to under $100/day, if I spend 10 extra days here, it still only comes out to $1,000—much less than if I were to fly back to the US, be jetlagged, have to acclimate to a new time zone, a few days later fly back to Russia, be jetlagged and have to acclimate to yet another time zone, while taking custody of the girls in a foggy state of mind, and paying close to $2,000 in flights alone.
Glutton for punishment that I am, I decide to wait it out in Starii Krai. Did I mention that this is not exactly the tourism capital of the world? After my first day, I’ve exhausted the supermarket, the post office, the only church within walking distance which is under renovation and closed, the war monuments, the open air market, and the two modern shopping malls.
I am drenched with sweat as though being in a sauna all day long. Whatever’s washable goes into the sink each night, wash, suds, rinse, that I hang on my handy-dandy travel clothesline. This ingenious wonder is made from braided rubber with loops on the end that will attach to most any two stationary objects (no suction cups that slip and fall). The three-way braid allows clothing edges to be stuck through, attaching the piece without any clothespins necessary. Things dry much more quickly than if they were simply folded in half over the line.
But I’m not keeping up. Each day I’m washing more and more, not able to wear 30% of the clothing that I was happy to have when it was just 40 degrees earlier in the month in Moscow.
Hot as it is, I actually try on a few lightweight, chiffony tops at a trendy shop at the mall, which offers the equivalent of sizes zero or two. Given that I’m a few sizes above those, this is how I come to be wrestling in a Russian dressing room, arms and shoulders squeezed like a sausage (or let’s make that a pohnchik) into a pullover dress that I cannot get off of me. I pull, I tug, I wonder what will legally happen to me if we need to cut it off. Then I think Houdini-like thoughts: relax, exhale, hold it. At last the chiffon number shimmies off of me.
My more daring side would love to make a foray into the fancy cosmetics store and spray myself all over with a quick shot or two of Chanel, but by virtue of the fact that I am the only one in town not teetering in four-inch stilettos, I have a feeling that the security guards may recognize me day after day, and haul me away for overusing the testers.
Not much else to do. I have been reduced to chatting with children painting flowers for art class in the village square. All that remains is to visit a spa in the distant mountains, or to enroll in the local university. It doesn’t help that I happened to read a travel advisory on the US State Department web site that NO Americans should be anywhere near this region or its dangerous environs, known for gangs, terrorists, and kidnappings of foreigners. Yikes.
As the days slowly grind by, I keep my terrorist radar on, while throwing all caution to the wind at times, in order to escape my hotel room. I go out for an early-morning walk, before the sun is high and hot, finding a park bench in the forest where I do some writing until noon. I emerge again from my room around the time the sun begins its descent, to get some more exercise and fresh—well, let’s just say, get some air, before it becomes dark. I also start to brush my teeth with the local water. Not to mention eating dairy products sitting on top of the unrefrigerated buffet. Talk about living dangerously.
Today, my security system breaks down even further. Ever vigilant to lock my extra zillions of rubles in the suitcase in my hotel room, and carry my purse and cameras on my person in two separate bags at all times, the protective firewall suddenly slides into crash and burn mode.
All day long, my computer will not connect with the internet. Naturally, I have a lot of very important details to tend to, concerning work, concerning the adoption and updated flight itineraries, concerning 101 other things that have to do with the internet. So I head down to the front lobby reception to ask if the computer guy is anywhere around. He had shown my husband a couple of tricks to connect. Today is a holiday, so he’s not in.
The clerk offers to open the business center for me, said to be open 24 hours a day.
“It’s dark,” I tell her, peering through the glass door across the lobby.
“No, you can use the computer there right now. Half an hour, or one hour?”
“Right now? Um, I have to put my laptop back up in my room, and get some money,” I stall, thinking of my unlocked suitcase, with purse and camera bag laying out, exposed naked, on my bed. What if a maid came by?
“No, it’s no problem, I will open right now—.” She is the only one on duty due to the holiday and probably wants to take care of me a.s.a.p. The young lady rushes across the lobby and whisks open the door, flicks on the lights, and turns on the computer.
Great. At least I’m online in Sweaty Starii Krai.
There I am, in the horrifically hot “Business Center”, comprised of two tables, a chair, and yes, the computer in question. I sit at said computer, using my hour to the max, putting out fires all around the world, and inwardly panicing about my room upstairs. But all is well when I return an hour later. The security has not been breached, but then I haven’t counted my money, either.
What to do tomorrow? Chat with the babushkas selling sehm’etchkee (sunflower seeds) on the street? Paint my toenails?
Walk in the morning, walk at night. I scour the map for any possible excursions. Nyeh’too, nothing. I take photos of puppies out on their morning constitutional. I visit the park where there are ancient kiddie amusement rides, adults and children alike singing karaoke plugged into a sidewalk TV, and where senior citizens ballroom dance on Sunday nights, out in the open for all to see and admire.
Okay, I admit, quirky as it is, the place is growing on me. It’s my girls’ home.
admin @ June 20, 2009
Introducing Our Daughters
Posted in: Russian Adoption | Comments (0)
In one of the most fast-track Russian adoptions of recent history, taking all of five months from start to finish, and before six months we will all be home….
We wish to introduce our new daughters, Mashenka and Sashenka. They are 11 years old and 8-1/2 years old, stunning blonde beauties, actually resembling… me!
Now that could be good or bad, depending on your perspective, but we’ll just say for now that we are all very happy. Proud Papa came back home, pockets bulging with his favorite photos of the four of us, developed in our remote Russian region where I am now waiting out the ten-day after-court appeals period.
The girls are ours, it’s been decreed and declared in a Russian court of law after two days of proceedings. However, they are still at their orphanage boarding school (internat) in a small, out-of-the-way village. After the ten-day wait is completed, I will finish all of the paperwork and official appointments, first in region, and then in Moscow, and bring them home.
Following our second day of court, when we received the favorable ruling, Benedetto had a great idea. He asks to visit the girls before he will fly out the next morning. He had only met them once before court and longed to spend time with them as I had, and let them know the outcome.
We drive through ripening wheat fields, swaying and green as the wind picks up. Wildflowers of the most brilliant shades scatter their colors sporadically across the landscape: bulbous purple thistles, sturdy red poppies, groupings of delicate white, pale blue, violet, and yellow flowers. Cresting a hill as we approach, two cows and a horse run toward us in their expansive green field, eager to hear any news. Neither one of us has ever seen a cow running for no good reason…much less two…plus a horse…coming in our direction. Everything is surreal on this day in the middle of nowhere, almost like we should expect the flowers to sing and the animals to talk. In the late afternoon, there on the petite ploschad off of the one road through the malinki village, we turn in to the orphanage. The girls see us from afar, jump from the steps of the nearby apteka, and hurry toward the car, clothed in their frilly, Russian-style, dressy dresses, their faces expectant and upturned. The younger slips me a rose.
My husband comes laden with chocolates and flower baskets for his little ladies, telling them in Russian, “We are now a family” and giving them hugs and kisses. The girls look so proud. The shadows slowly grow long as the sun prolongs its descent for hours yet to come. Many of the children are outside, hanging out, happy for their friends to have a home, and melancholy that they would not be going anywhere any time soon. They watch us interact, saying “Zdrast’vweetyeh” and offering shy smiles. The director graciously allows us to take photos of all of the children together, to keep as a memory. I make sure to make copies, both for those going, and for those staying.
I later visit our daughters over the weekend for an hour. We sit under the shade trees, blanket placed on a sidewalk bench, after the heavens let loose a downpour, and all is damp and fresh. Showers of blessing, that’s exactly how we feel. Not a soul stirs anywhere in the environs. We smell the flowers, and listen to the little p’teechkee sing, the girls talking of the future as they count the days.
“Soon, I will come for you… soon…” I murmur, stroking their hair as they lean their heads on my shoulders.
admin @ June 17, 2009
Russian Adoption Court
Posted in: Russian Adoption | Comments (0)
As most adoptive parents preparing for family court in Russia, we arrive in region virtually unprepared. The fact that this is our third and fourth adoption makes no difference. We request a list of possible interrogatories and suitable answers, which is half-heartedly given to us the next day, yet we are told that it will be best to discuss the questions with our lawyer just prior to court. The two of us sit in a hot van for almost an hour, waiting for the arrival of said attorney, who at last turns up.
“You read the questions?” she asks.
“Yes…” we respond.
“Good. Pah-ee-DYOM, let’s go.” And that was it.
Now I must admit that this cheat sheet included such gems as us stating for the record that we would take a six month paid leave of absence to tend to the kids.
“Six months?” I grill our interpreter, only one available to talk with in the van, other than Alex our driver, who greets Benedetto on this auspicious day with an English phrase polished off for the occasion, “Goood luuuck.”
“Six months?” I repeat. “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re lucky if you get two weeks’ paid vacation in the US, and that’s gone after the first trip to Russia. Six months?”
“Oh yes,” he snaps his fingers in remembrance, as though one preposterous idea leads him to another. “Benedetto, it’s important for you to declare that you visited the girls a couple of times, you know, at least two days. The judge will not like that you visited only once.”
We both look at him. Mind you, we had only arrived in Sweaty Starii Krai the day before. Plus, we signed the orphanage’s official guest registry each time we crossed the threshhold.
“You are not stating anything of the sort,” I maintain, breaking the silence, in case there was any question. Here we are, standing outside of the judge’s chambers, being given our last-minute list of lies.
“Of course I won’t,” Benedetto agrees. “Don’t worry,” he turns to the interpreter, “I’ll tell about Alexandra’s visit, how I saw the girls on video interacting with her, how we wrote to them between trip one and two, what a good visit we had yesterday. It should not be a problem.”
They couldn’t seem to comprehend that our truth was much better than their maze of deceptions. My husband would not stoop to such subterfuge, no matter if that’s business as usual in this part of the world or not. Frankly, we were a bit miffed that we were even approached to tell such whoppers. Bunch of low-lifes….
And with that, we are summoned inside.
“Speh-SHEE, speh-SHEE,” (quickly, quickly) urges the attorney like a mother hen.
And so the two-day proceedings begin. This is a new region for us. Previously, we were used to only one day of court. We stand, while the sixty-something female judge opens the hearing stating statutes from the Russian Federal Code in a rapid-fire speech. Our interpreter whispers all to us in excellent English and I wonder if it might be easier to simply listen to the Russian. We are never to look at him, but to maintain eye contact with the judge at all times.
After the preliminaries, the two of us are called upon to testify, stating our name, date of birth, university degrees and present line of work. She grills us with dozens of quirky questions, some straightforward, others more tailored to our specific background:
-How did you come to Starii Krai?
-Why not adopt domestically in the US?
-How much time did you spend with the girls?
-Why do you want to adopt these two in particular?
-What character traits did you observe?
-Will your boys accept them as sisters?
-Will you love them as your own daughters?
-Are you financially secure?
-How will you handle four older children?
-Don’t you think you are overestimating your abilities?
-Why do you homeschool in Russian and in English?
-Do you plan to continue homeschooling?
-Will you discuss sexuality with your children? We have had some older kids placed in homes and then they want to marry each other, she explains.
-What if you can’t handle these children? Will you try to send them back to Russia?
-Do you know about the adjustments which they will face?
-Will you raise them in the Russian Orthodox Church?
-Will you always tell them of their Russian roots?
-Have you been up-to-date and on-time with both of your sons’ post-placement reports to the Russian Federation?
-Do you plan to do post-placement reports for the girls?
-If the Russian Federation extends the reports to the age of 18, as they are discussing in legislation, are you prepared to comply with this ruling?
-Are you in good health?
-Is there any issue that you know of that would prevent you from parenting these children?
-Why are you not using the same adoption agency as for your boys?
We sweat bullets, not so much due to nerves, instead due to the extreme heat in the unairconditioned room. I fleetingly consider firing up my hand-held, battery-operated Dollar Store fan—would the slight buzzing create a stir, or would it be better to just faint outright?
Others stand and testify—from the Internat director, to the Organ of Guardianship social worker, to the public health department official reviewing the girls’ physical and mental states. After each testimony, the group is asked if we have any questions or objections to the statements presented. We stand en masse like pop-up dolls, over and over.
“No, Dear Court,” come the responses, time and again, giving the Russian form of “Your Honor”.
For this adoption, we are blessed beyond measure. Each one testifies as to our utter competence and suitability as parents, singing our praises better than we could ever hope for. They state that the girls had been asking for us every day and considered me to be their fairy tale princess of a mama.
Benedetto asks later, “I guess that makes me the troll?”
“No, Shrek!” laughs the interpreter.
Funny that Prince Charming, or a knight in shining armor, did not dawn on either of the men….
Those involved closely with the girls state our experience with two older Russian boys as a benefit. They tell how our sons made a brief video in Russian, welcoming the girls, saying they couldn’t wait until the girls came home, showing them the dogs, and how good life would be. They bring up the fact that the boys are well-adjusted, having worked through any post-institutionalized behaviors.
The fact that I took additional training as a coach for parents of children from trauma and abuse backgrounds also helps our case. And having Russian family roots, getting along well with the girls, and even physically resembling these little blond over blue beauties did everything to help our cause.
So after the first hearing at 2:00 pm, and the second hearing at 10:00 am, the judge adjourns us to “discuss with the court” her findings. Since all of us have just filed out, I ponder whether she is praying, as there is no one else left!
After 20 or 30 minutes of standing in the oven-like fourth floor hallway, she calls us back.
“Speh-SHEE, speh-SHEE,” urges the attorney. It must be her knee-jerk reaction. No one in their life has ever accused us of being lolly-gaggers.
The judge has written in long-hand, her four-page summary in the name of the Russian Federation. We stand as she reads it in full. The children are granted to be ours, with their new family name stated publicly, and all rights and privileges to be due them.
She congratulates us, we sign more papers, we shake her hand, and exit the courtroom a new family. Since the girls were not yet fourteen years old, they were not required to be present in court, but the older one submitted a note, written in her own hand, that she freely and willingly wished to be placed in our family.
As in any fairy tale, her wish was granted. The troll went home for the time being, the fairy princess mama will soon take custody after a ten-day appeals period. We will return to our castle and live happily ever after.
admin @ June 15, 2009
Russian Money Laundering
Posted in: Russian Adoption | Comments (0)
Never in a million years would I have pictured myself going from bank to bank to gather like-new, crisp dollar bills. Large piles, in large denominations, are now stacked in my purse, which weighs a ton.
Am I involved in an underworld deal? Do I have a child being held for ransom? Am I engaging in real life money laundering against my will?
Yes, yes, and yes.
I am adopting children from Russia.
Turns out that the Rooskies don’t like dirty money: no rips, no tears, no writing on it, no folding that wears away printed faces. I have examined Ben Franklin so many times that his face permeates my dreams… and nightmares.
Have you ever tried to find “clean money”? No such thing. Consumers and vendors alike mark on bills, rip bills, and otherwise fold, staple, or mutilate dollar bills.
Point is, that’s illegal.
Point is, Russia will only accept untainted currency which is pretty hard, if not impossible, to accomplish. Whereas Russian rubles are often dirty, torn, and tattered, somebody over there insists on nothing but the cleanest of cash to come from us. That’s a problem.
Banks in the U.S. have very little pristine money anymore. Which leads me to conclude that any stimulus money must be old money, from increased taxes on old-money people, because new money is harder to find than Puxatawny Phil’s fat little groundhog shadow on a cloudy day. We need wads and wads of great-looking greenbacks, hundreds only, please.
So we go from branch to branch, hat in hand, old money clients asking for new money scrip. The head tellers check the vault, bringing me stacks of twenties.
“Hundreds?” I whisper through the plate glass.
They shake their heads, slowly, silently. It’s as though I am straining to see my newborn child in the hospital nursery. I peer in expectation at the window as they hold up this one, that one, none are mine.
I leave and drive to the next bank.
“How often do you get in new money?” I ask, purposely having left myself a few weeks.
The manager gives a “Who knows?” facial expression.
“Every week? Once a month?” I ask.
C’mon, they have to have some idea. Must be a state secret. They won’t part with the info at any branch.
“I can order some clean money for you,” she offers.
“That’s fine, but would you guarantee that it would actually be clean?” I shift from foot to foot, growing impatient with this royal waste of time. Do they give bank robbers dirty money? I want my money, and I want it clean.
“No, it might not all be clean…” she confirms.
“Then what, exactly, might be the reason one would order it?” I look at her. She looks at me.
“And may we help you with anything else today?” asks the customer service-challenged manager, trying to be helpful. “Do you have a mortgage…?”
I recall during our first Russian adoption, I trusted Benedetto with our big wad. Wrong move. He had the stash and we were steaming for the airport.
“Let me see it,” I tell him in the car.
“Huh?”
“The money—I never checked to see that it was clean,” I explain.
He pulls out the stacks in their bank-issued wrappers. I flip through them.
“What is this?” my jaw drops. “It’s… all… DIRTY! Look at these—these tiny stamps—and this rip!” my blood pressure is skyrocketing, zero to sixty in three seconds flat.
“Those little marks?” Benedetto scoffs. “They won’t care. Money is money. The Russians are going to turn down MONEY?”
“Stop the car.”
“What?” he blinks.
“Stop the car.”
“We’re on our way to the airport. To Russia. To get our SON,” he reminds me.
“Yes. And we need CLEAN MONEY. Stop at this bank and exchange the money.”
“This is not one of my banks,” he objects.
“You don’t need an account to exchange it. Money is money,” I intone.
Miraculously, within ten minutes, we’re back on the road. Naturally, since we fly so much, we cut it close to the departure time. My heart races. I hate this mad dash.
Now, years later, I am planning ahead. I’ll search for the money, order the money, starch and iron the money. You think I’m kidding?
You’ve never stood across from the matronly Russian character in the James Bond movies, you know, the one with a jacknife in her sturdy shoe heel, who happens to be doubling as a currency exchange teller in Russia. She holds the bills up to the light, examining them, sliding a few back through the envelope-sized slot at the base of the plate glass window.
Rejected.
We should use the ATM in Russia, you say? Sorry, but I also have memories of my dear husband, desperate for denari, several countries away from our casa, no ATMs working, no banks answering the phone back home on le weekend, racking up roaming charges to listen to telephone menu selections nowhere near our needs.
But that’s another twisted tale for another travel day.
For now, I’m guarding my purse like you wouldn’t believe. It’s my very own Wells Fargo truck taking me straight to Mother Russia. Why the purse? To me, it appeared normal and not likely to raise any suspicions. Many were the adoptive parents investing in money belts, sock safes, and neck pouches. But the contortions necessary to remove a few coins…! It made more sense to buy a walk-in, stand-up combination safe and just strap it to your back.
Funny, I grew up in one of those immigrant families telling stories of America’s streets being paved with gold. Looks like some of the gold dust is making its way to the Old Country in the form of crisp, hard cash.
With the ruble’s devaluation of 60% in the past few months, we’re doing our part to keep Russia’s ship afloat. All I need now is a liferaft to get us back to shore once we return home and start paying on the real expenses of life: doctors, dentists, clothing, new beds, bicycles, nailpolish….
If push comes to shove, and the laundered money runs low and we need to decide between a college fund for four, or a retirement fund for two, it looks like doggies Misha and Grisha will win, and finally get to retire to the Riviera. Hopefully they’ll bring us along in a style to which we are accustomed.
admin @ June 6, 2009
Canine Capers
Posted in: Dogs | Comments (0)
Our Scotties are playful pups. Give an approved chew bone to any other dog and he will gobble it down hook, line, and sinker. While that’s true with little Grisha, big Misha will have no part of it unless the treat can be tossed around a few times. Then he’ll pounce, and prance, and pretend he has no interest in it… until pouncing again. He dances around on his back two legs, begging you to throw it a time or two, until finally feeling comfortable enough to settle down and chomp away.
Around here, there’s always some intrigue or drama, and often, the doggies are behind it.
We occasionally have to take them in to the office. This would not be our first choice. We tried bringing along their hard crates, but they howled like caged banshees when we had to leave the room. Not good.
Then we brought their soft travel crates, made from nylon and mesh. The little boys learned how to stick that powerful nose right at the point of the zipper and slooowly nose it down and escape.
Next, we tried leaving them with a hard rubber ball in the office, something to divert their attention and allow them to play if we had to step out. Problem was, the ball would roll behind a bookshelf, or near a computer printer, and they would practically topple all of the equipment in their crazed, frenzied effort to GET – THE – BALL.
Enough of this. I told Misha and Grisha that they could lay down and sleep, since they were so good at that, anyway. No more toys in the office. Just hush up and behave.
It lasted a couple of minutes. I should have invested in a nanny cam just to see what truly transpired. The Scottie cam would have told us what we learned quickly enough upon entering the office: we have no need to buy paper shredders. Puppy Grisha craves any non-food item as a between-meal snack and has now taken to tipping over office trash cans, ripping to shreds any paper, and scattering dozens of tiny bits all over the carpet. The two of them have teeth that could come close to any shark’s—long, hard, and vise-like, decimating anything approaching within a certain radius.
But they have their cuddly sides, too. One neighbor warned us when Misha first came home that, “Scotties are not lap dogs.” Well, nobody told him about that! He curls up with us on a couch, in the bed, on the plane, in the car. Grisha will actually cry and moan if he is left behind baby gates in the kitchen, he so wants to be near any action, and around human companionship.
In the car, usually on long, pre-dawn journeys when the kids are fast asleep, he starts moving up from the back second or third row, slowly inching toward the front seat like a Special Ops dog on a mission. Grisha eventually gives a little hop and perches precariously on the cup-holder console between driver and passenger, balancing like a trick seal on a pedestal. With Benedetto driving, I generally grab him and cuddle him in my lap. But if he had his way (which happens all too often), he would drive with his head extended outward, nose hooked on the bottom curve of the steering wheel. He is a dog, doubling as hood ornament.
Just about the time we’re thinking that this could be very Dangerous Driving Behavior, Misha also pushes his way up to the front, his tank-like body rolling over Grisha. He takes his place on my side of the console, insisting that I hold him like a baby. He puts his head on my shoulder and dozes off to doggy dreams, complete with muffled barks and twitches.
But probably the most interesting escapade of late involves my birthday this month. I had been out shopping for all of an hour or two. Returning home, the Scotties went out of their way to show their pleasure at my arrival. They jumped, and licked, and showered me with affection. Benedetto could not figure it out.
“It’s not like you’ve been gone all day…” he puzzled.
Little did I know that a conspiracy had been hatching while I was gone. My husband and sons had wrapped a small cache of gifts for my birthday. They placed them on top of an antique pie safe in the family room, a location I was not likely to notice.
Until Misha took matters into his own paws. He knew the hand that fed him.
After going ga-ga over my arrival, Misha ran a few feet and turned around. He barked and jogged a couple more steps. Lassie was beckoning me. I followed him.
“What’s up, Misha?” I asked.
Benedetto had no idea until Misha approached the pie safe. Then he sat down and motioned his head sideways, in a “Look over there” motion.
“What?!” my husband exclaimed. The motion was uncanny. He wanted to show me something. He jumped with his front paws partway up the pie safe, as if wanting to get something down.
“What is it, Misha?” I patted his head.
This time he stared upward, pointing the way, jerking his chin a couple of times. I followed his gaze to the top of the pie safe. There sat a small collection of beautifully-wrapped presents… for me!
Benedetto trailed behind us, taking in the entire scene. If he had not seen it for himself….
“Well, you little Benedict Arnold…!” he chided my baby, to whom I gave a peanut butter treat and went off to cuddle some more.
admin @ May 30, 2009
What Not to Wear…to Russian Court
Posted in: Russian Adoption | Comments (0)
Always a hot topic among adoptive parents is what to wear to court in Russia. This is the big day when they declare the child to be your lawful son or daughter. I’ve been through it, and have the birth certificates proving that I was in deep labor and delivery a dozen or so years ago in the regional hinterlands. So for such an auspicious occasion, why do many Americans want to dress to the lowest common denominator-?
Comfort, pure comfort. I can tell you, this word does not not exist in most foreign language dictionaries.
I am packing my bag for court. I still have time, which is part of the point. It requires some thoughtfulness, though not an undue amount. As usual, I plan on dressing fairly businesslike. The outfit includes a fashionable black skirt suit, patent leather belt, bright silk blouse, and attractive pumps. A couple of modest baubles, sensible tank watch, makeup slightly verging on the garish in order to fit in with the other Russian ladies. Or that’s my story, anyway. I feel it’s a de rigeur look for any business setting, court included. Some variation of this type of uniform has served me well on our previous two adoptions.
Once I had it all picked out and set aside, that’s when I received an e-mail from our agency which gives the helpful tip of “business casual” for court. Now maybe I’m the only person on the face of the earth who believes that business casual is a mutually exclusive term. What many wear when following such instructions, I would not think to wear to mop my floor. (Not that I’ve been known to mop any floors in recent history….)
Here we will be, representing ourselves and our country, our ability to parent and assume the responsibility of more mouths to feed. What am I supposed to wear—tennis togs? Strappy sandals and a sundress? Maybe my equestrian jodphurs? Where, exactly, does the “casual” overlap with the “business”? Believe me, when we set foot in that Russian court of law, we will mean business with a capital B, and that B can stand for boundaries, as well.
True story: I have a cyber-friend who headed to Russian court years ago. She was a paralegal at the time, able to come and go from US courts, familiar with the setting and decorum. She pulled out her name-brand, grey wool pantsuit. To her, it spoke of professionalism and propriety.
The day of court arrived. She and her husband were nervous about becoming parents to two adorable children, and reviewed their list of most likely interrogatories. When meeting early that morning with their adoption coordinator, the facilitator recoiled in shock.
“You cannot go to court looking like dat!” she shrieked in heavy Russian accent. “Vhat else do you have to vear?!”
The drab, understated classic suit did not have the power statement nor the pizzazz that their handler deemed necessary for such an occasion. My acquaintance explained that she had packed this particular suit for its understated, serious impact and that she imagined that she and her husband would be doing the talking, rather than asking her suit to give any statement one way or the other.
The adoption facilitator was not amused. They were going into the courtroom, and not much could be done at the last minute. Thus, my friend heard an apology being given to the court on her behalf: her suitcase had never arrived and this was all she had to wear to court, if they could find it in their hearts to overlook it for this one day….
Add to the confusion that no matter what the locals do, you need to do what you know to be right. And then upgrade a notch or two. Or three. Or four. You people know who you are. They don’t call us the “ugly Americans” for no good reason.
On our first trip (out of two) for our first son, we met with a couple from small-town America. They were afraid to come out of their hotel room and breathed an audible sigh of relief when the adoption facilitator told them we were there in region. He wore jeans, hiking boots, and a knit cap pulled low over his head, his stubbly beard making him appear ready for a hunting trip. She dressed in a similar vein.
“Russians look at me like I’m a Chechen rebel, or something!” he guffawed.
Gee, I wonder why.
Our facilitator sat them down and told them how to dress for their appointment with the Ministry of Education officials the next day. Despite many a faux pas on their part, I felt for them. No one had this little chit chat with them that we’re having today. They were simply out of their element. No frame of reference.
As most Europeans, Russian young ladies are taught to “dress”. It could possibly be for a picnic in the park, but they will sport full makeup, high heels, a top-drawer outfit, and expensive perfume. Whereas in our custom, refined culture often dictates that an impeccably dressed woman put on her jewelry… and then remove a piece, to ensure “good taste”. Or focus on one part of the face when it comes to makeup—whether bright lips, or eyes, or cheeks—decide on one feature and play that up. Not over there. When it comes to Russia, a little bit of over-the-top is good.
Your “before” picture may be Susan Boyle, the Scottish singing sensation with the voice of an angel, but an appearance that needs Divine intervention. Corral the eyebrows, tame the hair, maybe add a pretty lipgloss or some mascara. No need to become Hilary Duff, but aiming high always gets you somewhere better than where you currently stand.
We might need to start a Russian adoptive parents’ TV program, fashioned along the lines of TLC’s “What Not to Wear”. My countrymen often have a hard time understanding why, even if they live in flipflops at home, they should squelch those feelings of freedom when touring another civilized country. If you are an adult and wear shorts in a European city, you will garner nothing but disdain. Not to mention if you jog down the street, onlookers may inquire if someone is chasing you—do you need the militsia? And when standing to give testimony in a Russian court of law, leave the clunky white tennis shoes, baseball cap, and polyester American flag tie at home. As they say, there is a time and place for most everything. Court is not the time, and Russia is not the place.
So much about culture and customs is untranslatable. Our first time in a Russian court, one of the court reporters dressed approximating what we would call garb appropriate for a street-walker, a woman of the night. Her white see-through blouse, black lace bra underneath, and wide-legged jeans with ripped cuffs made quite a splash. The judge, on the other hand, was dressed in suit and tie, while all other parties were clothed in elegant wool suits of one kind or another.
Our second time in court, the grandmotherly judge wore a gold lame headband, matching her gold and cork-wedged sandals. This was in the heat of summer when she still entered in black judicial robe. Nice. Suitable for the situation. The prosecutor wore a military uniform and sat in his own box off to the side. Austere and appropriate.
However, all those testifying on our behalf, from social workers, to orphanage reps, to our coordinator, were in stiletto sandals and yes, skimpy sundresses. I was so embarrassed until I saw our retiree driver, who had his short-sleeved shirt totally unbuttoned, his bare and bronzed chest leading our skantily-clad procession toward the court building. Our coordinator told him to button it up, literally.
“Vhat? I am Russian man!” he protested and rolled his eyes at us, like she was asking the unthinkable. I can only imagine if Benedetto showed up to court, dressed similarly. First, it would be divorce court….
The moral of this “When in Rome” story: When in Russia, go as an American in upgraded format. Even computers need the latest operating systems for peak performance. You are presenting closing arguments to bring home your son or daughter—give it all you’ve got for the performance of a lifetime.
Remember that first impressions go a long way. It’s always best to dress well on the plane, if indeed your bags never make it. A three-day-old warm-up suit in a Russian court, with Bill-the-Cat hair, is not a pretty thought.
admin @ May 24, 2009
Birthday from Afar
Posted in: Russian Adoption | Comments (0)
This week, my daughter turned… well… never mind. Best not to go into too many details for now. She might as well follow in her mother’s footsteps and not discuss her age. Let’s just say another year, another birthday. I’m sad that I can’t be by her side.
We had hoped to be in Russian court adopting her by now. It’s been a few months and our court date still hovers off-shore like a rainbow whose end keeps moving the closer you come. At least I’m not having visions of leprechauns. A pot of gold wouldn’t be bad. The weeks and months stretch by. Here she is, becoming a young lady half a world away.
I’m not sure what we would do if we were together on her big day. For the boys’ birthdays, we go to “mini-mashini” (go-carts) and they love it. Or, an indoor water park with slides, obstacle courses, wave machines, and enough humidity that I might as well be in Africa with my afro. But what will this daughter enjoy?
I think of other girls her age: A movie and a special dinner? Getting her ears pierced? An amusement park? Horseback riding? Miniature golf? Cake and ice cream with friends? Fact is, I don’t know her that well. She has so much to tell me and to share.
I look forward to enjoying girly-girl things together at home: painting our nails, baking a cake, curling up on the couch, doing our hair, and engaging in auto repair… whenever we’re not hunting and fishing, of course.
For now, I write letters to her mountaintop orphanage. I remember traversing blinding snowstorms, my plane being diverted twice the last time I saw her. How the letters arrive, and if they arrive to such a location, is anyone’s guess. We send photos and “little nothings” of dollar store gifts. The last thing I want is for her to be the target of any bully or thief and cause her further pain. Smart to fly below the radar for now. Plenty of time to have her coming-out cotillion later.
Well, actually, not all that much time. If things go as planned (meaning my plan which has no distinct connection with reality) and our ten days after court are waived, I will fly home with the girls and change from one mode of transportation, to another, and another, and finally arrive… one hour before I’m due at a major tea party! Hat, pearls, silk dress, heels…jet lag. Sounds like fun. I’m being sufficiently vague and ambivalent when questioned about my own attendance at said event. It’s hard to avoid the issue given the fact that I will be the keynote speaker. This could be a problem. All of the ladies are already atwitter as to whether or not my daughters will be there, as though the girls are now in their village setting, practicing how to sit in a ladylike manner in a freshly-starched linen dress, legs crossed at the ankles, raising their pinkies from porcelain teacups while making pleasant conversation….
No way would I subject the girls to such a thing right away. Talk about putting them on display. They might as well be dancing bears in the Russian circus with all of the gawkers gathered ‘round.
So what to do? I’ve scoured the internet in an effort to get a cake or something to her. All of the possibilities sound better suited to Russian fiancees (i.e., alcohol and flowers), or they only deliver confections to major cities. We need something chocolate, delightfully delicious, and able to be delivered by horse cart, if necessary. The powers that be were working on it, but it is not to be. Sure, we’ll celebrate once she’s home, yet it’s not the same.
I tried to discuss the idea with Benedetto, and he simply rationalized it away. Easy for men to do. “She’s not going to miss it. I mean, she’s never even had a birthday cake before.”
“Thank you,” I reply. “I feel so much more relieved now, being reminded that OUR DAUGHTER HAS NEVER HAD A NORMAL BIRTHDAY IN HER LIFE,” I glare at him with snake eyes.
He comes around under the harsh light of scrutiny.
“Cake? Is that what we’re talking, cake? Why can’t we get her a cake…?”
What did he think I was referring to, elephants traversing the mountains, laden with jewels? Flying her to the Riviera for the weekend? Mickey and friends visiting the orphanage with a set of mouse ears for all?
Puh-lease.
This is our girl and we want her to know we’re thinking of her. Now. On her birthday.
But in the slowly grinding machinery known as adoption, we must accept the fact that we are running towards her in waist-deep water. We are sitting in a traffic jam, bumper to bumper, trying to make it to a past-due appointment. We are in a video time-warp where the master controller’s editing knob has everyone moving in slo-mo.
At least it’s not reverse.
I consider jetting over to set up Skype in the Internat (orphanage boarding school), just so we can communicate any time we want to, or at least snag a live satellite feed with birthday greetings being beamed-in, while heavily-decorated cupcakes are served on silver trays by waiters in dinner jackets.
Too much?
She’s been waiting long enough to have all the fun and carefree experiences of childhood. With heavy heart for me, the day passes. I am cheered only by the thought that soon we will begin our journey home together. Birthday candles are waiting.
admin @ May 17, 2009
Mother’s Day Amok
Posted in: Home & Family Life | Comments (0)
My eye is starting to twitch a little. No, I am not winking at you…. It’s called nerves. Mother’s Day is upon us and in my family, it tends to run amok.
I’ve only passed a few of these holidays, myself. After having avoided the subject of motherhood for a great while, once I became a mother, I experienced no little amount of conflict.
You see, I feel a distinct connection with my single and married-with-no-children friends. For some of them, Mother’s Day can be a real downer if they always wanted kids.
But my problems are closer to home. My own mother is in heaven, my mother-in-law is far away. It focuses most of the attention on me. Or at least the chocolatiers and florists have me thinking it should.
“Are we doing anything for Mother’s Day?” I inquire tentatively, not wanting to have any Great Expectations which ostensibly would never be realized.
“Mother’s Day?” parrots Benedetto. “Are you my mother?”
This was not the intended response. My own children, Petya and Pasha, are naturally oblivious to such a holiday, being boys. Anything that the children’s TV channels do not promote heavily…. Add to that their abundant weekly allowances, and I can only imagine what a buck might bring me.
Sigh. Another perfectly fine opportunity lost for designer duds and diamonds.
Last year, there was severe weather in our part of the world. Our plans included flying in our private plane to the next Important Destination. At the last minute, that was scrapped, when we grabbed a rental car and high-tailed it to the meeting on clogged highways full of Sunday drivers intent on a leisurely brunch. Starving, and with no time to spare on the trip, my big Mother’s Day dinner was a hot dog from a convenience shop. Gas ‘n’ Go, that’s my gig. Though I wasn’t expecting anything in particular, it still added insult to injury.
Maybe he had forgotten the sins of the past. Can’t let that happen.
“Will I be having a hot dog for Mother’s Day?” I probe, glancing at him sideways.
“No, no need for that. We’re having hot dogs today!” Kosher, carb-free, who could ask for anything more?
So I took matters into my own hands this year. You can see what drove me to such depths. I finally decided to treat myself well, something that most moms consider to be a nice idea, but many of us can’t even go to the bathroom without someone knocking on the door and needing our immediate attention. Out I went, bought myself a cute card with four puppies on the front, representing what will be our four children. Perfect.
And one red rose, fragrant, lush, beautiful, wanting nothing in return.
These are my Mother’s Day insurance policies. No matter what happens come Sunday, I’ll be happy and content in myself. I am a mother, a good one. I love my children and my husband and am blessed beyond measure.
But sometimes, on days like these, I remind myself: I am more than a label. I am a mother…and so much more. And that’s something that I can celebrate every day.
admin @ May 9, 2009
