This blog is for you, the onlooker/observer, as your family or friend is undertaking an international adoption. We understand, you may feel that they are making a Big Mistake. This time, try to keep it to yourself.

You know our story: busy, workaholics, traveling the world to help humankind, we never had the time for children. When we decided 25 years into our marriage to consider such a thing, the two of us believed it might be fun to adopt. There were kids, already on Planet Earth, who needed our help.

We did it for altruistic reasons, which is looked down upon in most adoption circles where they believe you should only do it for yourself, to grow your family, generally because you have no other choice. But we had a choice, and it was to help a child, and we’ll have to talk about that another day on the blog. We had bigger fish to fry once the decision had been made.

How to break it to our families.

We made the trek, flying from sea to sea, over mountains, deserts, and forests, to visit my Russian father and slowly, carefully, broach the subject. It was a big birthday for him, the house was full of other Russians and we called him outside to the garden. He was having a grand time and for some reason, couldn’t stop talking. (I can’t relate.) I finally had to practically interrupt him to get to the point. The festivities were set to commence soon.

“Dad, we’ve been married a long time, and we’re thinking of expanding our family. There are no medical problems, but more and more we’re hearing about orphans who need homes. So we’ve decided to adopt… from Russia!” I explained, a little nervous. My dad never thought well on his feet, and it would take him time to digest this news.

“Oh, uh-huh….” he said, obviously reeling. “Why don’t you kids get a dog? You know, start slowly…. Whaddaya want kids for?”

There you had it. And this was the Russian side of the family.

With time, they had newspaper articles of adopted children who had tried to kill the parents, or acquaintances who wanted he and his wife to speak in Russian to their Eastern-European adopted kids. The more they investigated, the more upset they grew.

“They’re not normal,” my father confided, truly concerned for us. “The children don’t come from good families,” he shook his head.

Gee, ya think? Like we were simply going to round up some prep school children in polo shirts from the local country club.

On to Benedetto’s famiglia, oh joy. Perhaps his sisters and mother would not begrudge us this next step in life. We were seated on his mom’s deck overlooking the golf course, meat on the grill when he took the plunge, making a few introductory comments.

“So, we have some news,” he wound into high gear.

“You’re getting a dog!” shouted his younger sister, happy and bubbling, in my direction. She knew how much I had wanted one, and that children were not really on our radar screen. They had married later in life and their own child was now a toddler.

“I wish,” I laughed.

“We’ll be adopting from Russia,” Benedetto declared with a smile.

“Congratulations!” the sister enthused.

“Great!” her husband added, shaking Benedetto’s hand.

The others stayed silent. Finally his older sister spoke.

“Don’t you think the children would be better off in the orphanage than with you?”

Never let it be said that our abilities had been overestimated. The older sister and Benedetto’s mom honestly felt that maybe these children were better off “with their own”. Perhaps being an orphan was a communicable disease in their mind. I thought maybe too many cannoli over a lifetime had done them brain damage, or that this was an unfortunate latent gene that popped up during times of stress. Thankfully, we would not be dipping into this shallow gene pool. Crazy thing is, the relatives were absolutely serious.

It turned out that the younger sister worked them over in the ensuing months… and years… before the Blessed Event actually happened. Bless her. We had studied, and researched, and were semi-capable of making an informed decision at this point in our lives, no matter how many horror stories they could toss our way.

That is why I am writing to you today, the friends and families of those adopting. When an adoption announcement is made, here are the responses to avoid: any gagging sounds, comments about blood being thicker than whatever, cranking up a CD of Cher singing “Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves” or “Halfbreed”, sitting in stunned silence, asking why they don’t try some more to have a baby “of their own”, promptly changing the subject, or any talk of changing the will to disinherit them all.

This is why Hallmark exists. Or even the 99-cent card rack at WalMart. You go, you buy a “Congratulations!” card, you sign your name, affix a stamp, and voila`, you are on board with the baby. “Bimbo a` bordo,” as we say in Italian.

An immediate, pleasant gesture is good. Try this: Smile! Force your lips to upturn at the corners. Murmur something meaningful: “Best wishes”, “Great news”, “I’m so happy for you”. Give a hug, a handshake, a pat on the back. The fact that these people are sharing their special news with you means that you must reciprocate, rise to the occasion and celebrate.

Even if it’s a full moon, you are forbidden from doing any kind of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde turnaround. Be nice, and don’t talk behind their back.

Send flowers, send a card, send a fruit basket. Take them out for a Starbucks. Alright, I wouldn’t do it, but send an e-mail high five if you must. That’s for the parents-to-be. Ask them if they have any adoption reading that they need to do (but no hinting around like they need to educate themselves). Ask them to make a book wish list and send it to you. That gets brownie points. It shows you care.

Offer to donate hotel points for their stay in one of the most expensive cities of the world, Moscow. Sign over airline miles to give them a free ticket, since they will need two or three roundtrips to Russia.

Toss some crisp hundred dollar bills in a card and think about the joy the family will have, knowing that they can take the child to a doctor or dentist for the very first time. Our youngest daughter came home at age 8.5 with 21 cavities and needing four immediate tooth extractions, they were so rotten from years of inattention. A family friend stepped forward to help with several thousand dollars’ worth of work, while we dealt with the other childrens’ more normal dental work. Totally unexpected, but what a blessing!

Should the family or friends already have a referral of a child, you may purchase a “little something” for him or her. Buy a silver baby cup, a rattle, stacking cups. If the child is going to be older, get him a digital photo key chain, a photo album, a sweatshirt from your alma mater, a CD player or simple digital camera. Buy him a Ferrari and I’ll look the other way, just this one time.

Give the gift to the parents to give to the child—all gifts in the beginning should come from them, rather than from the many new faces around the periphery. After you meet the child for the first time, ask the parents if you may give them something else small.

Small. Keep that in mind. Having socks of their own will be a big deal. No ostentatious overload allowed.

Plan a baby shower, or an older child shower. Parties full of good cheer are always perfect. Blow up images of St. Basil’s, or matryoshka nesting dolls and place on the wall. Pop in a CD of Russian balalaika music. Make blintzes or pelemeni or Russian salads or Ukrainian borsch, with chai.  Offer to pay for baby or older child announcements.

Nobody likes to say it, but bad things can happen to referrals. Maybe someone else agrees to adopt the child before the intended family arrives in country, he goes into Russian foster care, or an extended family member visits, thus removing her from availability for international adoption for the next six months. This is one party where gift cards or cash is the best bet in terms of gifts. If you purchase clothing for an 18-month-old boy, the family may end up with a 3-year-old girl. Don’t jinx them by buying anything too specific. (I have tons of unused baby clothes stashed in a spare closet, in case you need proof of this phenomenon.)

Another idea is to sign-up friends to each bring one frozen meal before the happy family leaves for their final pick-up trip. Stock their freezer to give them a break when they return and need to cocoon with their new child for a while. Offer to mow their lawn, water the plants, housesit the dog.

As we waited throughout our paper chase of dozens of documents, and then the interminable stretch of time hoping for a referral of a child, I sent funny newsletters to our extended family, just to update on the process and what was “not” happening. The non-events definitely outweighed any real “news” 10 to 1. The newsletter suppressed the usual ultimately-depressing inquiries, “Any news?” which really should have an upper limit of one question per person every other month.

I shared hopes and dreams, downplaying any rude realities and rip-offs, lest we encourage too much advice or meddling. This was not the time for any Dr. Kevorkian wanna-bes to try to talk us out of our future. Most of all, we wanted our families to feel comfortable with the idea that this was happening and that it would be a good thing for the entire extended family.  You will have mixed emotions, at times, and so will they.  As a friend wrote recently, even when everyone has said they’re on board, some will try to jump ship from time to time-!

Most of all, “be there” to listen if the family wants to share how it’s going. This will be an emotional time for them, particularly after the first trip, when they are fairly certain that this child will be theirs, but they had to leave them behind for a number of months until the paperwork is ready for court. That is the most unnatural feeling on the face of the earth. The couple may be weepy, or anxious, or fearful at times. Pray for them, encourage them, maybe take them out to see a funny movie.

Now, six and one-half years after our first older child came home from Russia, two years after our second son arrived, and one year after our girls landed, our family and friends could not be more enthusiastic cheerleaders. They love our children, who, according to these onlookers, could not be more polite, better behaved, cuter or more intelligent, or more loving and thoughtful.

With a little kindness and understanding on everyone’s part, our international adoption turned out to be very much a positive family affair. May it be yours, too!

(Feel free to e-mail this link to family and friends.  Tell them Alexandra made you do it!)

“Ah, the honeymoon phase…” other adoptive parents would smile benignly when they heard we had nary a problem with our first son from Russia. “Just wait.”

This common adoption legend persists to the present day: that children arrive after court, fresh-faced and angelic, and then a week later, or several months later, descend into the depths of whirling-dervish demon possession when the honeymoon phase is over.

Tell that to any adoptive parent whose child is screaming bloody murder in a hotel room all night long the first night, or wailing and kicking before stepping into a car for the first time, or heading out on an airplane, bound for who-knows-where with atomic diaper blow-outs. Those parents are still waiting for the honeymoon phase.

In our case with Petya, brought home at 7.5 years old, the honeymoon never ended. He was delightful and helpful, enthusiastic and energetic from Day 1. Our first morning home, he fed me the blueberries out of his yogurt, “Mama, taste this, it’s amazing!” and picked me wildflowers from our garden. I loved him unreservedly and unconditionally.

Our second son was adopted four years later at 11.75 years old, followed by our daughters arriving a year later at 8.5 and 11 years old. None of them believed in happily-ever-after honeymoons by the looks of things. Or, if this was their idea of a honeymoon, God help their future mates-!

No, they came to us pouty and problematic, and in Pasha’s and Sashenka’s cases, pretty pukey, as well. Anytime we were in a moving conveyence, the projectiles would hurl forth, which for a jet-setting family, was most of the time. There’s nothing like setting off for a new life in a new land while changing your daughter’s soaked and stinky clothes on the side of the highway in a freezing drizzle and then washing her matted hair in the airport sink… sans soap and sans paper towels.

So maybe the “honeymoon” was doomed from the start, lol. I learned to carry plastic bags in my purse at all times. With prayer, they overcame the motion-sickness, slowly but surely, along with the other pukey behaviors.

If it wasn’t coming out one end, then we had problems on the other. Some honeymoon. I broached the subject with Pasha, reported to be a bedwetter.

“Privyet, welcome to the family,” came my rehearsed speech. “Maybe you’ve never heard of it, but some children wet the bed at night. There is special underwear to put on so that the bed stays dry. Would you like some?” I asked as we entered our hotel suite.

“Nyet, spaseebah,” he replied, as though politely refusing another bit of caviar on toast points.

“Umm-hmm…” I didn’t give in so easily, for his sake, as well as mine. For some reason, I had been nominated to share the bed with him. “Maybe we should wear these ‘troosee’ at least for the first night…”

But he was adamant.

Fine. Far be it from me to embarrass the guy and treat him like a baby.

And thus, he awoke with a start in the early-morning hours as his urine saturated both himself and the hotel bedsheets.

Stripping them off immediately, I washed the sheets in the bathtub and miracle of miracles, they dried before any maids arrived.

These were the bumps in the road, the little surprises that surfaced after we were already committed for life. Benedetto and I had walked the aisle and said “I do” for these children before a Russian judge. For us, we had massive amounts of time, and money, and documents invested in these kids, whereas for them, it was a whim, another disconnected, disjointed event in their life that might turn into yet another detour. These were not kids on their “honeymoon”, on their best behavior for a week or so and headed for a specific destination in life. Instead, they continued their chaotic past into their present, letting it all hang out from the very first moment.

“Sashenka! What’s all this trash?!” I gasped in horror as I entered our Russian apartment’s living room. She had gathered water bottles, juice bottles, and assorted debris, playing with them, and then tossing them helter-skelter on the floor, rather than placing them in the trash bin. It looked like an alcoholic’s den.

Bingo.

“Here, let me help you put these in the trash. Do you know where the trash can is?” we walked together to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, we were ready to go out on some official appointment. My eyeballs nearly popped out at the elder sister’s getup.

“Mashenka! Stop rolling down your pants. I don’t care to see your popa…. And what’s on your face? You’re so pretty you don’t need makeup,” I say for the hundredth time in Moscow within days of taking custody. I have adopted a floozy, intent on having her front and back side hanging out of her clothes, as well as wearing heavy, cruddy old makeup no doubt retrieved from some garbage bin.

“No, Mama, they’re not rolled down, I swear it,” she says so innocently with the face of a liar. “Cosmetics? What cosmetics?”

We could only go up from here.

For these last three children, our love grew over time, more of an arranged marriage, getting-to-know-you phase, instead of any happy-go-lucky, swept-away honeymoon. We saw them trying to please, trying to fit in, trying to adapt to a new family… on the even days of odd-numbered months whenever the moon was not waxing nor waning. The good times gave us hope for the grueling times.

I’ve heard that a number of married couples take no honeymoon, preferring to wait until later for any celebratory travel. In our lifestyle, we travel, and we generally celebrate every step forward, great or small. So, I guess, in essence, every day is a honeymoon at our house.

Whether sooner or later, take time for a honeymoon. Enjoy what’s right about life and what’s cause for celebration. Make the honeymoon more than a passing phase, make it a way of life for the whole family. Bon voyage!

Have you ever wondered what your kids are saying? Like other parents of teens and pre-teens, I have my fair share of “Huh?” moments, but for me, it’s exacerbated by the fact that mine are still learning English.

“I lost my noodle,” Pasha pokes here and there in the car.

“Shtoh?” I ask in Russian. “Lapsha?”

“My NOODLE…” he says.

Now, I would be the first to agree with him that he is generally not in possession of his noodle, but this time, I feel he means something else. I turn around to look at him. He makes a sewing motion.

“Needle?” I coach.

“Needle,” he agrees, snapping his fingers.

“Just find it before the dogs step on it….”

There are so many phrases that escape them in English. Pleasantries are okay after nine months home, not that they are always pleasant, but the nuances of English, and of course academic English take many years to acquire. Unfortunately, the world is a fast-moving place and waits for no one. There is little time to spare, particularly on our fast-paced lifestyle.

Recently, as we were driving a long distance, Benedetto pointed out crowds of people, cars, and balloons in front of a corporation on a major highway.

“Look, they’re shooting out by the road,” he commented to me. Naturally, several sets of ears picked up on the interesting comment.

“Are they hunting, Papa?” asked Petya.

“No, they’re filming for TV news.”

“Oh.”

Something as simple as “shooting” gives our children an entirely different impression.

Over the weekend I had my bedroom door closed for awhile. At a time like this, the child-parent radar goes into overdrive and they are drawn like homing pigeons to my door. If the door is closed, they immediately need me. Urgently, if not sooner.

“Mama…?” Sashenka knocks lightly.

“I’m exercising—,” I call back, between huffs and puffs with my aerobic DVD.

Armed with that vital piece of information, she goes to report to Papa that Mama is doing something important. She’s not sure what, but needs to let someone know.

“Papa, Mama said that she’s extra-cising.”

“That’s good….”

He knows I need every extra bit I can get.

In school, the simplest words and phrases stump them at inopportune times. They tend to take it all very literally. Pasha is troubled by geography.

“Ah, Mama…?”

“Da?”

“Vhat is this ‘river bed’? There is bed in river?”

And away we go into an explanation. It only happens every two minutes or so. How else are they going to learn? I think I’m losing my noodle, myself…. Yet, I continue to hope and pray for elegantly refined and educated children who will one day make their mark.

The girls have opportunties all their own. We are at a historic stop, hopefully educational in nature. My youngest daughter decides on a new topic of study when we visit the Ladies’ Room. I hear her voice coming loud and clear from the bathroom stall next to me, as other women take care of their own business.

“Mama, vhat it mean here? ‘Do – not – place – napkins – in – toilet.’” She is very proud of her reading ability. “Why anyone put napkins in toilet?”

“Oh… etah…” I launch forth, with a full explanation in Russian. Several red-faced and bemused elderly women join us at the sinks, no doubt imagining the details of my discourse. It’s a life full of deftly-whispered definitions on the sly.

The three newest kids hear polite Petya after dinner asking if he may be excused. Pasha, who is not known to be the most observant nor perceptive child, decides to try it one evening for himself.

“Ah, Mama, Papa… can I be a big excuse?”

I look at his blazer and striped rep tie. He would fit in at any prep school visually, if not linguistically. I guess I will have to settle for that.

We try to stifle our laughs as the happy-as-a-clam-camper goes on his way, content in the knowledge that he’s mastered another English phrase perfectly suited for Polite Society.

People have asked this over the years: why no reality show based on our family? We’re fascinating, fashionable, and fast-forward. We travel the world, shuttle between a couple of homes, speak several languages, and have our fair share of drama with two preteen girls, two teen boys, and two of the cutest dogs on Planet Earth. Problem is, we’re not a train-wreck waiting to happen.

That seems to be the criteria these days.

Those who move rapidly from non-celebrity status to notoriously-known status have a hidden desire to self-implode. Add TV cameras and prime time limelight and it’s a recipe for outrageous outcomes.

My cyber-friends tell me that they’re casting now for a new show about the Russians of Brighton Beach, NY. Successful applicants will get to live for 6-8 weeks this summer in a big beach house full of Russian strangers.  They’re looking for outgoing guys and gals between the ages of 21-30, which is like, so totally “me”.  Should we just not mention the four kids for now?

Then again, a big beach house full of Russian strangers sounds familiar.  Gee, you could find that at my house any time this summer…. Minus the vodka, fur coats (in summer?) and wild parties that the co-creators promise.

We tend to be the average, atypical, typical family.  Probably too much reality, not enough circus sideshow curiosities.  You see, we don’t fit one of the many stereotyped niches that are currently out there for reality TV programs. I mean, there’s no mermaid girl, little people, or family members numbering a dozen or more. We are not professionals making chocolate, or lifesize cakes, doing salon or restaurant makeovers with plenty of foul language to boot.  No entire-body tatoos here (yes, you may send me a condolence card), no drugged-out rock band personas, no paranormal problems.   Rounding up either the kids playing outside, or the dogs trying to hide in the laundry room and rummage through the sacks of dog food, could approximate a storyline similar to the bounty hunter, but I don’t think anyone wants to see Benedetto’s chest hanging out of an open shirt, or me in spandex and poofed-up hair right behind him.

I would imagine that adoption stories hold some interest beyond a baby being placed in somebody’s arms. For us, that’s when things just start to get interesting, especially when the “baby” is an older child. Many friends have told us that we have an amazing story, fascinating, attention-grabbing, and that we need to promote ourselves.  I don’t know, I have enough friends who are willing to do it for us, lol.  Here’s a blurb they wrote about us:

“Every year in America, over 200,000 children are adopted from around the world. This touches multiplied millions of lives in terms of extended families, neighbors, educators, medical professionals, and those considering adoption themselves, not to mention other new immigrants facing similar challenges when settling in.

How does this play out in real life? What are the adjustments of a new family, particularly one where the preteen and young teen children are learning English in a fast-paced lifestyle with their on-the-go parents, shuttling between two homes each week? What are the stereotypes of older child or international adoption, and what are the realities?

There’s never a dull moment in this household as the young people move from no running water, lice, and abject poverty, to a loving family, computers, and managing a couple of passports as dual citizens. Whether it’s cooking internationally-flavored meals, going abroad, trying to figure out if the children have been permanently damaged by institutionalization, or struggling with everyday English and modern appliances that were unknown in the Old Country, this makes for cutting-edge TV that’s mainstream enough to appeal to a certain demographic, with enough twists and turns to make it riveting. Imagine “Coming to America” to the nth degree. Listen as stigmas and stereotypes about adoption are shattered by clips with leading neuropsychologists, pediatricians, therapists, and educators.

The parents met years ago in Jerusalem. Her family background is Russian, his is Italian, and they speak enough additional languages to make it interesting. They are trying to teach the kids in their spare time, and the verdict is still out on how much can be accomplished with different stages of resistance along the way-! They aim to keep life as normal as possible, planting a garden, going on educational field trips, playing sports… before cruising the canali of Venezia, or investigating the villages of India. As much as possible, the family likes to travel together communicating by Skype with the grandparents who can never seem to get it to work properly….

These folks enjoy seeing the humorous side of life with an at-times emotional storyline. There will be lots of laughs in the midst of some very serious topics. The children are coming out of backgrounds of trauma and deprivation, so therapeutic parenting is the order of the day. Plus, some of the kids are way behind in their schoolwork, having never attended school in Russia, thus their parents constantly push and prod to move them up the academic ladder:  college prep meets Russian shtetl. The dogs are virtually untrainable beyond “sit”, but loveable enough, and always up to something. Altogether, they are a very photogenic and fun family, appealing to a target audience of 25-54 year olds.”

There you have it.

Yeah, I know. Ho-hum. Nobody pushing someone into a swimming pool in a drunken stupor. No housewives gossiping about who’s the next to get a divorce or lose their home. We’re not skimpily clad, and every other word would not need to be bleeped out. There’s a babushka who makes borsch, and children who say “please” and “thank you”. *Yawwwnnn….*

I’ve asked the same question, myself, on some not-so-good days. The closest I can come to a concise and cogent answer is that I hope to train my children’s minds… while losing my own in the process.

Later this spring, my eldest son, Petya, and I will be traveling to a homeschool convention. We don’t fit a lot of the stereotypical models of homeschoolers, so it should be interesting. I’m a bit giddy even thinking of what we might wear to such an event—a teen boy is easy enough to dress—a shirt and sweater with slacks, plus now he’s taken to wearing a blazer with jeans for his “hip and happening” look. But me? I’m not sure that my de rigeur business skirt suit or pants suit will fit in among prairie dresses and long braids. But then maybe I’m stereotyping, too.

I am pleasantly surprised not to see any weird seminars being offered on the forwarded daily schedule. No “Frilly Dressmaking 1, 2, 3”, “How to Make Meals for a Household of 20”, or “Why University Really Doesn’t Matter”.

We’re going to the convention for academics and morale. My son needs to mix with others who have done fabulously well being educated from home. I need to learn how to keep the kids learning by leaps and bounds… without resulting in me wanting to run away from home.

Things were easy enough with one child from Russia. I started homeschooling because I did not wish for my child to enter public school not speaking a word of English, similar to my father’s experience long ago in New York City. Falling in with the wrong crowd, and getting in non-stop trouble were par for the course for he and his twin brother who had been raised in a Russian ghetto. When our son Petya entered the scene, he was 7-1/2 and had never been to school. How could I plunk him smack into a foreign language second grade and expect him to enjoy it?

As parents, our concept of education was that it was a lifelong learning endeavor. We hoped to guide him on an amazing adventure, rather than have his head flushed down the toilet by the resident school bully. It started out swimmingly with a compliant child, eager to learn. Now, six years later, he was above grade level, while his siblings struggled and backpedalled, all requiring different school materials and courses. They needed threats, coercion, and pep talks to get through one, single day. It was exhausting.

So I wanted to reward Petya as we looked forward to high school when academics, course selection, and grade point averages really Mattered. He, meanwhile, was looking forward to a three-day getaway with Mama, all expenses paid, and room service to boot. I wondered how long it would take us to get to this distant convention. He wondered if there were any indoor pool? Not that we’d be lounging around the hotel. I had every hour, on the hour, scheduled.

“Think of it as a working vacation,” I tell him.

“No problem,” he replies, noting that pizzas are deeply discounted after 9:00 pm, on the room service menu, and that we are in possession of tickets to a sold-out comedian’s parody on homeschoolers.

My teen has known me long enough to realize, that if he puts in his work time, fun time will be sure to follow. I take care of him, he takes care of me. A better son I could not have asked for. But he’s the one who got me into homeschooling in the first place. I’ll try not to hold it against him.

Naturally, the kind of presentations that I really need will not be on the docket: “How to Homeschool All Day, and Work All Night”, “How to Homeschool on Planes, Trains, and Automobiles”, “How to Homeschool When Your Children Do Not Speak English”, “How the Denying of Privileges Will Make Your Student Learn Short Vowels If Not Multiplication Tables”, “How to Homeschool When Your Foreign-Born Children Equate School With Being Beaten for Wrong Answers”, and “How the Police Can Be Used for Homeschool Tardiness… For Kids Who Like to Sleep Beyond 6:00 am”. Ah well, maybe next year. As they say, it’s not about Me.

Some of the greatest minds are being gathered for this conference which has enough Ph.D.s presenting information to dazzle any Ivy League or Ivory Tower wannabes. Looking over the lineup, I jot down some possibilities. We’ll aim for the probably packed-out ballroom sessions on “How to Complete College by Age 18”, or the benefits of Latin in “Why the Best Language to Study is a Dead Language”, in addition to sharpening writing and speaking skills, how to follow your dreams and find your life’s purpose, and so much more. There are parental sessions on burn-out, but I dare not take these, lest question and answer sessions follow, and I depress everyone there.

Recently, we took our kids to visit the local public schools. The administrators were very accommodating and responsive, helping them understand that other children work hard every day, too, and that school need not be a scary place. Benedetto and I had decent school experiences, so I try to come up with why it is, now that the younger kids know a little English, we continue to homeschool.

1. I want them to be at grade level before they qualify for AARP.
2. All children should know at least four foreign languages by the time they become teenagers.
3. I’d rather deal with any behavior problems at home than take time out of my perfectly packed day and have to drive to the school to pick up a child. They probably knocked somebody’s block off for a very good reason.
4. We like to travel during the off-season. The thousands we save each year can be going to the kids’ college fund, or my plastic surgery fund.
5. It’s best that the children be taught for seven hours/day instead of zoning out for six and coming alive during 45 minutes of ESL once/day.
6. I don’t want to do their science projects for them, whether flickering light bulbs or spewing volcanoes. I’m not interested in making my cup cakes look better than your cup cakes for the class snack time.
7. They will avoid the embarrassment of having no baby photos for the school yearbook, nor class bulletin board.
8. They do not need to settle for one or two field trips per year, when they can do ten or twelve… and actually learn something.
9. There is no peer pressure at home. Our dogs do not watch MTV, know the latest movie that’s out, nor crave $150 sneakers. I can live with that.
10. They think that their parents are the smartest people on earth.

So forget my momentary lapses of exhaustion, frustration, and self-centeredness. I consider what it’s like to do a science experiment in the kitchen, sit by the fire and play with the dogs, make a meal together, hike to a glacier, review the Civil War on a battlefield, travel to a foreign country and the kids can speak the language, volunteer with the homeless, reenact Colonial life, visit an ailing grandparent, grow a garden, learn a sport, try a musical instrument, memorize theorems and algorithms, write a thank you note, study the stars on a cloudless night, or skip a grade when the student is able…. Priceless.

These are the best days, the homeschooling days, that allow us to make up for lost time and value and educate those who were once so far away, but now are safe, secure, and seeking to learn all that life has for them. I think we’ll fit in at the homeschooling convention, after all. Cincinnati, here we come.

A funny thing happened on our way to adopt twin baby boys—we ended up with four older children. Russian adoption is an imprecise science at best, a disaster on an average day, and a multi-track train wreck whenever we crossed their border. But delays and detours don’t always spell denial.

Maybe I should have been traveling by pohyezd (train) one year ago this week when I met our dear daughters-to-be. My first mistake on the plane flight to Sweaty Starii Krai was to drop off to a bobbing-head, drooling mouth, fitful sleep. I had been flying for many hours, or weeks, or months, I remember not which. Excitement turned to exhaustion. Before I knew it, we were landing.

A small airport, I had never been to this region before. It was late at night and foggy. Walking inside the two-room terminal, many were the travelers flooding the wooden-podium, makeshift taxi stand. It seemed odd. No “Taxi” sign. Nobody had a car or friend coming to get them? Everyone negotiating prices. Long lists of passengers. Anyhow, my driver would be coming to get me, so I focused on finding my bag on the tiny conveyor.

Walking past “security”, an older gentleman in half a uniform, I found mobs of unofficial taxi drivers. These were swarthy men with ancient Ladas, for the most part. They stuck to me like flies on glue. I confidently pushed past them, out into the chilly night, but there was no one else. Not a soul to meet me. Something was amiss.

I could not stand there on the sidewalk, burly men trying to grab, i.e., “help”, me with my bag. Clutching my purse tightly, filled with wads of spanking new US Dollars for The Payoff to our facilitator, I knew I had to get inside the terminal. Of course, I no longer had a ticket, which meant I could only go so far. As in two steps.

I appealed to the outside security guard, a younger man of about 60 or so.

“Eezvehnee’tyeh, pazhal’istah,” I started, explaining that I had a Problem. “My driver is not here and he was to meet me.”

The kind man sized me up, lady on the verge of hysteria, understanding I could not go in, and I could not go out.

“Do you have his phone number?” he asked. “You can call him from my cell.”

“Oh, balshai’ah spasee’bah!” I rummaged through my documents.

“Take your time, it will be okay,” he counseled.

Withdrawing the sheet of paper with contact numbers, I showed him Alex’s number.

“Gdyeh ohn?” (Where is he?) the guard asked.

“Here in Sweaty Starii Gorod,” I offered.

“You are not in Sweaty Starii Gorod,” he said, as my heart began racing faster than any Trans-Siberian Express.

“Shtoh? Where am I?!” I’m starting to panic.

“You are in Sweaty Starii Krai, the region, but your plane was diverted to another city because of toomahn (fog),” he told me. Apparently my long winter’s nap had tuned me out of any emergency announcements onboard. The darkness had blotted out any airport signs.

“How far away am I from my destination?”

“About three hours by car….” No wonder so many of the passengers had crowded the makeshift taxi stand and now half of this city’s men were gathering outside to “assist” the stranded travelers.

My heart was sinking. I had three days to get in, see the girls, and get out. Maybe not here, but in my part of the world, time was money. I could not afford to be diverted, detoured, nor delayed, although our second Russian adoption had taken four years to complete.

“Let’s call Alex,” my new friend suggested, as a crowd gathered and onlookers gaped and stared.

When he answered, the man explained who he was, and where I was, and handed the phone to me. I had never met Alex, but understood that he spoke no English. So there I plunged into rusty Russian to ask what to do.

“You have a driver that will be there in one minute,” his voice crackled. “I will pay him tomorrow. Do not pay him anything. He has worked with us before. You are now in City A. He will take you to City B to stay in a hotel overnight. Tomorrow morning, we will drive three hours to get you, and take you to Sweaty Starii Gorod. Pohnyeemah’eetyeh?”

“Pohn’yahlah,” (Got it) I said, thankful that they were taking care of business. “Sorry for any trouble that the fog caused you.”

“Yeah, we’ve been waiting at the airport for a couple of hours. Your plane circled several times and then had to divert. Neecheevoh, it’s nothing, we’ll see you tomorrow and take you to the orphanage first thing. Be in the lobby.”

As we hung up, there in front of me loomed a very large man with a tiny piece of cardboard with my last name scrawled on it. My driver! I profusely thanked the security guard.

“God bless you!” I patted his arm. He was beaming as the hero of the day. He quizzed my driver, Boris, as to where he was taking me and making sure that everything was in order. With that, we took our leave, and disappeared into the foggy, damp night.

This driver took me through pot-holed, older parts of whatever city we were approaching. It was about 30 minutes away. Boris spoke of the renovations being done to older buildings, something I really enjoyed, though inwardly, I was holding my breath. We had long departed from any highways, this looked nothing like a city, but instead, the roughest part of some inner-city slum. Where was I? Where was my hotel? After all I had been through, I was not about to end up being robbed and left for dead on some back-road alley.

And then, just as quickly as our descent into darkness had begun, we came to some paved streets. Going through a guard booth, we entered a brightly-shining parking lot, and up a winding drive to a resort hotel. Here Boris carried my bag, walking me to reception, and making sure I was okay. Another Russian gentleman. I spent the night, stuffing and preparing gift bags to give to our girls, and nursing my laryngitis that was developing by leaps and bounds. I had no idea how this was a resort, nor what were the attractions to see, but it was a nice hotel in the middle of nowhere and I got a good night’s sleep.

After the next several days of adventure, it came time to return to Moscow and then home. I had planned to spend the weekend in Moscow at leisure. The flights were such that I could only arrive from Sweaty Starii Krai in the morning, after the morning flights had departed from Moscow for abroad. So stay I would. After all, the agency was charging me for a driver since I had “chosen” to overnight in Moscow-??? Might as well make it two nights instead of one.

Smart move. This time I stayed awake, though I had to leave my hotel in early morning darkness. The fog was so thick, I wondered if there would be any flights at all today.

“Please, God…” I prayed.

“No problem,” said my tried and true regular driver (or make that tired and true). “We are used to fog,” said Igor. These guys were troopers, getting up at the crack of dawn and often working late into the night.

Sweaty Starii Krai’s airport was even smaller than my diverted one. Two ramshackle rooms, one flight in, and one flight out each day. They weighed my suitcase, my carry-on, and were about to weigh me-! Guess they didn’t want to break the scale…. We all flocked into the one waiting room and watched Popeye cartoons in Russian. Not another foreigner in sight.

Then the dreaded announcement came: half an hour delay due to fog. Yep. Then another hour delay. It all added up to about two hours’ delay as we at last hiked out on the tarmac to the solitary waiting plane.

I trusted that Vlad, my driver in Moscow, would know of the delay. I had no way to contact him, not one to use my cell much in the US, much less carry it abroad. That was Benedetto’s thing, and unfortunately, he was not with me.

We approached for landing in Moscow’s Sheremyetyevo Airport, then I heard the engines gunning. Back up we went. Circling a few times, an announcement was made, some kind of rapid-fire regrets. Everyone moaned and groaned and got on their cell phones. I turned to my seat-mate and asked what was happening.

“Nizhniy Novgorod,” he confirmed in Russian. “We cannot land here.”

I explained that I had no way to tell my people what was happening and he said to use his cellphone. I asked if we were responsible to get our own transportation back to Moscow.

“Nyet, we will get back on this same plane. They will not remove our luggage at all. But,” he added. “Do NOT go with any drivers.”

“How far is Moscow by car?” I asked, looking down at the forest below and small figures of cross-country skiers traversing the terrain.

“About six hours. And maybe slower because of the snow. They will charge anything.”

That’s when we were walking into the terminal and I heard the ruble price being bantered about. Quickly calculating in my head, it came to… $500! Who knew if these private entrepreneurs would even get me to Moscow?

“Will we need to spend the night here?” I wondered.

“Nobody knows,” he shrugged. “Look, I’m going out for a smoke. Sit with my briefcase and we will take turns walking around. I will call your people and let them know that you’re delayed.”

And thus began my day-long friendship with Sergei, the engineer. He had been in Sweaty Starii Krai on business, now going back home to Moscow. Here it was, Valentine’s Day, and he had to call his wife and tell her that he, also, had been detoured.

I thought about the whole adoption process being metaphorically depicted before me: delay, after detour, after delay. For all of the problems that we had experienced in earlier adoptions, this one was speeding along. There were the normal bumps in the road, or okay, more like ski jumps off the mountain in a blinding blizzard, but time-wise, we were moving right along. The adoption would be completed in six months’ time from start to finish. Now the delays were in the travel itself.

The hours clicked by, as more and more planes diverted from Moscow. The terminal filled up. I ate my granola bar, apple, and Diet Coke, happily brought from my last city. No need to buy inflated airport snacks. Sergei sent and received multiple text-messages from my people in Moscow. He was a saint.

Six hours later, we were summoned to board. My seat-mate insisted on carrying my bag, as we took the bus through heavily-falling snow. Back onboard, I breathed a sigh of relief.

We landed in Moscow, and there Sergei waited with me for my big suitcase. He made sure that Vlad found me, and vice-versa. Both men thanked the other and I could have kissed them both. Vlad had shuttled back and forth between two airports as they kept changing our arrival destination, in addition to time.

I arrived in the city and got into the apartment around 8:30 pm, talked with Benedetto, who once again had no idea in what city his wife was landing, ran to the 24-hour gastronom and bought a few food supplies, then hit Moo-Moo Restaurant for a late-night Valentine’s Dinner for myself.

Friends, delay is not denial. If you’re in the middle of a detour, enjoy the view, make new friends, but keep pressing for your intended destination. Together with God’s help and the intervention of kind strangers, you will get there.

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.

Cross-stitching has become a craze of sorts among our children. First it was the girls, then the boys. Cross-stitching is a craft woven deep within their Russian souls, helping us to teach life lessons along the way.

Sashenka got her cat kit when she turned nine in October. Then Pasha oohed and aahed over hers until he was granted one on his thirteenth birthday in November. We sit cross-legged on my big bed, the three of us unravelling the embroidery threads and figuring out how many ply are needed for each stitch. Pasha catches on and sails through his frog in no time, while Sashenka is unable to do much at all on her own.

As December approaches, Mashenka wants her own kit for the holidays, a wish that is granted. The genie then concludes that she must have been in an altered state to acquiesce to such a request. The kits cause more and more headaches for yours truly.

“Can’t do it,” concludes 11-1/2 year old Mashenka, insisting that I do her project for her. An unwilling surrogate, I repeatedly review the basics with her. Teach a man to fish….

“If you begin with Cinderella’s hair, you need to count how many stitches are in each row,” I point out. “See, there are five here, and three and a half here….”

She refuses to listen, making x’s one after another. Cinderella eventually has a blond brick on top of her head.

“Etah nee pra’velnah,” (It’s not correct) I try again. “Why is her hair in a square?”

“She is a couch,” Mashenka declares.

“A couch?”

“Koro’vah,” she clarifies in Russian.

“A cow?”

“Her hair is square, like a cow!” she laments, wanting me to make it all better.

I decide that it’s time to stop rescuing her and start enabling her to stitch her own life story.

“Is it Cinderella’s fault? She’s looking to you to make her beautiful. You need to count the stitches.”

At the same time, little Sashenka, the embroidery beggar, shuttles between myself and Pasha, pleading with us to give her a handout of one or two paltry stitches. Petya, our oldest son, whom we believed to be too old and masculine for such pursuits, also asks for an embroidery set of his own. We pick up some post-holiday deals and he follows Pasha as a close second in skill.

Now mind you, the girls were the ones who claimed to be cross-stitch experts. They demonstrate that they know nothing of the most basic stiches: cross-stitch, lazy-daisy, back-stitch, satin-stitch, and French knot. I show them over and over, but they return five minutes later, asking me to complete the row, while they have no interest in lifting a finger.

Pasha, the stitchery savant, has his own stumblingblocks. Finding it difficult to read in English, he looks at the picture and tries to take it from there.

“Let’s separate the threads first. How many ply are in one thread?” I quiz him.

“Six.”

“So if we want to have three threads, we divide it into how many groups?”

“Two,” he sighs, much preferring to fly by the seat of his pants.

I remind him that if he uses up all of his embroidery thread at once, there will be none left to complete the project, since some stiches use 1, 2, or 3-ply. It helps to tell him that he’s been referring to the Spanish section of instructions—Ola! No wonder he’s having problems. At the same time, Petya has so many languages on his instruction sheet, we’re surprised to find Russian, naturally available for the one child who has no problem with English at this point. Preparation, planning ahead, patience: these were the unavoidable life lessons that are woven into our sewing circle.

Remembering my own childhood, I can’t recall any specific projects that I completed. I must have been all of six or seven when I sat with my mom, happily sewing loop after loop of the lazy-daisy petals, finishing off with a few French knots in the middle of the flower. Before we proceeded with any major project, practice was needed, a unique concept in this day and age. If memory serves me correctly (and that’s a big stretch for anyone who has four kids), I believe my mother was working on embroidered pillow-cases. Why she didn’t just go out and buy 100% Egyptian cotton, 200 thread count Frette linens is beyond me. At the same time, she would keep me occupied with iron-on patterns of flowers and other simple outlines. I was totally satisfied for the immediate gratification of a finished petite fleur. I learned to work quietly and methodically, deep snows falling outside and chai simmering inside. Oh, to develop care, and concentration, and creativity in those coming after me.

Yet, even without metaphors or life lessons, the cross-stitches proved challenging enough. Today, I struggled with a nine-year-old who could not master the simple back-stitch.

“Okay,” I counsel her, “look: we come up at one, go in at two, underneath to four, and back to three….”

“Mama, can I do my turdle?” she wheedles, side-stepping any issue of learning, wanting to head straight for the proverbial, imagined greener pastures.

“Until we finish the kitty-cat, there’s really no sense in moving on to the turtle, right? Let’s learn these simple stitches and how to count each square, and then we can go to the next project….” I hold the carrot out, forgetting that carrots hold little appeal in a fast-food society.

These projects were nothing like the red and black cross-stitch of my grandmother’s generation, intricate and elaborate designs found on dresser top scarves and side table doilies. These true works of art could still be found in higher-end, exclusive Russian folk art stores.

As they gained experience, maybe the kids might gravitate toward sewing up a few of the the traditional “rush’niki”. No one with any tangential Slavic ancestry could avoid the long, white linen towels striped with red patterns near the ends and associated with every event from cradling at birth, to weddings, to welcoming guests with bread and salt, to death. As a matter of fact, the more I considered it, my children were perfectly suited for embroidery, which technically means “to embellish”. One could not find better embellishers than these four, whether placing several small junk pins on an elegant suit jacket, or the numerous and dubious details added when story-telling. Gee, I wonder who they got that from….

It was becoming evident that the pink, purple, red, yellow, green, and black threads were a metaphor for life in the adoptive family. We were being woven together with quite a bit of effort, sticking ourselves and drawing figurative blood upon occasion, experiencing no little frustration at times, and often not understanding the big picture. The popular saying, “A stitch in time, saves nine” might have referred to fixing a rip before it became any worse, but it could also refer to much of the everyday-life background that our children lacked. The building blocks of knowledge, and common sense, and civility, were sorely lacking in the beginning. It was like skipping every other stitch where the blah, blank, beige canvas showed through the otherwise beautiful pattern. Many stitches had not yet been sewn on the material of their lives, and other stitches were there that needed to be ripped out. Where the stitches of family life, and education, and compassion had been neglected, we had nine times the work facing us now.

Maybe it was more of a lesson for me, than for them: Follow the Master plan and the picture will become clear.

Happy New Year.

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….

God can do anything. Of this I am firmly convinced. How He forms families is beyond me, simultaneously both wild and wonderful.

I have family members to whom I do not feel particularly related, and non-blood relatives to whom I would give my last drop of blood. My husband and I share no genetic connection (and that’s more than some of you can say!), other than forefathers who had large noses and foremothers who had moustaches (his side, of course). But we are strongly related, even if not by blood.

For us, Hanukkah and Christmas are totally normal, not a stretch of the imagination by any means. The fact that Hanukkah (the Feast of Dedication), a Jewish holiday, is mentioned only in the New Testament (John 10), and that Christmas celebrates a virgin birth with God coming to dwell among us, does not require me to suspend any rational powers of reason. But then I don’t believe in Santa Claus, so maybe I’m not mainstream these days.

I look at 324 Messianic prophecies written in the Hebrew Bible, hundreds and thousands of years before, telling when, where, and what the Messiah would do. Mathematicians say that if only one person fulfilled 48 prophecies (not 324), the odds of that would be one to 1… followed by 157 zeros! But one person fulfilled all 324 and His name is Jesus.

I’ve heard all of the other arguments: that Israel is the “suffering servant” of Isaiah 53, etc. For many years, it was thought that dishonest Christians, monks hidden away in some monasteries, had pencilled in this chapter that describes Yeshua to a T. But with the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls only six decades ago, we see the same prophecies included in manuscripts dating 1,000 years previous to anything in existence up until that time. There goes that theory.

This brings to mind the famous short story penned by Jewish American novelist Philip Roth, “The Conversion of the Jews”. It tells the story of teenager Ozzie Freedman in post World War II America and his theological questions posed to the local rabbi. The rabbi insists that the virgin birth of Jesus is impossible, which leads to a showdown with Ozzie on the synagogue rooftop, refusing to come down until Rabbi Binder answer why, if God is all-powerful, why He could not create a Divine birth if He chose.

Winner of a 1960 National Book Award, the story raises important issues faced by many families such as ours. Not just how Jews can believe in Jesus, but for us, it goes a step farther when you add the mix of adoption.

Our children are ours through adoption, not blood. I have no problem with this. We chose this route. I see it as Divine dealings in the affairs of man, the children being rescued from pain and suffering, none of it their own making. We discussed it one recent day in the car, where all good conversations take place until an ice cream shop looms on the horizon. I had just dropped the boys at one activity, and the girls were headed to their own sporting event.

“It’s only us three girls,” Sashenka giggled in the back seat. “Just like in Russia, da, Mama?”

They couldn’t get over the fact that I could drive, or take care of them, or do any of a variety of things unknown to their previous little patch of Russian countryside.

“Da…. Can you imagine, out of the all of the people in the world (and there are six billion), how we ended up together? God saw you and He saw us, and He put us all together in a family,” I start.

“And Misha and Grisha,” Mashenka adds, reminding me of the dogs…as though I would forget! If ever there was a closer connection, I did not know of any. Slit our paws and mingle our blood, and you could not have a stronger bond.

I continue.

“Did you know that Mama and Papa met in Israel? We were from different places, but we ended up working there together. That’s how God can bring people together from all around the world, people who are just right for each other.”

“Wasn’t Jesus from Israel?” Sashenka wondered, her almost-nine-year-old brow furrowed in thought. The girls were similar to Ozzie Freedman, trying to make sense of it all.

“Yes, He lived in Israel.” I acknowleged, anticipating more questions about Divine plan and intent…..

“So when you were very, very young, did you see Him there?”

Talk about pause for thought-!

“Um, no, honey. He was before my time….” I say slowly.

Or was He?

Jesus the promised Messiah is for all time, and for all people. He is the creator of all individuals, and all families, coming to dwell with us, renew us, and make us whole. He is the therapist par excellence, the redeemer who will save us from our sins, and save us from ourselves.

I have a favorite song, one among many, for this time of year. Performed by the Trans Siberian Orchestra, its lyrics kept me going forward during several years of dark holidays when we felt we would never bring home Petya’s friend Pasha. Ensconsed behind the high walls of a Dickensian institution, Russian officials felt he was unadoptable, an invalid-idiot to be relegated to the margins of mania. We saw none of their diagnoses and kept believing for our own Christmas miracle and homecoming of a child in which others could not believe. For four long years, we fought for the impossible, the Divine “Da” overruling the Russian bureucratic “Nyet”. The past would be forgiven, the future be rewritten.

It is my prayer for you today: believe, and open your life to the realm of all things being possible!

Here are the words to “Anno Domine”:

“On this night of hope and salvation
One child lies embraced in a dream
Where each man regardless of station
On this night can now be redeemed

Where every man regardless of his nation
Ancestral relations
On this night the past can fly away

And that dream we’ve dreamed most
That every child is held close
On this night that dream won’t be betrayed

All as one
Raise your voices!
Raise your voices!
All as one
On this Christmas day!

All rejoice
Raise your voices!
Raise your voices!
All rejoice
Anno Domine!

On this night when no child’s forgotten
No dream sleeps where He cannot see
No man here is misbegotten
And this night’s dreams are still yet to be

Where every man regardless of his nation
Ancestral relations
On this night the past can fly away

And that dream we’ve dreamed most
That every child is held close
On this night that dream won’t be betrayed

All as one
Raise your voices!
Raise your voices!
All as one
On this Christmas day!

All rejoice
Raise your voices!
Raise your voices!
All rejoice
Anno Domine!” Play Song Here: 06-anno-domine