My birthday’s coming up and I’m reassessing life. As the years have passed, with the arrival of every child, I’ve put on a bit of weight. Like the stock market, it goes up, it goes down. Lately, I seem to be in a rally that would make even Goldman Sachs proud. But extra weight is a normal occurrence for most women adding to their family.

It’s then that I remember: we adopted.

Somehow, I still feel that the blame is mostly theirs for this pudgy predicament. The children were not babies nor toddlers, constantly on the move, making Big Mama move with them. Instead, they were older children, driving me to distraction.

And distraction is very, very bad when it comes to eating. “Mindless eating”, experts call it, and it’s leading to our nation’s demise. In my circular sense of reasoning, I lost my mind… due to my kids… which resulted in lots of mindless eating… because of them. Got it?

But, isn’t most eating mindless? I mean, I use my mind for many things, and planning every bite of every day is not one of those things. We might be on to something here….

Anyway, it can’t be my fault that I’m expanding with every year, if not every moment. Studies show that weight gain is also usually linked to a high level of disinhibition. What are they inferring, I’m a nudist or something-?! Which would mean then that all nudists are fat… and by natural deduction… I should be thin!

I know I tend to eat on the fly and maybe that’s the problem. Bariatric doctors say it helps to sit down and savor the food—no eating over the stove, or sink, or while running to the next appointment.

Now, what fun is that? Not to mention counterintuitive. Sitting burns less calories than standing or moving. Yet, I imagine sitting there and staring at three carrot sticks would be a meaningful moment. We could call it “focused, functional eating”.

Rather boring.

I need to make time for myself. As they say, “If Mama ain’t happy….” However, with two boys, two girls, two dogs, and two adults under one roof, what time of day or night would that be???

Weight loss counselors note that the majority of overweight individuals would benefit from practicing the HALT principle: recognizing that they’re eating when Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired.

Would scoring three out of four on this test be dangerous? Listen, if we do away with emotional eating, such as during special celebrations and happy events, then we have to be left with times of turmoil and trouble, on the other hand.

Maybe I have an unresolved anger issue. Or a hunger issue if I’m not to eat whenever I’m hungry. What’s left? To eat for amusement?

It could be that I’m tired. Researchers say that skinny women are on their feet an extra 2-1/2 hours per day. I’d like to know if those skinny minnies are wearing heels. If they’re in clunky white tennis shoes, then count me out. Just forget it, I’d rather be a lounging couch lizard in heels.

Plus, sleek sistahs sleep 17 minutes more per day. Did you know that? That puts a new spin on beauty sleep. Does that mean that if I simply slept 17 minutes more per day, I would be thin? Maybe if it’s sleeping through lunch or dinner….

Another possibility is that I fear hunger. Perhaps I’ve internally absorbed my orphan children’s past and am eating to nullify and negate their once-upon-a-time starvation. You never know.

I read an article that suggested, “Act like you’re a size smaller and you’ll be a size smaller.” Well, shazam, why didn’t you say that in the first place?

I’m not sure what they mean by “act”. I can only imagine the mime Marcel Marceau silently reshaping me into a tidy, tiny package of a person. And if it means wearing smaller-sized clothing, BTDT.

They weren’t smaller-sized in the beginning. They were slightly large, actually. But now, by not caving in and buying larger clothing, all it results in is a raw, red line at the waist, and a “muffin top” popping out over the sides of the waistband. Really smart—suffer, rather than suck it up and buy some new duds for a temporary situation that others may not even notice, anyway.

Sigh. My birthday’s coming and I’m conflicted over whether I should be happy, sad, tired, angry, or hungry when that flaming torch of a cake arrives and I’m expected to eat the first bite.

Will one bite do me in?

Probably not. The cake batter and frosting will tip the scales long before that.

Our children are very popular. Lately, their calendar has been filling up with play dates, excursions, cookouts, and get-togethers to play sports. The funny thing is, these are not invitations from their peers, but instead, from grandparent-types.

Mr. Sal takes Petya out on the links for 18 holes of pure happiness.

“Believe me,” Sal tells us, “I like to golf, but to see the joy on your son’s face makes it even more fun for me.”

Sharon arranges a barbeque, along with swimming and tennis. In this case, doggies Misha and Grisha go, too, giving Benedetto and me a full six hours in the whine-free zone for the kids, and the walk-free zone for the dogs. Ah, the bliss.

On a different day, Dan and Larisa stuff the kids into their car for Japanese hibachi and an excursion following. Topped off with ice cream. Just the way you want them returned: over-tired and over-sweetened.

“We’ll have to do this again, sometime,” they enthuse, and are calling within weeks to schedule another date. Once again, the Mont Blanc is uncapped, the leather-bound date book opened and pen glides across parchment. I am my children’s social secretary.

The kids enjoy this special attention, since their own grandparents live far away. As long as it’s not over-the-top, like an African safari, or whitewater rafting on the Colorado River, or a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese, I’m game. They arrive to each date clean, combed, and well-pressed. They smile, say good morning and good afternoon, please and thank you. Within 48 hours, a thank you note is winging its way towards their benefactors.

Word spreads about these unusual children. More invitations come. Maybe no one has grandchildren who are enjoyable anymore?

I remind the kids that being polite and respectful opens doors in life. At this rate, the whole world is their oyster. Unless the law changes, about the only door closed to them will be the Oval Office. Well, that and working traveling carnivals, if I have any say about their future. And some days, those two non-options look more and more alike.

I like them experiencing these brief forays out with friends of the family, despite the fact that no one’s inviting me anywhere. A long weekend on the Rive Gauche, a falucca ride along the Nile, samosas and a proper tea near the Taj…. My wants are few, and my tastes, refined and defined.

Alright, so I am fine with finding my own amusements. This is about the children and them learning to enjoy the fact that others could actually enjoy their presence. Best of all, after years of repeated rejection, the children feel celebrated and secure. Isn’t that what childhood is all about—the challenge to grow and explore, while being cherished by family and friends?

Larry and Liza speak with us privately.

“Would you ever like to get away, just the two of you, for two or three days? We could take the kids….”

Be still my heart—where’s that calendar? Even with the Icelandic volcano, I’m sure we could fly to Europe via… I don’t know… South America? Or go west to touch down in the Far East, and then continue to Europe? It should only add on another week or so of travel, but if we schedule the play dates back to back, I’m sure we could swing it….

Shockwaves rippled across a couple of continents when seven-year-old Artyom was packed up and shipped off to Russia, all by himself. Seems that his American adoptive mother and grandmother deemed him to be a real risk to the safety of their family.

Outrage ensued, as though only materialistic Americans could view children as broken objects, able to be returned, or traded in for a better model. Yet, annually, one in three children adopted by Russians are sent back to their orphanages. That’s around 33% regularly returned, usually around the time that their governmental adoption stipend has been safely invested, with nary a blip in the news. Yet, let one American return one child… and everything breaks loose.

But, Russians are used to a certain roughness when it comes to childrearing. I remember swearing along with my husband in a Russian court of law that under no terms would we ever spank nor employ any kind of corporal punishment with our Russian children. Meanwhile, over 1200 kids wind up dead each and every year in Russian homes, not counting near-death experiences, abuse, or neglect. And where are the incensed and indignant masses?

Many of our friends and acquaintances have asked incredulously how an adoptive parent can send their child back to his native land? They look at our kids: attractive, bright, enthusiastic, loving, well-adjusted, despite horrific backgrounds. We credit our successes great and small to prayer, persistence, patience, the kids’ own resilience and efforts at recreating their future, love, humor, structure, great expectations… and Divine intervention.

So what type of heartless, self-centered and irresponsible adult could treat a helpless child in such a manner?

Probably one who is pushed beyond.

There are few facts being made available regarding this case. The mother and grandmother have disappeared, or gone into hiding/seclusion. Yet, immediately after the incident, the grandmother commented about the boy having a “hit list” of people to kill in the family, along with trying to light papers in his room in order to burn down the house.

Lovely.

Maybe this sounds far-fetched to the average observer, but to adoptive families taking in mentally-challenged or emotionally-troubled children, it’s not outside the pale of reality. Believe it or not, some of the older adoptees having severe problems were brought home as babies. It all has to do with neglect, trauma and abuse. Some children spring back, while many do not.

I personally know of adopted children who have killed the family pets, rushed the parents with dangerous, sharp objects, abused other siblings, and repeatedly tried to burn down the house. They have been detained and released by the police, put in psychiatric facilities, and committed to long-term treatment centers at outrageous costs. The family ends up going bankrupt, or divorcing, or hoping that the child runs away at the very least. In an extreme handful of cases (just 18 over almost two decades) where, say, the child smears feces all over the walls, the parent “snaps” and kills the child. Only one dead child is tragic enough, however, it’s nowhere near 1200+ per year in Russia.

All things considered, “Return to Sender” may be a compassionate and caring response under the most severe of circumstances.

Sounds too crass and commercial, you say? Unfortunately, that’s what adoption has become in many cases. American agencies, anxious to make a “sale” at any cost, frequently collude to withhold vital medical and psychological information on the referred child. Russian orphanages start the deception with doctored or deleted records. No wonder new parents feel duped when the truth comes out several months down the line.

Many have spent the equivalent of a year or two’s salary for a commodity hell-bent on their family’s destruction. Homes are trashed, cars are destroyed, other children are endangered requiring extensive therapy or hospital emergency visits, and on and on it goes. “Happily ever after” never happens. Not one agnecy that we’ve worked with over the years has ever discussed what to do should things go wrong, except to notify them. That’s some faulty follow-up.

Return to Sender. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened earlier, though I do know we were sternly warned in our last Russian adoption court appearance to never even think of returning the children. They made it perfectly clear to us: Russia doesn’t like damaged goods.

It might be time they learned. You break it, it’s yours.