Many have commented that our adoption of four older Russian children is a slam-dunk success story. This comes from professionals—agency people, neuropsych, social worker, as well as family and friends who declare that ours is “the most ideal” of a family in anyone’s definition. Not every day would I agree, particularly last Saturday when Sashenka got out of bed to greet her father, her long hair unkempt and still flipped over from the back, obscuring her face and turning her into our very own Cousin It. There are odd occurrences in every family, naturally, but we seem to have escaped many of the serious bullets hitting other adoptive families.

This past week, one of our facilitators from Russia was visiting the adoption agency and they called us.

“Dima cannot believe your family,” they exclaimed, “that these are the same kids-! We showed him some of your latest post-placement photos and he is amazed. They look so happy and well-adjusted. The social worker’s reports of their accomplishments have astounded him.”

To God be the glory. We are no parenting experts, but we have learned to “read” certain cues as to who needs what at any given point in time.

But that begs the legitimate question: Is there a formula for success, or a mindset, or a parenting style that does better for children who have gotten a rough start in life?

Undoubtedly. There are entire books written on the subject. (Read any books by Heather Forbes, Dr. Ron Federici, or Deborah Gray.) What many adoptive parents wish to ignore is that we must first change, if we expect our children to change.  Adoption is so much more than gathering paperwork and hoping for the best.  This is where purposeful parenting comes into play.

There is currently an excellent series on PBS, the first of which will stream for several weeks online. A Long Island Jewish family adopts their second Chinese daughter, after two bio boys, and the documentary follows the eight-year-old girl in China and then during her first 18 months home. Over and over we see the adoptive mom instructing her new daughter, “Tell me what’s wrong! If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, how can I help you?” All this to a child who does not understand nor speak English. It had our kids shaking their heads. Why had the family who went twice to China never learned a word of Chinese to help with the transition phase? http://www.pbs.org/pov/woainimommy/full.php

However, the Sadowsky family’s commitment and love are obvious and overwhelming, despite the many fine points that make one wince—the child being encouraged to forget her birth language resulting in the inability to communicate any longer with her foster family left behind; the sense that she must choose between connection to her current sister versus her former foster sister; and if it’s possible to embrace being American while still cherishing and loving one’s birth culture.

The parents struggle with such questions and issues, and many of their concerns seem par for the course. Is the native culture important to a child starting a new life in a new land? By telling an older child that she is now part of our family, are we negating or choosing to ignore her past? This is an excellent film for families adopting from any foreign country to watch and provide food for thought and action even prior to the adoption.

Here are a few tips to help your older child adoption be that much smoother whether before, during, or after the event:

1. Pray and plan a lot. We all need wisdom from above and we all need a gameplan. Like an engaged couple, you can choose to focus all of your efforts on the wedding itself (the adoption), or the actual work of the marriage and “happily ever after” (adjustments to be made once home).

2. Adopt only when husband and wife are in agreement. Hard times will come, and you don’t need, “I told you so.” It’s okay if that consent ebbs and flows at times. (But not all the time.)

3. Learn a little Russian, Chinese, Amharic, Spanish, Hindi, Creole—whatever language the child currently speaks. You must. It matters not if you’re not the best at languages. This is a non-negotiable. Don’t put all of the burden on the child. Studies have been done even with babies that they recognize the sound and cadence of their birth language, even when they are still non-verbal, themselves. It’s very soothing. Alexandra says: you must learn some of the language now.

Ten words or phrases will suffice up to the age of two. Twenty words or phrases up to the age of four. Over the age of four, aim for thirty or forty words or phrases, along with specifics that are germaine to your lifestyle that you learn from a tutor, whether online by Skype, or with a teacher of Russian at the local college. Google “Adoptive Parent Russian Phrases” (or any language) for a good CD with the basics. You will not need phrases that university students learn, “Do you live in the dormitory?” nor those designed for businesspersons, “I will need a Letter of Intent by the 15^th.”

4. When taking custody of the child, learn what foods would be most “emotionally nourishing” to serve. For instance, in our Russian region, we had big breakfasts at the hotel with their normal buffet of salads, fish, sausages, yogurt, bread, eggs, etc. Then we would go to the grocery store to buy fruit and hand-held meat pies for later. Some were stuffed with chicken, others with mushrooms or cabbage. The kids loved these.

When I got to Moscow, I cooked in the apartment. It helped that before we took custody of the kids, we scoped out the local supermarket and made lists of potential meals and ingredients that were easy to buy. As I told someone else recently: Who knew that butter was not located near the milk and eggs?

To give some order to our days, we went “out” every day for “lapsha” (chicken noodle soup). The taste and texture would make any child (or overtired mama!) happy. It was affordable, and enough for a snack.

Despite what 90% of adoptive families do, now is not the time to be introducing your child to pizza and hamburgers as an every day diet-! Take it slowly, and make it a smooth transition.

5. Avoid the lottery-winner lifestyle. We all know that most lottery winners lose their fortunes within a short period of time. Similarly, the overnight rags-to-riches reality may make your kids want more-more-more. Stifle the urge to over-indulge them: limo upon arrival, Disney World the next week, ballet and horseback riding and gymnastics lessons the first month home, etc. Less is more.

Everything is new and stimulation should be kept low.  Focus on relationships, rather than activities or accomplishments.  Keeping the child close and learning about family life should be your first priority, even before schooling concerns.

6. Be willing to talk and discuss issues and feelings a minimum of 30-60 minutes a day with your new child. It sounds like a lot, and it is. Your kids will have an entire “past” pent-up in their heads. Help them to release it when they are willing to talk. For now, you must create the atmosphere.

Have a Russian (or other language) speaker on hand to come to your house at least one hour every week, probably more like one hour, three times a week in the beginning. Explain to the child your expectations, ground rules, beliefs, and let them ask questions and share concerns. The foreign language speaker is there to interpret what you and the child say, not to direct any of the conversations, nor to have the child sit on her lap. Let your son or daughter sit with you, either in a rocking chair if young, or next to you if older. Ask open-ended questions, rather than yes-no ones, and offer up some of your own feelings or observations if the child feels uneasy talking. For instance:

“Sometimes, adopted children feel that if they love their new family, it means that they hate their birth family. But most people have enough love for lots of people and it’s okay with me if you love family members still back in Russia…. Are your memories of your birth family, or of the orphanage, usually happy or sad…?”

7. Educate with real-life examples. Let them meet other immigrants from their same country (or another), or challenged persons, who successfully made their way in life. Press the point that, if it’s been done before, it can be done again. The language and academic issues may be overwhelming for them in the beginning. Give them some role models.

8. Be a cheerleader. Many of these kids have very poor self-images from years of beatings or beratings, or pure loneliness. Tell them every day what you “see” in them, their potential, their beauty, their uniqueness, and how glad you are that they are home. Some days, this will not be easy. (If you “lose it” and yell one day, don’t beat yourself up, either. Sometimes it may be good for the children to se that we’re human and have limits, too.)

I call this positive brainwashing. You are recreating their persona, their personality, by the words of your mouth.

(Benedetto tries it on me, too, sometimes: “You will now wait on me, hand and foot….” Never works. My brain was washed long ago, drip-dried, and pressed into shape. Nice try, though.)

9. Have clear expectations and structure to your life together. Tell your son or daughter what you will be doing today, and give a heads-up that “In ten minutes, we will go to the store. Let’s go to the bathroom and brush our teeth, and comb our hair now.” Don’t just spring things on them.

Our first son had to hear, every day, what we would be eating for breakfast, lunch, and dinner from the moment he first woke up. He was unsure that he could expect food each day in his new home. We also kept a bowl of fruit available for him to physically see, and eat, if necessary.

Plan to have time-ins, rather than time-outs, with an adopted child who is misbehaving. They usually cannot stand the isolation and sense of rejection from being sent to their room.

In times of conflict or crisis, breathe! Take deep breaths and if it is extreme, remove yourself from the situation, if need be. Don’t let it escalate. Then bring the young person near you to become regulated once again and reassured that, whatever they are going through, you will be there for them. Traditional disciplinary methods usually don’t work—the adopted child has already been without privileges, and usually been beaten on a regular basis. Love and understanding and talking it through will actually take you further (counterintuitive, I know).

10. Let your own needs go for awhile. It’s not forever, and it’s not about you.  Forget all of the little activities that you might think are absolute necessities to any child’s normal development, but will likely push them over the edge right now.  Take it easy, take it slowly.  In six months to a year, things will even out and become as normal as can be expected. It will be a “new normal”, but very nice, all the same.

Our first son’s referral photo was so cute. He stood tall and straight like a little soldier. Just before we traveled to meet him, more photos came to us. These were disturbing.

The bright smile was still there, but now his back appeared misshapen, and his head spread wide and flat. Could it be the same child? Were these the foibles of Photoshop? Petya was also dressed in an odd New Year’s costume, making him look buffoonish. The photos would not have been out of place if they had hailed from an insane asylum….

“I don’t know—“ I started to waffle. This, from the one who had BEEN SO SURE in the beginning.

Many are the parents suffering nightmares, wondering what their referred child will look like. I recall hearing from one adoptive mom as she waited for her Chinese referral. She thrashed in bed, awaking with a start, drenched and delusional: she and her husband had been referred a 30-year-old Chinese man-! In the nightmare, he quietly got into the taxi and they took him home. They had no other choice.

Russian adoption referral photos might be helpful or harmful. Numeous children have been overlooked or bypassed because the person snapping their photo was less than an Annie Liebowitz. Frequently, even with the best photographer, it was hard to touch-up a chop-job haircut, helter-skelter clothes, and green or purple medicinal blotches on the face. Why they didn’t tell the kids to smile I found out one day at the dyetsky dom.

“Smile!” I encouraged some kids gathered with their teachers, as I took their picture for posterity.

“We don’t smile,” said Galina Andre’evna. “We are Russians. Russians have bad teeth.”

I found out just how bad when my kids came home and our millions were used on their dental decay issues….

“Horoshoh’…” I changed tactics, “Ras, dvah, tree: don’t smile!”

In our daughters’ case, I never saw their official referral photos, which is just as well. Imagine concentration camp inmate meets furious federal prisoner. The shaved heads and foul looks on their faces said it all. They had just been forcibly taken into custody, disoriented and angry, suffering from lice and other maladies. They would have to go to school for the first time in their lives and they were not at all pleased. No one would want these two preteen terrors.

Yet, instead of presenting such a disturbing scenario, the adoption agency showed me an unofficial photo that one of their reps had snapped of semi-smiling girls in bright clothing about a year later when they both had hair again. The older girl actually sported bleached blond locks which I didn’t know for some time to come.

In the case of older children, packaging was everything. This agency worked hard to seal the deal. We were not even looking for girls, but their constant e-mails pushed us in the right direction.

Younger kids were different. A baby is a baby and in high demand. Hard to tell what they would look like when they got older. Agencies often used that to their advantage, some refusing to give out any information whatsoever.

See, agencies want you to travel to Russia. Agencies need you to travel, since this is a lucrative business for their drivers, interpreters and facilitators over there. If nobody travels, there’s no work for them. Agencies will try to make PAPs feel shallow and inferior if the prospective adoptive parents ask for a photo. They will say that you need to travel “blind”—no info, no photo, no idea if you’ve just delivered boy, girl, kitty cat, or chimpanzee.

Nonsense. Why travel halfway around the world to meet a child you would never accept into your family? Cross-eyed, cleft palate, and club foot can all be altered through surgery, but not everyone has the time, private funds, nor health insurance to undertake such interventions. Other unalterable conditions, such as Downs, or FAS, can be seen in certain children’s facial features. Doesn’t a parent deserve to know this before travel? I think so.

Look through the Russian orphan database at www.usynovite.com and observe how many of the kids do not look normal. At all. There are parents making more than one referral trip to Russia these days, because the first child visited had no chance of ever living a productive life. Forget Russia’s oil and diamond reserves, it’s adoptive parents that are keeping things economically afloat over there as four or five trips are no longer unheard-of to complete one adoption. Folks just pray for a healthy referral, even if it’s a baby that’s blue with yellow polka dots. Appearance means nothing to them.

And then there are those who would turn down a referred child based on looks alone.

I don’t know. But if you feel this way, you need to acknowlege those feelings, and wait for a child meeting your criteria. To “force” yourself to accept a little light-skinned child, or a deliciously-dark beauty WHEN THEY REPULSE YOU, is a recipe for disaster, sooner or later. To thine own self be true. You’re the one who’s going to be living with the child.

Why do you want to adopt children? To help a child with no prospects for his future, to have an attractive “accessory” in life, or to mold a mini-me? For some, it’s all about the child, for others, it’s all about the parents and what the child says about them.

Why would a family care so much about a child’s looks? Maybe the parents work in a very public setting and don’t want constant comments about their mismatched children. Maybe the family just wants to relax and not always be the spokespersons for international adoption. Maybe they want the child to feel more attached and not that he’s sticking out like a sore thumb.

There could be a difference between the wishes of those who have bio children of their own prior to adoption, and those who have been waiting a lifetime for children. As the years pass, subconsciously, the bar may be raised… or lowered….

Not to be uncharitable, but I’ve heard it postulated that maybe attractive parents desire attractive children. Maybe less attractive parents claim it doesn’t matter. Having seen a whole lot of photos over the years, I’m not 100% sure this theory works each time, every time. Or maybe nobody’s told you: you’re not as cute as you think you are!

I remember when we were much younger, being in India, or the Philippines, or Hong Kong, or Uganda. Many were the sweet orphan faces. It was not a far stretch to dream of bringing one or two home. Color and race meant nothing, but then I don’t live in a small town nor among rabid rednecks. Our friends are international and rainbow necks, you might say.

Another consideration might be those who may not appreciate their different-appearing children to be the constant source of comments and speculation. This I can understand. Some agencies actually ask for preferences in appearance. Our first agency, which we had to fire before we ever got to Petya, asked for us to list race, hair color, and eye color of a potential child.

So I did.

“Why did you fill out that section of the form?!” they screamed at me over the phone.

“Um, because it was there?”

No one had given us the secret decoder ring to figure out agency double-speak, nor told us that certain sections of the application had no purpose in being there. Ah, well.

Being blond over blue myself, our first son Petya looked nothing like me. This was brought to my attention at, of all places, a felafel stand in Jerusalem. I had just scooped some extra-hot zhoug into my pita—the green kind which is a step beyond the red hot sauce. Not a time to be trifling with me. I was already hot under the collar. A Joe-Cool guy sidled up to the two of us.

“Is he your son?” asked the leather jacket.

“Yes….”

“He doesn’t at all look like you,” he observed.

There are few times in life that I am speechless. The term “chutzpah” sprang to mind. Some other more ugly things were percolating under the surface, as well. Though not flesh of my flesh, I could not be any more connected to this child, this son, this dear one whose personality mirrored mine step for step, and who was now being maligned in front of my face.

“Imagine that: a DNA expert at the local felafel stand…” I murmured in Hebrew, thankful that Petya knew nothing of the language at that time. He was safe in his Russian cocoon as I shepherded him out into the street, pickles dropping in our wake. I felt like telling Joe Cool that he was one big kosher dill himself.

I can remember staring for hours at each of our children’s referral photos. With older children it was not so much that they had been chosen for us by the Ministry of Education, but we had chosen them. Long story. But I had as many trepidations as those who traveled blindly. Numerous were the nights that I talked with the photos, their grainy images mute to my multiplied questions: “Are you my child? Do you want to live with us? Will you like it here?” Years ago, when adoptive parents received brief video clips of their intended children, scores admitted to watching the two-minute footage so much that they wore out the tape.

All of us created cute bedrooms, and bought attractive clothes, all the while insisting that looks didn’t matter….

Funny thing is, if it’s important to you, kids can be improved. (I aim to improve myself every day, as well. Some days, it actually works.) A new haircut, decent clothes, better posture, and a happy smile will lead to a mini-makeover for anyone.

Children can also be presented to look like they “fit”. Petya has more of Benedetto’s coloring, brown over hazel, even if their facial characteristics are not all that matchy-matchy. But put them both in white polo – white polo, or blue shirt, red tie – blue shirt, red tie, and the comments come pouring in, “Well, if he isn’t a chip off the old block!” “No question about whose son he is!” “Like father, like son!”

So is it shallow, is it vain, is it ridiculous to want a child who resembles you? Maybe, maybe not. I believe that most parents care how their children appear. I at least like mine neat, with well-combed hair, brushed teeth, and clean clothes. Do the best with what you have. Is that a crime?

My second son and two girls tend to resemble me. Whenever I’m somewhere with my daughters, chattering away in Russian, we get a kick out of anyone trying to interfere, trying to figure us out, trying to put all of the pieces together. Simple minds, simple fixes….

“Where are you from?” comes the inevitable question.

“Raseeeyah!” they reply.

“Oh, your mother speaks English so well….”

Genius. It runs in the family, even if the looks don’t.

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.

There are those who shun adoption in favor of reproducing their own superior genetic pool. Usually they live in trailer parks and could be confused with one of Chevy Chase’s Griswold family hillbilly relatives, but details, details. The folly of relying on one’s own overchlorinated gene pool may be demonstrated up close and personal in the shock-and-awe-inspiring Family Holiday Get-Together. Talk about diving into the shallow end of the pool. Look at our families, for instance.

I take great pride in acknowledging that most of the eccentric and erratic family members come from Benedetto’s side. They were loud and boisterous, which in their case was synonymous with being Italian. Most are long gone, but their weird and wonderful memories live on.

My side of the family, on the other hand, was more refined and reserved (or so I would like to imagine), with a good dose of melodrama thrown in, very much befitting our Russian roots. My husband once saw the name of a famous Russian film, “Borsh and Tears” and said nothing could better describe the stoic suffering of the Slavic psyche.

Grandma was the grande dame of the household, living with my parents in her later years. It was not difficult to “read” her moods. If she was happy, she talked. If she was upset, she didn’t. If she was very irritated, she took refuge in her bedroom, and wouldn’t be seen for days. Hardly the antics found in the Osborne or Kardashian households, but strange enough, nonetheless.

When she felt up enough to mixing with her public, Benedetto loved sitting with Grandma and hearing her skaz’kee. He wondered why everyone else would disappear

“Maybe because they’re new stories for you,” I explained. “We’ve all heard them a thousand times….”

Her tales were exacerbated by the fact that she spoke very little English after having lived in the U.S. for untold decades. She had fled for her life during the Bolshevik Revolution. Somehow, after years of freedom in America and propagandistic letters from her sister in Russia, she had come to embrace a Soviet mindset. Odd, but true.

“Manures,” she held forth one day. “The Russians are doing manures,” she insisted, outlining why the Soviets might be massing on the border with Poland and trying to squelch the Pole’s Solidarity Movement in the process. She meant, of course, “maneuvers”, but this slip-up made the story even more fascinating for Benedetto.

“That’s right, Grandma,” he agreed, unable to wipe the smile off of his face, “it’s nothing but manures.”

At least in my family, we would chit-chat before a meal, then dine, relax a brief while, and go. Benedetto’s family gatherings lasted all day and all night. Hence, things tended to deteriorate rapidly. The term dysfunctional had not yet been coined to describe abnormal family interactions, but if ever there were a picture-perfect example….

His family started with the soup first, then a pasta course, then the main dish. Somewhere after the soup, Uncle Chahlie would launch into a political diatribe against the Russians, who were the great Root of All Evil. Fine holiday conversation. Not to mention that his nephew would soon go on to marry one.

Uncle Chahlie (never Charlie) was actually Carmelo, stricken with polio at a young age and bitter in life. He had a kind heart in there somewhere, which peeked out upon the rare occasion. Uncle Chahlie spent most of his time in the family villa, sitting in undershirt and fedora, shouting with gusto at the bogus wrestling matches on TV. At night, he would put a big bowl of spaghetti outside his kitchen door for the stray cats. He was a crusty old guy, but capable of some care and concern. Just not at holiday get-togethers.

The family dinners went downhill every time, the proverbial train wreck waiting to happen. Benedetto’s father and his uncle inevitably shouted at Chahlie from across the table, his younger cousin moaning and making whale noises for some reason, his sisters and mother shuttling to the kitchen at every opportunity. After stuffing themselves for an hour or two, it all came to a cacophonous crescendo, before the men passed out in a satiated stupor in the nearest easy chair.

Chahlie’s sister, Aunt Lena, was an integral part of the holiday verbal olympics. Standing much less than five feet tall and on the husky side, she perpetually popped diet pills, later learned to be “speed” and outlawed.

But in the day, you knew when Aunt Lena arrived in her Studebaker, that she would be revved-up and ready with a non-stop, fast-forward chatter approximating Alvin and the Chipmunks. It was directed at no one in particular and everyone in general. The fact that she wore 3-inch heels on a 4-foot-something frame, just added to the majorly manic atmosphere.

Yet, somehow, at the end of the day, there were hugs and kisses to go around for all, and the sense that all were “famiglia”, no matter how many undiagnosed problems might have been lurking beneath the surface-!

There you had it, holiday hysteria with the relatives. Uncle Fester and Cousin It. And they wonder why we adopted.

According to TV commercials, there’s a new TV program called, “Hoarders”. I’m nervous that they might be contacting me in the near future. You see, this questionable activity is taking place in my home. Often thought to affict those living in abject poverty, producers might find it interesting to interview jet-setting hoarders, those who can’t be satisfied with taking three ounces of shampoo, but instead, need another three ounces stashed elsewhere, “just in case”. Which is problematic, now that airlines limit each passenger to a lunchbox-sized carryon, minus the food.

No, not to worry, we don’t have piles covering every square inch of floor and towering to the high ceilings. It’s a different type of hoarding that I would classify as saving up lots of products for a rainy day. If my activities are any indication, torrential rain will be falling very soon, a deluge that would have Noah himself concerned.

Hoarding is a behavior that kind of sneaks up on you, similar to dustballs and dog hair strewn about. For me, whenever I see necessary items on super-sale, I figure we’ll need it sooner or later, so best to stock up now. Problem is, I often forget afterwards: a) that I made the purchases, or b) where they are stored.

I’m not the only one. Benedetto bought rolls of the “forever stamps”from the post office before they went up from 42 to 46 cents. Now that we’re sending out hundreds of adoption announcements, do you think he can locate any of the discount stamps?

Same thing with holiday or birthday gifts, bought at leisure rather than on demand, expertly hidden as to never be seen again. This is a problem.

And for us, traveling adds another twist to the trials and tribulations associated with stocking up on supplies. I buy school pencils, erasers, and sharpeners in bulk quantities as though the children’s future SATs will one day rise in corresponding numbers, yet when we arrive to our next location, nary a thing may be found.

“Where are your pencils?” I question the girls. They shrug their shoulders and feign ignorance as though they have never heard of a karandash (pencil).

When pressed earlier in the week, the two admitted that they might have pencil cases in their portefeuilles, but regretted that they had disappeared, or were left behind long ago in some indeterminate place, or were taken by karandash banditi to sell to black market bookbaggers. One could never be sure. The possibilities were limitless.

So I do the sensible thing and offer to help mount a wilderness search through the uncharted territories of their rucksacks.

No need. The pencils magically appear.

Today we have no such luck. I’m irritated by their stalling strategies and grab a nearby handful of pencils. Every single one is broken at its tip. How convenient.

I beeline to my makeup bag like a bat out of wherever, locating my own beloved eye pencil sharpener, returning to the girls and plunking down before them to sharpen the whole stack.

“This is what most schoolchildren do in the beginning of their day. They sharpen their pencils to be prepared for the tasks ahead,” I instruct.

Snap! goes the sharpener as it breaks in two.

Now we will have no sharp school pencils, and no sharp makeup pencils. A case could be made for sharp pencils emanating from sharp minds….

Unfortunately, there are three or four pencil sharpeners at our other house. I should have collected a stash here, as well. Which only goes to prove my premise that hoarding is absolutely necessary.

We have cans and cans of chicken noodle soup. Dental floss and vaseline are also in great supply for some inexplicable reason, maybe in case of a natural disaster at least we’ll have comfort food, clean teeth, and be well-moisturized. I should have been a Girl Scout: always prepared.

There are bandaids in my wallet, along with mini-address books. The casual onlooker may think that I’m filthy rich, wallet bulging. Instead of big bills, it’s stuffed with handy-wipes, insect repellent, and stain remover, rubberbands, and safety pins. I’m the go-to girl, that’s for sure. This store is open seven days a week.

I also have drawers full of assorted notecards and closets packed with black pumps. In case the banks go under and the world as we know it ends, I’ll still be able to write thank you notes and walk to my next destination in style.

Plastic grocery bags have a certain appeal and I tend to hold onto bunches of those, as well. No matter that I possess every attractive and unattractive recycle eco bag known to man, I use those for schoolbooks and sundries. No, I crave the thin, plastic, disposable junk bags, suitable for dog poop or child puke and 101 other uses. You just never know when a need may arise.

Plastic bags harm the environment? By adopting from Russia, my children have never worn disposable diapers a day in their life. I calculate that this saved the environment ten diapers a day, times three years, for four children. Approximately 44,000 diapers avoided local landfills, so hoarding, and occasionally using a plastic bag, or a tin can of soup, means my dumping “footprint” compares to an angel dancing on the head of a pin. Very environmentally friendly.

My conclusion? While crazy hoarding should be a concern, happy hoarding is the green way to go.

This weekend was the one year anniversary of going to court in Russia for Pasha and his becoming our son. Many days, I did not think we would make it this far. The Ministry of Education official warned us that, “He will destroy your lives.”

Against such ominous prognostications, we forged ahead. This was Petya’s friend from the orphanage. We worked four long years to get him out of the system. Each time Russia said, “Nyet,” we said, “Da,” and refused to go away.

When the foster system started in Russia and people were paid to take in children, they scooped them up by the handfuls. Some of our son’s friends became free farm laborers, and others brought hefty stipends to elderly pensioners. Pasha was placed with a “staru’cha” (old lady) who wanted to beat, berate, and have him do her chores, along with a couple of other kids. Bless his soul, he wrote the Ministry of Education a letter, asking to be removed back to the orphanage. Without this bold move on his part, he never would have come to our family.

So he is here. He has his struggles, he has his joys. We love him. I’m not sure he entirely loves himself, but that will come. Just yesterday he told me of a horrific event that he witnessed. No, he could not be making it up for several reasons too terrrible to mention. One year later, this is what comes out. Maybe he has guilt, survivor’s guilt, or the feeling that somehow, if he had tried harder, or if he could have reformed the adults around him…. Naturally, it’s irrational, but that’s how kids can think at times. They want things to be right.

His personality has been oppositional mostly. We say up, he says down. We say white, he says black. He wants to argue with the smallest detail of life, not really to any parent’s face, because we would not allow that, but with the other children and with life in general. He is also passive-aggressive in his behaviors, losing or breaking about seven pairs of sunglasses in two weeks’ time during sports camps, slooowly eating at meals, leaving the house without a belt in his pants no matter how many times we remind him.

Since the girls have been home the last six weeks, Pasha has been acting like a clown. He has a willing audience for foolishness since they are younger. At almost 13, he at times acts closer to 8, which is really the age of our youngest. Benedetto tells him repeatedly, “Pasha, you are not a clown.” So this weekend, Pasha asks me how he can become a professional clown-! We say up, he says down….

As I explain to him the sad lifestyle of most professional clowns, and how clowning does not involve doing whatever you want whenever you want, my husband has his own revelation.

“We need to tell him he’s not a brain surgeon—then he’ll want to be one!” he enthuses.

I decide to try it on the dogs first.

“Misha, you are not a brain surgeon,” I whisper into the Scottie’s black ear. By noon, he’s found perusing medical school catalogs. Works like a charm.

So this weekend, I have the kids do a project. Papa/Benedetto is away on business, and I ask them to draw him a picture of our family. My only rules: it has to contain two parents, two boys, two girls, and two dogs, and maintain a slight margin around the edges.

You would think I had asked them to rebuild the Statue of Liberty. Some sit with blank papers and blank stares. Others cannot find their colored pencils or crayons. Different ones find it impossible to maintain a semblance of a white border around the paper, asking why they could not color off the paper entirely.

I also stipulate that they are forbidden to look at anyone else’s paper. Good luck on that. Mashenka and Sashenka live to cheat and it will be some time till they outgrow that orphanage behavior. I put the kitchen toaster and huge jars and cans inbetween the kids. Petya retires to the garden room to get away from the girls’ peering eyes, while the others sit at the big, long farm table in the kitchen. As their pictures grow and take shape, they reveal an intimate view of each artist’s psyche and family perception.

I recall once attending an art therapist’s workshop who had interacted with kids in Russian orphanages. She gave a slide show of their artwork and showed how those of different ages and life experiences would portray people. They might draw themselves as very tiny and powerless, or very large and angry. I think back to her observations as I see the shapes and sizes and placements unfold before me.

Petya and Sashenka, our oldest son and youngest daughter, are well-attached and happy as clams. They portray normal, simple sketches of all of us about the same size, and both have a house in the picture. Their drawings say loud and clear: “We are home.” The others’ depictions are more tenuous.

Mashenka puts herself next to Benedetto in her picture. She has blond hair and gives Sashenka and me orange hair for some reason. I think she’s trying to displace me! I discuss with her the meaning of a husband and wife, and how, even though she never had good role models in the past, we want her to know that Mama and Papa are together for life. Her image wears a dress and high heels like I would, while “my” designated image looks kind of dowdy…. Now that I think of it, her blond in heels and dress might have really been “me” in the first place, but then she decided that it looked so good it had to be… her! and she requisitioned my identity, labelling me, as her… if that makes any sense.

Each of my children gives me tremendous food for thought by how they portray the family—which one was next to which, their size, their placement. I discuss their drawings with them individually. Pasha, on his one year anniversary home, still places himself far away from the rest of the group. His figure is climbing a tree, towering over the family, while still keeping his distance. So I reassure him and tell him to start actively thinking of himself as a real part of the family. He spends the rest of the night playing video games in a different room by himself, while the other children are elsewhere.

“Still up in the tree by yourself?” I ask as I check on him, and he smiles.

As I tuck them into bed, I reassure every child of our love for them and how happy we are that they are home. I remind Pasha that he has to choose to come down out of the tree of his drawing and join the rest of us.

“You’re not an abizian’,” (monkey) I tease him.

“Tomorrow, Mama, I think I will be ready. I will come out of tree,” he declares as he closes his eyes and settles in for the night.

Newly-adopted kids know nothing. They will argue this point to the death, waxing eloquent on topics great and small.

“Elena Grigore’evna had this hairstyle in the orphanage. She was our favorite vaspitatel and told me I looked good like this, too,” she models with enthusiasm the most awful hairstyle you could imagine, no doubt all the rage in some remote Russian hamlet where mullets are probably just coming into their own. I gag and try to make a quick recovery to a neutral facial expression, using the famous Judge Judy parenting technique said to work with the most unusual and vexing situations.

“That’s nice, dear.”

They like to debate everything, while in essence, knowing nothing. You may say that the same happens with pre-pubescent biological kids, but in this case, being a know-it-all can be very dangerous.

“I want to cook for you, Mama,” Mashenka offers at our Moscow apartment.

Open flames and knives that she barely knows how to handle, make me noticeably nervous. She says she’s going to fry an egg, or something along those lines. I set the burner for her and leave her to her task, against my better judgment. Twenty minutes later, she still has not emerged. I knock on the kitchen door, and she presents me with… perhaps an omelette is not quite the right term… there are mixed eggs, onions, and tomatoes, swimming in about three inches of butter. The creation is scorched on the bottom, and blackened and stuck to the ancient frying pan. Now I know why “Blackened Eggs” is not a feature of most fine dining menus.

The eggs wouldn’t stop sticking!” she exclaims.

“Well, you need to use a spatula, and keep scraping the bottom of the pan before they start to stick–.”

“Nyet, Mamoola. That would never work,” she shakes her head. Of all the crazy ideas.

I focus on her heart and praise her efforts. We choke down the blackened breakfast. It’s not until the next day that I discover she’s ditched the worst half of the horrible fare down the sink that has no disposal. It starts stinking up a storm.

But this is the delicate dance between older adopted children and their new parents. Rather than ask for help, they would prefer to wing it and wreak havoc. If something breaks, burns, or blows up… “Oh well.” It wasn’t their fault. They are used to communal property, and never taking responsibility for anything.

Sashenka runs the water for five or ten minutes at full force just to brush her teeth. You would think we owned the Hoover Dam. I explain to the girls that we actually pay for the water that we use. Flushing the toilet ten times in a row does nothing but waste water; instead, they should wait for the toilet tank to refill and then flush.

But it falls on deaf ears. They know better.

I show them the on and off switch of the shower.

“Kloochee’. Vwee’kloochee,” I demonstrate. Yet, after thirty minutes, I still hear water running. I knock on the bathroom door and enter the steaming sauna, fog and mist everywhere, shower pouring hot and heavy.

Mashenka stands there, outside the shower, towel wrapped around her as though in her right mind, combing her hair.

“Mashenka—the shower!” I shout, pointing out the obvious. She looks at me blankly. “Turn it off!”

“Mama, it would not turn off. I tried,” she shrugs. Not her problem.

I reach in, turn it off… and show her again how this magical wonder works. I come to a critical conclusion: they are brain dead, pure and simple.

When enjoying a soft drink or juice in the car, inevitably they leave the packet or straw behind, usually both. The car is littered with debris that the dogs chew on and choke. This is all amusing until the girls glimpse my Look of Death gaze bearing down upon them, and then they see the errors of their ways.

Until the next time.

They eat like pigs. They refuse to blow their noses and keep snorting, instead. Their nails were long and filthy, encrusted with dirt and at least twenty layers of nail polish, if not paint, before I intervened. They giggle at bathroom humor, and scream for us like fishwives. The older applies her lipgloss and then wipes her soiled fingers down her clothes, or across the counter of the bathroom, pink glittery streaks declaring, “I was here.”

They try to stay up late and sleep in late. Both insist that they need not buckle any seatbelts, and that the police would never give us a fine for such a silly thing. They toss water bottles on the floor like an alcoholic’s den, while hoarding new clothing tags in hopes that they might be winning lottery tickets. They talk over the top of us, trying to drown out the voice of authority.

These are our daughters and they are not bad at all. Actually, they want very much to please. But for now they know better. They must know better because adults have always proven to be very unreliable.

The know-it-all mentality is a defense mechanism, a way to protect themselves, a show of bravado against a black backdrop. And so I smile, and pat their backs, and hug them, and tell them that all will be well.

It will be. They just have a lot to learn, and a lot to let go of. Much like the first days of school, they want to see if we’re substitute teachers that can be snowed and replaced, or whether we’re in it for the long haul.

Only with time will they understand that we’re here to stay and so are they.

A most unusual thing just occurred. As I sit out our mandatory ten-day wait in Starii Krai, the powers that be call me one night. I happen to be outside, in front of the hotel, speaking with another adoptive family. One of the desk clerks comes running to me.

“Vlad is on the phone,” she announces. So I come, quickly, there must be news. Today I anticipated something all day, sending him an e-mail, asking if perhaps I could visit the girls tomorrow. It’s been one week since court, seven days, seven hours, and seven minutes. Or something like that.

“Alexandra?”

“Da?”

“Good news and bad news. I think you’ll like this, but it has some bad news associated with this….”

As I’m trying to figure out what in the world he’s saying, while I stretch my body across the front reception desk, new arrivals coming and going at the hotel, another clerk holds out the other front desk phone to me.

“America,” she says, like I’m supposed to be talking on both phones simultaneously.

“Just a minute, Vlad,” I say, calling out to the other, “ask him to call back, please.”

It’s the appointed hour for Benedetto to call from the US, but there’s latebreaking news on this side.

“Alexandra? Alexandra?” Vlad impatiently demands. “Can you hear me?”

“Da, Vlad, I’m here.”

“Okay, listen, I got your court decision, it’s in my hand. You can go and get the girls tomorrow, 9:00 am, understand? I need to consult with Alex right now and see what is possible, but I believe that you can get their birth certificate from ZAGS, plus their Russian Passport, all on Friday, and fly to Moscow on Saturday. I know that means changing your flights and everything, but overall it would be good, right?”

“Yes, yes, absolutely, that could save us four days,” I start calculating.

“So I will call you in half an hour, I am going to speak with Alex and I will call you. Will you be available?”

“Yes, I might be on the phone with Benedetto, but I’ll be in my room waiting for your call.”

And with that, the other family comes inside and I tell them the good news. They are in shock. Their court date was before ours, and they will not get their daughter until Friday, and here I get my girls on Thursday. In any event, we may all fly out together on Saturday, on the one flight out of Starii Krai.

Benedetto calls.

“Sorry, guys,” I say to my three guys collected to talk on the other side of the world, “I just got a call from Vlad when you were phoning.”

“What’s up?” Benedetto’s radar is in full swing. He knows it’s Something, even though he’s just driven seven hours with two boys and two dogs, and is feeling his own jet lag and tiredness. He returned home only half a week ago.

“Well, I’m not going to be staying my whole ten days. I’m getting the girls tomorrow, their documents the next day, and I can fly out over the weekend to Moscow!!!” I announce.

Silence.

“Um, hello? This is good news,” I add.

“More changes? More changes?” He had finalized our tickets even though the travel agent said to wait a few more days, he wanted it done. I had been asking for our itinerary to print, as well, since I had no actual paper tickets. I knew he would be calculating change fees and penalties.

“Look,” I reason, “if this can shave off a weekend and another two days off the end of the trip, if I can do the medical for the girls and American Embassy stuff on Monday-Tuesday, do the registration of Russian citizens living abroad on Wednesday-Thursday, we can fly out on next Friday, about a week from now, rather than the next Wednesday, two weeks from today!”

Silence.

“Uh-huh… Va bene,” he finally says.

“Okay, listen, I had hoped that you would be supportive here. We’re all a little tired and surprised, but this is good. Even with any change fees, we will be saving an extra four nights in a hotel or apartment. Speaking of which, we need to see if the apartment is available, what flights are available…. I can handle the girls’ flights from here, but can you check on mine? Vlad will be calling back in a few minutes, can you call back in about a half an hour?”

“Alright, fine, here’s the boys….”

I quickly send them love and kisses, they are only too happy to get off the phone and have lunch. It’s been a long day for them, too. Oh, how I miss them!

Vlad calls back. “Okay, it’s a go, but Alex said he is coming to you. Can you make yourself available? He wants to review everything with you.”

“Sure, where?”

“In the lobby, in your room, just so he can find you….”

So downstairs I go with my notebook, pen, reading glasses. I make a list of questions as night falls and no one bothers to turn on the hotel lobby lights. We are lighted from outside, but basically sitting in darkness. About thirty minutes later, Alex arrives with his wife, we go out to the café to discuss the day’s events over capuccino.

“Do I need to bring their clothes?” I ask. “What if the shoes or something don’t fit?”

“You know what?” the wife suggests, “leave the clothes here, we can always return the old ones later.”

“A new room to accommodate all three of us?” I wonder.

“We’ll reserve it right after this,” and so we do, going to see it personally. It has two single beds, one mini-couch that will have to be Sashenka’s, and plenty of space. All I desire is airconditioning, we will have no need for a kitchen for all of two days’ time. So this means moving yet again tomorrow….

Photos, birth certificate, passport, they tell me not to worry about anything. They will take care of all of it with me on Friday. Be still, my heart. This is like a dream come true. In the past, we’ve been known to have to handle many things ourselves with less adept agencies.

“You can do it all in one day?” I want to make sure.

“We can do it all in fifteen minutes, if we have to!” Alex laughs, delighted that I am visibly impressed with their abilities. What a breath of fresh air.

I explain to them how important the official photos will be, the girls will have to hold onto these passports for five years. Mashenka will be 16 years old when it expires, Sashenka will be 13 before it’s time to renew.

“I want them to look great,” I muse aloud, “we’ll need to work on their hair and clothing, so they feel good about themselves.” Specifically, I’m thinking of Mashenka’s orphanage hair coloring escapade growing out, but I don’t want to give too many details…..

Alex responds that there are hairdressers in Starii Krai and I let him know that this is something I can handle for them, Lady Clairol tucked away in my bag for a reason.

And so it is that I rise four hours later, at 5:00 am, to touch-up my own hair color. No need for two (or three!) of us ladies dripping with chemicals at the same time. I don’t want to scare them…. I’m thinking more along the lines of a few slightly imperceptible highlights for Mashenka, simply to even out whatever damage was done from months ago.

Now it’s after 6:00 am, time to hop in the shower, throw the rest of my things in the suitcase, and be ready to go. We’ll change rooms after we get back. But for now, my life is about to change in a big way. We have come to the birth, and there’s no looking back.

I pull out the photo of my four Russian grandparents who will symbolically accompany us in spirit on this momentous occasion during the time of the wheat harvest in the south of Russia. As the sun rises, I glimpse a beam of sunlight penetrating the gathered clouds, spanning from heaven to earth in a most dramatic demonstration: the orphans are not forgotten.

Russian forests evoke many images and emotions. Featured prominently in Russian literature, they are both tangled and tame. Some sport manicured pathways and fountains, while other corners shade wildflowers and weeds, picturesque in their ability to fill an empty patch.

I go there to escape the heat of the scorching summer sun. Peace and quiet reign in the forest of my first choice, close to a cathedral under renovation. I am undisturbed by petitioners or picnicers alike.

But it is early in the morning when most revelers and ramblers are still asleep. At the stroke of ten, the swelling sound of an orchestra fills the forest for all of ten or fifteen seconds. I pause, only to discover that it stops, almost before it begins. A war memorial marking the hour. The birds surrounding me continue their calls and songs, trickling fountains babble, again enshrouding the forest in deep, hushed mystery.

I visit another forest close to the center of symbolic Starii Krai. This family fun park beckons those children who wish to rent a small, pedal-powered car—whether a VW bug, a military jeep, a sleek sportscar, or any of a dozen different selections—10 minutes for 50 rubles (almost $2). Closeby, a young boy sails his remote-controlled sailboat on a placid pool, while families watch turtles and geese sunning themselves on the banks. There’s a kiddie carousel, and a trampoline, and swings, and a slide. Disneyland it’s not, but the typically Russian flavor of it all, with old-fashioned cotton candy and plastic pinwheel vendors dotting the landscape encourage me to bring the girls here. They will not find another experience like it outside of Russia.

Just a few months ago, my wintertime flight from this region to Moscow was diverted. Heavy snowstorms closed all of the Moscow airports. We ended up landing in Nizhny Novgorod and as we circled, I spotted cross-country skiers silently speeding through the forests below.

Historically, forests hold secrets. I wonder what the forest knows about me. I am not here to pick mushrooms, nor to picnic, nor to find Baba Yaga’s hut. Instead, I seek a quiet place where I may collect my thoughts and gather strength for the days ahead.