Notice to all pre-adoptive parents: Accept the fact that you will know virtually nothing about your adopted child. Nothing.

To argue otherwise is to deceive yourself and set yourself up for a rude awakening.

Yes, ask questions, and yes, have all the documents translated. You will still know nothing.

Whatever you’re told is likely a bunch of baloney (not that baloney comes in bunches). In this case, make it bushels of baloney. Agencies and orphanages tell you what you want to hear. So, smile, nod, and disregard 90% of the info given.

I remember a “sales pitch” (for want of a better term) written about a child from our son’s first orphanage. The blurb said he liked to play basketball every day. Realizing this was not a particularly Russian sport, I asked our guys if there was a basketball hoop there, or even a ball.

“Nyet.”

On trip two, we were told that our son was anxiously awaiting us and had asked about us that very day.

“Oh?” I brightened, and tucked that away for later when I was alone with him.

“Did you know we were coming today or did you ask about us?” I inquired at the courthouse.

“Nyet,” he shook his head, confused.

Many adoptive parents request extensive family histories, or medical records on the child. Whatever you can get, great. Yet, some of it may be pure fabrication. Fibs. Tall tales. Big whoppers.

You will know virtually nothing about the child—their likes and dislikes, personality, background, education, fears—and will likely be at “Square One” for the first year or so. This is like an arranged marriage and these things take time.

Do not even consider disrupting or making any sudden moves before the first 12-18 months are up. If the child will do well with “another family”, then start becoming that other family. Both sides have to change and adapt, mostly because new revelations will be coming your way for some months to come and you will not fully know the child, positives and negatives, for quite a while.

There are scores of prospective adoptive parents who cannot accept this. They want to know everything, they want all the facts laid out before them, they want all the pros and cons so that they can make “the right choice”, an educated decision. Well, take it from this old-timer: save your balance sheet for the financial side of adoption. Here, you’re going to have to hear from God, and go with your gut.

Scary stuff.

A few months after Petya came home, he attended a day camp where another mom overheard us speaking Russian. Turns out her daughter also came from Russia and was having many problems.

“We go to therapy every Monday and Thursday,” she sighed. “We never thought she’d be so oppositional. She’s destroying our whole family.”

“Wait a minute,” I interjected, “didn’t you mention that your family had hosted her?”

“One whole month….”

“And you never saw any of the disturbing behaviors?” I wondered.

“Not one. The girl was coached. They told her exactly how to act. She did, we proceeded with the adoption, and now we have a child who’s the exact opposite of the one we hosted.”

Discussing such a disturbing dilemma, our social worker confirmed that many previously-hosted adoptions do not work out.

“They feel that they know the child, when frequently, their impressions are skewed,” she explained.

“Yeah, we had a couple of days to decide. We knew we didn’t know anything…” I acknowleged.

I have some acquaintances who just finished five weeks of hosting a child from Ukraine. The child has gone back and they still don’t know “for sure”.

They probably never will.

Take the plunge, people!

I look at it like this: if you don’t want to bungee jump, then don’t go out and stand on the edge of the bridge. If you don’t want to skydive, then don’t put on a parachute and go up in the plane. If you don’t want to tame a wild horse, or ride a bucking bronco, don’t adopt.

We all know our limits. Nothing wrong with that. But this is a LIFE over which you’re standing in judgment: is he/she cute enough, smart enough, obedient enough, enthusiastic enough?

Oftentimes, no. But the child might become all of the above under your nurturing and therapeutic care.

This host family is irritating me. (Can you tell?) By diddling and dawdling, they may have condemned the child to lifelong institutionalization. Come on, folks, say yea or nay and be done with it (before the fact—disruption is a whole different category—those who adopt and then change their minds without extremely compelling, life-threatening reasons). The child could have been showcased to others at picnics and parks, but you were too busy lolligagging in slow-mo to John Lennon’s “Imagine”.

Well, I’ll tell you, if you need to imagine something: there is a heaven and there is a hell. This side of eternity, an orphanage existence is very close to hell, and a loving family very close to heaven-on-earth.

These are orphans, usually adrift and abandoned, uneducated and uncultured. If you’re going to let them down and measure them by middle-class American standards, and crush their souls, maybe you should just take your marbles and go home. Stop cluttering the system with your hems and haws, objections and deliberations. There’s a life hanging in the balance who needs to head home.

Mashenka squirmed in her seat as young Sashenka recounted some story about their birth grandmother and the cow that was killed. The elder rolled her eyes and tried to tell her sister to be quiet. It happened every time their past came up—whether sky-high empty bottles from alcohol, or dangerous persons coming and going from their hovel, or wandering the streets never knowing where a parent was, or why they didn’t go to school like others. I thought it was finally time we addressed one sister’s need to talk, and one’s need to keep secrets.

It all started benignly enough with a date night for myself and Benedetto. We had not been doing much alone as a couple, as often happens when parents first adopt. Everything is so new to the child, often he or she cannot communicate with a non-Russian-speaking babysitter, and there are fears of abandonment. But now, a year had passed since our last adoptions, and we felt like making a few more forays out… without the kids.

The next day, I asked the kids, “Do you ever think Mama or Papa won’t come back when we’re out for a while?”

“Sometimes…” said Sashenka.

“I think that maybe you vill be in car wreck…” said Pasha.

“Maybe you no vant to be around us any more,” said Mashenka. “So you go away.”

“Okay, first of all let me say that it’s normal for a mama and a papa to want to be by themselves every once in a while. It’s not because we don’t like you, but because we need time to ourselves, adult time, when we can hear each other without screaming in the background.”

They all looked sheepish and grinned.

“And besides, this is my house. I’m not about to leave my house. If I ever get tired of you, I’m not the one who’s leaving…” I narrowed my eyes at them, knowing that three out of four claimed that they would be living with Mama and Papa at home forever and ever.

To which Benedetto constantly replied, “You will not!” while tickling them all.

“Let me ask you this,” I proposed, knowing that there were significant people in their lives in the past who would disappear for days on end. “In the length of time that you’ve been home—one year for the girls, two years for Pasha, six years for Petya—have we ever not come home once?”

“No…” they acknowledged in unison.

“And out of three meals a day, has there ever been a meal that we forgot about, that we did not cook for you?”

“No….”

“Has there ever been a place where we forgot you, and left you behind at an event?”

Again a negative response. (I dared not let them know how many times I had witnessed just such an event among larger families, where they simply forgot one of the kids. Best not to stir the pot.)

These were older Russian adopted kids from trauma and abuse backgrounds. In their minds, given their pasts, there was nothing that was really outside the realm of possibility when it came to that unknown and unreliable person known as a “parent”. Chaos and uncertainty still very much swam beneath the surface of our life, like a shark ready to gobble and devour. No matter that the waters appeared placid from my perspective. They lived in whirlpool of nagging and obsessive thoughts from their past that could rear up and rage at any time.

I shared with our four teens and preteens the story of Thomas Edison’s early life in Michigan, how he had been running to meet a train, with a bundle of newspapers to sell in his arms. The train was already departing the station, and, as he ran alongside, a man pulled him aboard by his ears, damaging them forever. It was due to Edison’s destroyed sense of hearing that he became interested in sound waves and what they could do. It was during his all-day train layovers in one city that he joined the public library and devoured, legend has it, every volume in the building. His own personal tragedy turned into inventions that blessed many in his generation and in those to come.

“Does God make mistakes?” I asked the children. “When you were born in Russia, did God say, ‘Oh no! I wanted them to born in America!’ as though it were a surprise for Him?”

They all giggled at the thought.

“Did God destroy Thomas Edison’s hearing?” I continued.

“No… it was that bad man who pulled him up!” Sashenka exclaimed.

“Right,” I nodded. “He was just trying to help, but did it in an odd way that hurt the young boy. Was God able to use that negative life experience to give Thomas Edison some goals and direction in life?”

They could see where this was headed.

“When God had you born into different families in Russia with many problems, those problems were not your problems. You didn’t do anything wrong,” I encouraged them, knowing that they could not hear this enough. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, or embarrassed of, Mashenka. Your past is not your future,” I stroked her arm.

“Say that someone had a bad drug addiction that they overcame,” I offered, “and they hoped to help others get free from drugs. If they told people, ‘I once had a problem, but I really don’t want to talk about it…’ would many addicts find help?”

“No….”

“So it is with your life stories. You can share enough of your history in order to help people who may need your insights without going into all of the personal details. Always remember that anything negative that your birth families did, or that the orphanages did, is no reflection upon you. They had a problem, period,” I said. “Ooh neeh bweelee problehmee.”

“You know what,” I laughed, “if Misha or Grisha came and pooped on the floor next to me, I would not think that something is wrong with me-! It would mean that THEY have a problem, not me!”

They liked the analogy. Anything poopy packed a punch with this age group. They had definitely experienced a lot of poopy things in life.

But God makes no mistakes. One animal’s poop was valuable fertilizer in someone else’s garden. If we could just get by the smell of the past, we could move into the beauty of the present and everything good that was growing now.

Our older daughter, Mashenka, was turning twelve. This would be her very “first” birthday ever and I imagined that she would be on her best behavior in true orphanage wheedling style. How soon I forgot.

While the wheedling and ingratiating behavior happened on a regular basis when more computer or TV time was sought, our newer children had other issues that came to a head when it came to Major Life Events.

They were unworthy.

Try as I might with my daily motivational pep talks and filling them up with the idea that they were Somebody, when push came to shove, they would always revert back to the lowest common denominator: they were Nobody. And so it was that as Mashenka’s birthday loomed on the horizon, just a couple of weeks after mine, she tried to make everyone miserable, starting with deep-sixing my birthday and making a grand crescendo of ugliness building up to her own.

Suddenly, Baba Yaga, the wicked witch of Russian folktales, had come to roost in our abode. I was ready to chase her up the chimney and across the skies in her mortar-and-pestle-mobile. Ugly faces and even uglier attitudes were not coming to roost in our house!

It’s then that it dawned on us (again). You see, some of us adoptive parents are slow learners. We expect these kids to be excited, and happy, and thrilled with the idea of their Big Day coming up. Instead, we get Sullen, Sarcastic, and Stinky.

Why? Because they don’t think they deserve any of it. Self-sabotaging behaviors prevent them from relaxing and releasing the past. Never had a real birthday before—who says I get to deserve one now?

None of our kids was like this on a daily basis, but only when it really “counted”. When I had to give a post-placement report for Russia to the social worker, they would descend into the abyss. Someone wanted to take them out for social events like mini-golf or lunch and they would be fine… until the next day when we would all “pay” for it. Maybe it was too much stimulation or hormones kicking in, but I began reading something else into it.

A pattern was emerging. I remember our first visit out to meet the grandparents. Many plane rides later, up mountains, down mountains, sightseeing in historic environs, dining on the best homecooked Russian and Italian meals, after hugs and kisses and gifts from their elders, we spent our last couple of days decompressing and reflecting on our trip in a mountain-top lodge in a blinding snowstorm, just the six of us.

Once again, extreme ugliness surfaced from Mashenka. She simply could not handle goodness and graciousness surrounding her. Unless she had her high drama in high gear, she felt uneasy and unsettled. In order to feel good, she had to feel bad. I made sure to stay away from the edge of any mountain, lest I help her to an early demise.

At a time when others in the family felt like hiking to an indoor, heated pool, or watching fox and elk trot past our little lodge, or painting pictures by the roaring fire, she demanded our time and attention. Her goal, at times, seemed to be sucking the very life out of us.

Mashenka needed reassurance and reaffirming that she would fit into this family, this Russian-Italian-American family in which she presently felt so foreign, for reasons not at all relating to language nor culture. It was a class war in a way, a clash of sense and sensibility. She believed that she would never measure up… and she had me pretty convinced, as well.

There were times in her school work when similar patterns emerged. Bomb out on a spelling or math test and she would comment, “I didn’t try, anyway.”

Now that was bright. After all, if she “tried”, she would prove herself to be “stupid”….

But there, in the deep snows, surrounded by towering pines, Benedetto walked with the children and explored frozen streams and horse prints, and helped with a snegovik (snowman) or two. He talked with her, not to the exclusion of the others, but reaching out to her as to a lost person who had veered from the path and needed a friendly voice and strong hand to lift her to her feet. She eventually came out of it. Not soon enough for my tastes, but maybe I was on my own Higher Education course of sorts. I was suddenly thankful for our happy-go-lucky first son, Petya, who never had an “adoptive child issue” one minute of his life.

This past week was the same, Mashenka at last deciding to do a 180 and pull herself out of her funk, bringing me kisses a dozen times a day, just as her birthday was fast upon us. How convenient, I inwardly sighed. I was too weary to respond wholeheartedly, but thankfully, she didn’t yet know the difference between Good and Bad Acting. I stirred her cake batter methodically and monotonously, trying not to dwell on the undeserving injustice of making a big fuss for Miss Ugly Face turned Well-Behaved Fairy Princess, but instead, I pondered how this poor child had had to fare for herself and even take care of her younger siblings when she was much too young for any of the above.

I had heard of other adopted children mourning birth parents around the time of their birthday or anniversary of being adopted, but my kids were old enough to know the real score, and held no tremendous illusions there. No, there was a systematic self-esteem slump, the overwhelming sense of unworthiness every time something fun or lighthearted came her way. Beyond the unworthiness factor, there was the realization, also, that other children had enjoyed birthdays, or loving relatives, or special outings all their life. Rather than relax and revel in these new experiences, Mashenka delved deep within to conjure up anger. If she made us mad enough, maybe we would cancel the birthday and she would not need to face such thoughts. All we had planned was a special family meal at home, some of her favorites, a homemade cake, and a handful of presents, which still proved too much.

Well, she was going to have her muted and subdued first birthday if it killed us, and it was going to be pleasant.

All went well, and she was suitably impressed, jumping up and down and clapping her hands like a five-year-old over every simple gift. Her velvet party dress and Venetian necklace made her look the little lady. Benedetto’s gaze met mine across the long, black lacquered table, and we smiled, genuinely happy that she was happy. She was not a monster, but a young girl moving into the teen years, trying her hardest not to be adrift, yet not totally feeling comfortable in a safe harbor. We would help her and be her anchor through the storms, whether real, or of her own making.

That night, Sashenka-the-younger came to me after bedtime, tummy ache raging.

“Too much cake, maybe?” I hugged her, giving her an antacid and tucking her in bed, yet again. In the dim darkness, her little whispered voice began her mantra, speaking on and on about the horrors of her past, her favorite bedtime talk, as I rubbed her arm and smoothed her hair. For her, the terrible talk was as reassuring as rocking. She didn’t know how to talk about the weather, nor the events of the day, no matter how many times we had play-acted Polite Conversation for Polite Society.

Even she knew how to self-sabotage a nice day, following her in sister’s footsteps.

Pain for them always conjured up the Past, as did Pleasure. Either end of the spectrum spelled a safety of sorts for our adopted children—either the familiarity of what had always been, or the sudden and unexpected love lavished upon them made them feel free to chat and unload their heaviest burdens. It was the planned and scheduled and orchestrated love fests, whether birthdays, holidays, special excursions, or family reunions, that pushed them to the breaking point. I therefore tried to limit any information about upcoming events to notifyng them the day before, otherwise the pressure was too much. That way, we would simply suffer after the fact, and not before the event-! A birthday was kind of hard to hide, though, and we had to go through the funk of unworthy feelings ahead of time.

Here I was with Sashenka, whose constant talking about her terrors did not seem to prove very cathartic, at all. The older would act out her anger, and the younger would talk out her fears. We were on a constantly-looping tape that never ended. I tried to be understanding, and direct Sashenka’s thoughts beyond the same rehashing.

“And now you’re home,” I said soothingly, trying to wrap it up. “We don’t have to worry about that, anymore.” In my mind’s eye, I envisioned myself as the director, off-camera, making a “wrap” sign with my hand.

“Da, Mama,” and then she went right back to the loop, holding on for dear life, no time for a commercial break or a word from our sponsors.

The fact that someone else had been Princess for the Day was probably hard to bear. She needed me all to herself for now, in these fleeting moments near the midnight hour where all might disappear as in a cruel dream that was never really real.

The girls’ figurative cries for help were more plaintive and pitiful than my own comfort zone, but I reminded myself that they simply wanted what we all wanted: to know that we measured up in some small way, and that others cared enough to help us cross to the other side of wherever we might be tossed in the winds and waves of life.

I had a no-nonsense type of mother who came from rugged Russian immigrant stock and worked at a university where many youth of the 70s had the luxury of “identity crises”.

“You ever want to know ‘who you are’?” she would tell me, “I’ll show you your birth certificate.”

Case closed, simple as that.

Yet, for my older children adopted from Russia, identity has many facets. The adjusted birth certificates are as plain as the long Russian nose on my face: I was in Krasny Krai twice in 1996, and in Sweaty Starii Krai in 1998 and 2000 pushing out four babies. Their birth certificates tell very little of their actual stories, their real life history that most kids are eventually hungry to hear.

There are many labels we could slap on them to make sense of a chaotic past. Like mounting butterflies, stick them through the middle and pin them to the board for all to see. Apply label, big and bold.

No, thanks. I would rather they spread their wings, show their innate grace and beauty while flying…or at least flapping for all they’re worth.

Every day, I engage in the delicate art of brainwash, a cathartic cleansing, a despicable destiny detoured by design. They were once convinced that they were unwanted, stupid, cast off, forsaken. They felt undeserving of kindness, love, and unconditional acceptance. Mix that up with a false sense of bravado, and daily drama ensues.

I match their post-traumatic hyper-vigiliance tit for tat with heightened vigilance of my own. When they huff and bluff, resorting to put-downs, comedic clowning, or the sure-fire, zombie-like shut-down, I try to curb my own anger or disappointment. Instead, I swoop in to reassure, regroup, and redirect.

“You are somebody. You’re smart. Look at you,” I encourage. “There’s a great future ahead of you. Use every minute. Years were wasted in the orphanage, but that was preparing you to be able to run today. Don’t sit still or fall back. Don’t waste time by getting upset or feeling less-than. Get going. Be your best. You don’t want to act like this. Come on, what should we do? Do you need to apologize? Do you need help with your schoolwork?”

Naturally, it helps to tag-team with Benedetto. If they have been disrespectful or uncooperative with him, I come to clean-up and deal with the situation, and vice-versa. We feel fresh, rather than furious. It allows us to clear the air.

Slowly, slowly, like waves lapping away at an immoveable shoreline, change happens. The children are reshaped and renewed. Their self-images and impressions of the world around them are transformed.

Mashenka seeks me out after a rough day.

“Mama, no one has ever treated me like you and Papa,” she hangs her head, remorseful. “Sometimes I don’t know how to act.”

“I know, Sweetie, I know.” I draw her close to me and hold her tight. The stress seeps away as she sheds her cocoon, her mask, and becomes authentic and adequate in her own right.

No one will be able to pin down these butterflies experiencing their own mighty metamorphosis. Semantics serve little purpose. Call it a Monarch, call it a Viceroy, give them every alphabet-soup diagnosis. The point is, they’re flying and free for the very first time. The struggle that brought them out of their confining cocoons gives strength to their wings to take them higher than once imagined.

Do you think your Russian kids speak real Russian? Unless they’re teenagers, think again. Our kids were adopted over the years from the ages of 7.5 to 11.75. Except for the oldest, all speak a substandard form of Russian.

Only a fluent, native-born Russian would detect this. Not that I’m in that category, butchering and making up words at will. But I have enough friends and family willing to tell me-! Which is why I, in some ways “least likely to succeed”, will be teaching them Russian.

Don’t get me wrong. We have a bonafide tutor for the oldest boys. She makes them speak, and read, and answer questions about famous Russian plays by Marshak. My concern centers around the basic, everyday, shoot-the-breeze-with-your-friends-in-the-ploschad type of Russian. I am focusing on conversational Russian, polite Russian, and written Russian.

I have my work cut out for me.

“Where is your rucksack?” I ask one day.

“Toot’ah,” replies one.

“What?”

“Tahm’ah,” she thinks she’s answered incorrectly.

“‘Toot’ah’? ‘Tahm’ah?’ No such thing in Russian. It’s either ‘toot’ or ‘tahm’.”

I make my plans to gather the troops and run them through the paces. It’s one thing to have Russian natives comment about the cute American kids who speak such good Russian, it’s another thing to have the cute Russian kids speak awful Russian. We convene at the long, lacquered, kitchen farmhouse table, hanging halogen lights doubling as interrogation spotlights.

“Dokumenti!” I bark out, play-acting a Customs Official at an unnamed Russian airport.

“Mama, you need to say ‘please’”, protests my youngest in Russian, so sweet.

“When I hear it at the airport, I’ll say it,” I play-snarl back.

My eyes narrow as I peer at my older daughter. I find a ruler to smack on my hand’s open palm, pacing back and forth, soldier-style.

“Kak vas zavoot?”

“Uhh… Mashenka?” she starts tentatively, exactly the goldfish in the shark pool that Customs Officials are trained to spot.

“Famil’yah –- eem’yah –- oh’chestvah,” I remind. Last name, first name, patronymic. For this exercise, we have ditched our multi-syllabic Italian last name for “Smirnov”.

“Uh… Smirnov….”

“Ehhhhh!” goes my pretend, game-show buzzer. “Wrong! How do we make a female last name? What do you need to add to Smirnov?”

“Smirnovna…?” she attempts, confused.

These are my Russian children. They have no clue. They have never lived in the real world where they would have the need to address anyone by their last name.

“Ehhhhh!” goes the make-believe buzzer again. “-Ovna is the ending for the patronymic.”

“Ooh-ooh-ooh!” Petya our oldest son raises his hand excitedly.

“Dah, gaspahdyin’?” I give him my wary gaze.

“Smirnov’a!”

“Prah’velnah, ten points for you,” I congratulate.

“Eem’yah,” I turn back to the girls. “I don’t have time for this. Speshee!” The more pressure I put on them, the more giggly and happy to learn they are. They think it’s a game.

“Mashenka!” says one.

“Sashenka!” exclaims the next.

“What, you think I want to be your friend? Is that what your passport reads? You need your legal name!” I protest, still in the Customs Agent role.

This is a good way to get rid of parental frustration and angst, I’m finding. I would recommend commandant role-playing to any parent needing to keep the troops in line.

At several points, I send one or more to “prison” for not giving me their place and date of birth in a rapid-fire manner. The power that I wield….

And thus we start our hour-long lesson, quizzing backwards, forwards.

“Ivan, the son of Ivan,” I toss out to the boys, like a dry piece of bread to a couple of hungry goosie waddling down a muddy village lane.

“Ivan’ Ivan’ich!” shouts Pasha, who still retains the most correct Russian out of the four of them, though he’s been home now a full year and a half.

“Ahtlitch’nah!” Excellent, I applaud him.

“But why not ‘Ivan’ Ivan’ovich?’” questions Petya.

“Good question, you’re both right. One is how you pronounce it, one is how you write it.”

Our writing exercises could be termed an exercise in futility. The kids insist they are brain surgeons and above something so elementary as handwriting or vocabulary practice. But we all know about doctors’ handwriting-! Bring it on.

“Horoshoh’, exa’men!” I announce.

“Nyetttt!!!” they shrink back in horror.

“Dahhhh!!!” my gold teeth gleam in the sunlight.

“Nomer ahdyin: ‘Zdrast’vweetyeh! Davai’tyeh pahznakomeemsyah!’ Nomer dvah….”

“Mama, slow down!”

Afterward, as I check over their eight or so test phrases, some of the kids don’t captalize anything; one writes entire sentences as a whole, bolshoi, run-on mega-word, totally connected at every hook and loop; another substitutes the occasional English letter for the Russian sound. It’s enough to make the most hardened of teacher/tutors give up, but, glutton for punishment that I am, I trudge forward.

We try to finish on a high note for the day, a free word-association exercise involving Russian formal names and nicknames.

“Yevgeny….” “Zhenya!”

“Nikolai….” “Kolya!”

“Maria….” “Masha!”

“Yekaterina….” “Katya!”

“Aleksandr….” “Sasha!”

“Boris….” “Borya!”

“Anna….” “Anya!”

“Dmitri….” “Dima!”

“Anything else? Just Dima? How about ‘Mitya’?”

They shrug, unimpressed. “Dima” does it just fine for them.

I wrap up the lesson, summarizing the high points.

“On a female last name, what letter do we add?” I coach.

“-Ovna!” one shouts.

“No!” I put my head in my hands. “One letter—ahdnah’ book’vah!”

“Aaaa!” shouts another.

“There is no long ‘aaaa’ in Russian…” I moan.

“Ah! Book’vah ‘ah’,” they all scream, our grand prize winners for the day. At last.

Next class, maybe I’ll try to focus on the Russian vocabulary needed to decipher Rohrshach ink blots, or how to conduct a business presentation, argue a legal case in court, or defend a Ph.D. dissertation. Anything’s got to be easier than saying hello and figuring out their name in Russian….

If your family is anything like ours (and it’s probably not… and you are probably thankful for that…), there is a constant tug-of-war taking place for your time. Especially at the holidays, we have the choice to nurture home life or hoopla.

Nothing wrong with hoopla—whether parties, special events, outings to the theater or shows—maybe I get tired of this because my everyday life consists of a lot of hoopla. While it may be argued that you can be out and about “as a family”, I would argue that for most children, the event overshadows any warm and fuzzy family feeling. At the holidays, I look forward to hanging out with family—watching a DVD at home, baking or cooking together, going for a walk, and yes, even doing crafts.

I am generally not a crafty person. Martha Stewart will not be calling me for a guest appearance any time soon, that’s for sure. But Benedetto has decided that this activity is good for the soul, so our eager beavers have been painting, lacing, gluing, and stringing during the occasional odd minute here and there.

“Product testing,” he says, while they are arm-deep in sequins, “for a major corporation,” he winks while I cheer the troops… and keep walking.

“You mean to say we could be being paid for this?” I toss over my shoulder.

I have found glue in a guest bath sink, which the boys insist is not glue, but hair gel. Entirely possible. There are natural repercussions to all of the fun and games. As long as the dogs don’t choke on any small pieces. I see black paint on gold drapes.

“Um, can someone clean up the black paint on the drapes, please?” I suggest.

“It’s prupp-el, Mama, not black,” says Mashenka, giving herself away as the offender.

“The color is not so much important, as that it be cleaned up….”

Two weeks and counting, it’s still there.

Since bedtime in our house could be likened to rush hour on a commuter train platform, and Benedetto does his own rituals that, in my opinion, take far longer than necessary given the late hour and the scientifically-engineered stalling techniques, I have come up with different ways to spend time together throughout the day without losing my mind in the process. It might be an encouraging word for no specific reason, holding someone’s hand on the plane, combing hair to give it just the right flip, memorizing vocabulary or spelling words and making it into a game. Now we’ve started a new family activity that takes all of ten minutes or so.

At the close of one meal each day, I read a book in Russian to the children. You could do this in English, as well, but not all of our children are fluent enough for that, and they do lots of reading in English during school. As I read, I’ve noticed that just a few pages is all it takes to get them wrapped up in the story line, until we leave them with a cliffhanger for next time. Should I absentmindedly (okay, intentionally) forget on some days that are crammed full of activity, the book is brought and handed to me.

“Pazhal’istah, Mama….”

See, kids want you. I know that they, or you, can convince yourself that they really, really, really need the latest gadget, widget, or doo-dad that is advertised ad infinitum on the squawk box. Living in an upscale environment where kindergartners have i-Pods to entertain them while being driven a few blocks to school by the family chauffeur, second graders can read the stock pages to see how their trust fund is being managed, and fourth grade girls wear full makeup and nail polish to match their i-Phones, I get the feeling that we’re paying off our kids for our own inattention. And that’s a high price to pay.

Never mind that we can afford all of the junk that is requisite and de rigeur these days: pricey dolls, designer clothes, expensive electronics, and nurturing nannies. The kids want us. (Alright, maybe they would prefer the stuff.) Let’s put it this way: the kids need us.

Studies have been done on the rates of promiscuity, and drug use, and gang involvement among regular, middle class kids. The rates do not go down when you add wealth to the mix. But the rates plummet when you have an involved parent or two who make time for the children, whether it’s before school, on the weekend, or at night. A few minutes scattered throughout the day add up.

This holiday season, let’s put “time together” at the top of the list.

It was a normal day at Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport. Up before the crack of dawn, through ticketing, security, and customs, we presented ourselves at Passport Control.

“Dokumenti,” demanded the bored, matronly guard.

We were adopting our first son’s friend. It took us four years of official red tape, adoption agency scams, governmental denials, and regional shutdowns. In a matter of an hour or two, he would at last be exiting off of Russian soil.

Not so fast.

“Adoption decree and court papers,” the border guard insisted, eyeing our family of four, noting that only the two kids had Russian Passports.

This was a new one. Why not just the passport? I slid the packet under the plate glass window, upon which she settled down to a long morning’s read.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty minutes passed. She, no doubt, enjoyed the more sordid parts of such a horrific history, chronicled for the sake of court testimony, not the prurient interests of a bored border guard.

“Eezvehnite, pazhalista—“ I interrupted her concentration. “Yest problema?” Is there a problem?

“Nyet,” she went back to her reading.

I felt my blood boiling as the preteen boys shifted from foot to foot. Her coworker in the next booth asked her why the slow-mo treatment of the tourists. She shrugged her off, as well.

At forty minutes standing before the little glass booth, I’d had enough.

“Excuse me, please, but why are you reading his court papers?”

She looks up, obviously irritated at my interruption. The sleeping bear awakened.

“Ohn russki grahzdanen,” (He is a Russian citizen) she testily explained. “I must make sure that his documents are in order.”

So I figure if we’re ever going to get out of this holding pattern and make it to the Golden Land of Duty Free, I needed to insert my two rubles.

“Da, and here is his Russian Passport… and it’s in order.”

She goes back to reading.

I go back to talking.

“I mean, let’s think this thing through… Doomahyete,” I encourage, feeling as though I’m instructing Dorothy in her ruby slippers to concentrate. “What’s the likelihood of us finding a child on the street with the same last name, having all of the paperwork to obtain a passport, and making him agree to come to America with us???”

“We have to be sure,” she sneers, not amused, not impressed, not in a hurry.

About an hour later, she comes up for air and asks for our first son’s court papers.

“Nyetoo,” (He has none) I affirm. “He’s been our son for over five years. You already have his Russian Passport and here is his other one.” I considered calling for a supervisor, but that struck me as less than a positive Russian chess move. Might cause us more problems to make too much of a stink. If she had missed the “Service With a Smile” seminar, there was not much I could do about it now.

She glances at the dual passports, while meanwhile, I can picture Petya passing out in a cold sweat as he understands every word spoken. Perhaps one day he would come back to study in Russia, but for the present, he wanted to go home. Pasha had never been home, but even he knew that it was better than this. At last, the stern woman, who was probably younger than me, but appearing and acting much older, slowly slides the stack back to us.

“Horoshoh,” (Alright) she waves us through, an indelibly harsh reminder to our sons that you don’t mess with Mother Russia. Escaping her clutches, we make a mad dash for the plane.

Which reminds me of the time I was heading to Israel, a regular shuttle I traveled for some years. A sting operation was underway for diamond dealers.

I boarded the transatlantic flight in New York, and there on the jetway, leading to the plane, were Federal Agents stopping most every Hassidic man, right next to the stacks of Yediot Aharonot and Ma’ariv newspapers. I put mine back in the pile and reached for the Herald Tribune, instead.

“Do you have any diamonds or large sums of money to declare?” the agents inquired.

The men tried to brush by, mumbling something in Yiddish.

“Yiddish?” the agents pursued them. “No problem. Read this,” they said, presenting a printed card with all of the laws stated in their own language.

I strolled past, pockets bulging with rare stones and stacks of foreign currency.

Alright, maybe in my dreams….

But I should have known the bubble security cameras were in full operation. It wasn’t until exiting the country that they nabbed me.

Once again at Passport Control, this time in Tel Aviv, a guard examined my passport front to back, or I should say, back to front, Hebrew style. Flipping it closed, the young twentysomething female soldier met me eye to eye.

“Go to the police, please,” she said, as though this were an everyday exchange.

“Ha’mishtarah?!” (The police?!) “Why? Where? What?” I wanted to know.

“The police. In the corner room.”

And thus I made my way to the Border Police, like one of the old fashioned “Alt!” border gates had just lowered in front of me. Could family dogs visit incarcerated persons? was uppermost in my thoughts.

“Shalom,” I introduced myself to the chainsmoking blond in charge.

“Darkon, b’vahkahshah,” (Passport, please) she smiled.

Hmmm… everyone so interested in the small document stating very little and with a less than ideal photo prominently featured.

“You come and go a lot,” she noted in Hebrew.

“Ken….” (Yes….)

“And do you have an Israeli Passport?”

“No….”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes….”

She checked back in her computer and tried a different tack.

“Think back, maybe a long time ago….. Did you ever declare citizenship here?”

“No….”

“Maybe you forgot…” she tried to help, at which I burst out laughing.

“I think I’d remember something like that…. Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem.”

Gee, I’d heard that before. Maybe this was some joke being played on me by my Israeli lawyer. With my demographic, I couldn’t imagine that they’d want to draft me for the Israeli Army. I mean, they didn’t even offer high-heeled infantry boots, plus, entering the paratroopers would result in too much windblown hair during the jumps. The navy might make me seasick. They would have to make me… a border guard!

No, their interest could not be the draft. The only thing I could think of was tax evasion of some sort. I wondered if they served felafel balls in prison. I could survive.

At last, the policewoman decided to take my sweet face at face value and believe my story that I didn’t play fast and loose with my citizenship, spreading it here, there, and everywhere at will.

“Okay, look, I’ll let you go, and I’ll mark that all is okay,” she reassured me.

I assumed she was entering our Important and Enlightening Conversation into her computer. Again, I was missing out on sampling the fine eau de parfums of Duty Free.

She returned my passport, wishing me a nice trip and I hightailed it to the bank to exchange my remaining shekels.

Taking the currency and my passport, the clerk gave a small gasp and turned to look me up and down.

“What happened?” he inquired. “I’ve never seen such a thing!”

“Mah zeh?” (What is it?) I asked.

“FREE TO DEPART BY ORDER OF THE MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR,” he read the stamp and handwritten permission penned in Hebrew all around its edges. “Did you do something?” he laughed.

“Not that I know of!”

I took the money and ran for the plane, a recurring theme in my life. The only comfort I received in these inconvenient airport interrogations was that, while being detained, at least I was staying out of any more trouble. I didn’t need additional International Incidents. With all of our international travel, there were bound to be bumps. Yet with a fast-paced lifstyle, the small bumps could develop into major speed bumps, resulting in one big careening crash of a learning curve.

No time for that. We had places to go, things to do, people to see. Best to fly below the radar and leave the big bags of diamonds at home for now.

Sashenka promised me with all the seriousness that an eight-year-old with no life experience outside of a small Russian village can muster, that she would indeed become carsick, airsick, and simply everyday sick at her earliest opportunity. During the hour-long drive from her orphanage to the regional capital, she complained non-stop about the length of the “otchen dolgah” ride, but no sickness surfaced, so I was pleasantly surprised.

Our first night together, she came to sleep with me in the middle of the night with some unspecified complaint, after which she promptly threw up. The cardinal rule that adoptive parents are not to sleep for the first six months had slipped my mind.

I thought the flight to Moscow would be fine. It wasn’t. She took her seat belt off at least twenty times, stood up, sat down, went into moany-groany-whiney mode, saying she needed water, air, food, and a trust fund for life.

It was not until we were banking and descending for Moscow, that she threw up. Over and over again. We filled several airsickness bags, a rather notable accomplishment for such a tiny girl. Each time she would assure me, “Vsyoh, Mama” (that’s all), and then start again, clamping her hand over her mouth as we made the mad scramble for more bags. I finally pulled out a plastic bag from my purse, carried for any emergency emanting from child or dog.

I had to do something. I looked longingly at business travelers, well-groomed, sane in mind, and not smelling of puke. I was none of the above any longer. I prayed, I researched, and I headed to the apteka.

I explained our situation to the pharmacist on duty who suggested a type of motion-sickness pill for children ages 5+. We were to give two tablets at a time, not to exceed six in a 24-hour period.

Our final summer day in Moscow dawned early, the city shrouded in rain showers and chilly. I picked out track suits for the girls, sure to be comfy for a long flight with tennis shoes, t-shirts, and rain coats. Vlad arrived early, but we were fairly ready and packed. Before breakfast, I had given tablets to both of the girls. All we needed to do was zip the suitcases, and head on out.

In the car, I told Vlad stories of other crazy adoptive parents and some of the strange-but-true adventures they reported. The time passed quickly and soon we were seeing signs for Domodedovo Airport. That’s when it all hit. Literally.

Projectiles from the back seat hurled forward at me. Vlad turned around and said to me, “Maybe we pull over.” There, on the side of the road, I opened the back door and found a pink track suit covered in pink yogurt vomit. It ran down her face, into her hair, down her black spring coat, and all over said track suit, also covering half of the car’s interior.

Vlad said it was not the first time for new kids. He had a big jug of water in the back of his trunk, and some rags. He cleaned the car, while I cleaned Sashenka, fighting off the urge to upchuck myself. I barely made a dent in the job before me. The stench, the soaking clothes, the possibility that the papparazzi would be recording our utterly abject appearance led us to desperate measures for desperate times.

There, on the side of the whizzing highway leading to the airport, standing in the cool mist that was making my hair into a blond Afro in three minutes flat, I opened their suitcase and fished out another outfit, a black tunic and jogging pants, sealing the soiled coat and clothes in another plastic bag. I washed the vomit out of her hair, and off of her face, and we had her delicately step out of her aromatic, stinking-to-high heaven apparel.

That’s how we came to airport check-in, security, and Passport Control not looking nor smelling our best. But in Russia, I must admit, we were among good company, where deodorant was an unknown novelty in many sectors. Sashenka and I headed to the bathroom where I washed out her strands of matted hair with liquid soap and water. Our hands, and her face, all had some residual reeking that we tried to exorcise once and for all. It didn’t hurt to dash into Duty Free, a crazed woman needing her free shot of perfume. I should have checked into a full makeover, if not an undereye lift for myself, but having heard that medicinal leeches were all the rage in Russia, I decided to delay any non-essential procedures.

We killed an hour and a half in the terminal, setting up our base of operations at a gate, lest the girls discover too many goodies in the shops. I buy them a magazine that they argue over and I slip little princess another couple of motion sickness tablets. Gone were my days of leisurely lounging, strolling, and shopping through international airport terminals.

At last we walk down the sleeve to the plane. We are the last to board since, for some reason, we have not been assigned seats, and this naturally increases the kids’ anxiety. My own anxiety levels have long since bypassed the Danger-High range, leading me to pre-emptively pick up every puke bag down the path to Seats 597 X, Y, and Z. The girls are excited beyond belief.

“America! America!” they skip and sing down the aisle. “Soon we will see Papa, and the boys, and the dogs!”

The three of us take our seats across the middle. I try to share some safety tips with them, reviewing with the girls about buckling their seatbelts, and the nearest emergency exit.

“See the sign lighted in red? Where would we run in case the plane goes down, in case of an emergency?” I coach.

“The tooalyet!” Sashenka declares.

Out of the mouth of babes.

We enter American airspace and all is well until our snack of a sandwich and chips arrives. Washed down with liberal amounts of juice, our little one announces that she will now upchuck it all. We rush for a bag, but for some reason she decides not to aim. As we make our final descent, vomit streams down the side of the bag and the front of her new clothes.

I have no other outfits, no more patience, and long ago ran out of wet wipes. Our journey is over. Never has home and a hot shower sounded so good.

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.

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 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.