The question is raised from time to time by pre-adoptive parents: could I ever love a child unrelated to me by blood?

I don’t know, do you love your dog?

Last I checked, I was not part of the canine family, yet my connection to Scotties Misha and Grisha could not be stronger. They are my babies and I would do anything for them. I wash them and dry them, and clean up their occasional puke or poo if they’re sick. I brush their beards and their bodies, laugh with them, play with them, feed them. At night, I gaze at their peaceful faces hooked over each leg of mine, faces upturned, and breathing in rhythm with me.

This is love, pure and simple, and has nothing to do with biology.

I love my husband, too, and we have no blood connection. Unless you hail from some odd, kissing-cousin community, your mate shouldn’t be related to you, either! That’s how dynasties are destroyed—too much intermarriage. (I could name names.) So why would we think that there must be a blood connection with a child in order to truly be attached?

Think of a baby left on your doorstep: cooing or crying, eyes calling out to you. Many of us would be drawn-in in no time.

And so it is with adoption. That child looks to you, wants to please you (generally), and be loved by you (always). What’s not to like?

Well, plenty, if you take a poll, but that’s usually because the child feels a lack of self-worth. Build up these deficits morning, noon, and night, and it will pay off in spades.

There is the odd child who may be rebellious, or otherwise resistant to getting along with the program. That’s a shame, but it does happen, even with bio kids.

In those instances, I would suggest spending more leisure time with the child when possible. Yes, more time with the child who is pushing your buttons and making you crazy. You will see him or her in a new light and rekindle (or kindle for the first time) your relationship.

In any tug-of-war, taking one big step forward can throw off your opponent. Orphans long for someone to step up to the plate and run toward them with open arms, even if they’re trying to push you away at the same time. A delicate dance, for sure. Remember that the prodigal son was a bio child gone wrong, and the realization of his father’s unending love turned him around.

Sometimes, love is not enough to “make a child your own”, but generally it is. Love is much more than a feeling, it’s a conscious decision to move closer together in thought, word, and deed. Blood may not bind you, but given time, you’d be willing to go through blood, sweat, and tears for that little (or big) life entrusted to you. Let something bad happen, God forbid, and just see how much you would fight to protect or save that kid.

Could you love somebody else’s child? Like a beloved dog, or mate, once he becomes yours, it’s really not hard at all.

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!)

Most of my “newborns” have been in the 40 to 90 pound range. It helps one’s mental health to think of it this way, since the newly-adopted international child is often at this diminished emotional or psychological level. If you consider the child simply to be needy, demanding, uncooperative, etc., etc., it will wear you down. You believe she’s acting this way to spite you. Instead, she knows of no other way. She’s a baby.

The older child adoptee, whether 5 or 15, is like a newborn or toddler, at best, needing constant care and supervision. And your life as you know it, will probably end, for at least the first year, because the baby has needs. You will have to juggle feelings of resentment in yourself, as well as jealousy rising up in the family, since the new child will require you 24/7. If there are other children, or a spouse, good luck with that. Pretend like you’re auditioning as a master juggler for the Big Apple Circus.

It can be done, it just takes lots of thought, as well as understanding (or resignation, lol) that the first year will probably be more intense than you ever could have predicted. Imagine everyone in the house suffering with PMS ‘round the clock while reciting the alphabet backwards, chanting alternating math facts from the times tables, while conducting a fire drill, and teaching the children under 7 to drive. That gives you half the picture of the possible pandemonium of the first year with your “newborn”, be they large or small.

I get a lot of e-mails from people in various phases of the adoption process, from contemplation, to finalization, to assimilation. I try to fill them in on the basics—what to expect, how to prepare, what they might encounter. But, the fact is, you never know until you do it, like with anything else.

May you be pleasantly surprised! We were. (Well, in at least one out of four Russian adoptions, but who’s counting, right?)

Before adoption, let’s face it, it’s all shadow and mirrors. The child usually won’t flip out in the orphanage in front of so many onlookers. It’s only when you get him to your hotel, or the airport, or some other place where you’re all on your own that you learn: he’s a runner, she’s a screamer, this one refuses to listen, and that one will not stop crying. The 12-year-old often acts like a 2-year-old (with some 20-year-old ideas thrown in for good measure).

Fun.

It all gets better, it does. Just brace yourself for the initial adjustments. The child will need you. Maybe you discover that you can’t easily run out for a quick Starbucks, or spend one-on-one time with the kids or spouse. The bio daughter was used to being the only girl in the house. Who among us likes to be slowly sidelined, edged out of existence, even if for a good cause?

Everything changes. Nothing is seamless or smooth.

But isn’t that true with any “newborn”? The baby will cry, and poop, and spit-up. We don’t resent them for it. It comes with the territory.

Your older child may challenge your authority, and huff and puff and threaten to blow the house down. She might not understand how to make friends, how to occupy herself (read, “Entertain me!”), and how to make pleasant dinnertime conversation. Horoshoh, okay, with a toddler you’re happy if even part of the food stays on the highchair tray. “Lower the expectations” is the mantra of the day.

The older child faces a world that has literally changed for them overnight. Rumpelstiltskin is not a fairy tale, he has come to life in our sons and daughters, awaking from a long slumber in the orphanage, and stepping into a new life. The culture is different, the language is different, the parental expectations are unknown and inconceivable. The kids have no frame of reference. And, if we’re honest, that can make us angry at times, too.

In a perfect world, we would all be well-rested, and well-read, and well-advised when facing the first-year transitions. How many times does that happen with a newborn? You’re sleep-deprived, and receiving advice from absolute strangers, in addition to well-meaning relatives (we’re giving them the benefit of the doubt here), all trying to second-guess your decisions. On the other hand, after adoption, you’re pretty much on your own, jet-lagged and hyper-vigilant, winging it as best as possible, with a big bruiser of a preteen baby-! The agency disappears into the woodwork until your first post-placement report is due.

The best thing is to talk with other adoptive parents. They know the real score, which is a score you should avoid keeping in terms of winning or losing. It’s a game where each side scores a few points here and there, and where you’d actually be happy for the other side to score occasionally. Keep in mind that the playing field will not be even for years to come, and that’s alright, too.

The newborn needs so much done for her. My youngest, who is almost 10, recently said she would pack her own bag. Sashenka should be an expert at packing, since we do it every week, twice a week. Usually, I lay out the clothes for the kids, according to our planned activities, and then they pack it. But this time, she wanted to gather the clothes from the closet, herself.

Sounded reasonable enough. (That should have been the first red flag.)

I reviewed a list with her. Most of the outfits I got out myself, leaving only a few items for her to collect: one, two, three. It was too much. We arrived in Location B and she put on some sort of get-up the next day.

“Where are your black pants?” I asked. “Didn’t we talk about black pants?”

She had packed some odd color of blue and I’m not even sure where she found them, or what size they were. Maybe they were meant to be capris…? Maybe she was meant to be a clown…. Maybe I was not meant to be a mother…. Maybe this was Early Immigrant Mix-and-Match Chic….

I had to remember: she was a baby, a newborn, incapable of the simplest tasks without constant supervision. Why hadn’t I checked up on her?

Probably because I was exhausted, myself, helloooo!, and hoping for once that she could do something right. Her little foray into independence had wreaked havoc with my schedule, because now we had to scramble to find something else for her to wear in the public eye. (Parents, make a note of this: live your first year or two on a farm, or somewhere else sequestered away-!)

Every once in a while, I forget: these are not homegrown kids with extensive experience under their belts. Their resumes were lacking, while I treated them like corporate recruits, and they were already stretching enough to reach for the role of stockroom clerk.

What was my big hurry? What was so wrong with being a baby, if you’ve never been allowed to enjoy a real childhood? Burdened by adult responsibilities and worries, these kids needed to regress and kick-back. Meanwhile, their Type-A mother struggled with her own thoughts of being laid-back, not in her normal vocabulary. As I mentally calculated that the kids had to complete at least three or four grade levels per year in order to finish high school before they turned 40, I wondered how necessary it was that they do well, RIGHT NOW, in readin’, writin’, and ‘rithmetic. Perhaps we should smile and be satisfied with a goofy grin, a hand slipped into ours, the calling out of “Mama” or “Papa”.

Lowered expectations were so counterintuitive to everything I stood for, fell for, or hoped for. “Let it go….”

Why obsess over where they should be in their schooling, or why they don’t understand the same word we’ve reviewed 100x, or how the grabbing and gobbling of food was so deeply ingrained that it might overshadow every mealtime from here to eternity? We would gently remind, and coddle, and cajole, and accentuate the positive—an easy idea to expound upon in a motivational meeting, harder to hash out in everyday life.

They were babies, pure and simple. For now, we needed to enjoy them, interact with them, and love them. We would spend time playing on the floor, cuddling on the couch, and singing in the car.

(Benedetto’s insertion: “Would you be referring to yourself, or to me?” Alexandra has always been one unafraid of using the royal “we”. Playing on the floor, indeed.)

Eventually, our older child adoptees would grow up. All babies do.

(Even me!–Alexandra’s note to Benedetto)

Once upon a time, cell phones were used to make important calls: I’ll be late, please bring home some milk, I have a flat tire, etc. Nowadays, the call function has become an incidental issue, a side benefit.

The phone takes photos, sends texts, works as an alarm clock, and tells you where all the highway speed traps are. The phone teaches numerous languages and offers the complete works of Shakespeare. It can scan grocery items’ barcodes, and tell you where to buy the product for less.

None of this impresses me, except for recently when we were in a shoe store, looking for stylish flats for Mashenka. The prices were nowhere to be found. Paying $250 for a twelve-year-old’s spectator ballet flats was not on my radar, and definitely not on my phone.

“Where are the prices marked?” I am irked at the thought of having to corral a sales clerk and ask about each pair we plucked from display.

He chuckles, my man-about-town.

“There’s an app for that,” he winks, scanning the shoebox with his phone, and receiving the price instantly.

Okay, that was helpful, I’ll admit. My husband, though, is beyond mesmerized.

Someone has told him that there’s an application to change traffic lights from red to green.

“Isn’t that what we call ‘anarchy’? Don’t you think everyone would want to change the lights at their whim, too? Can you say ‘ambulance’?” I shoot a withering look in his direction.

Upon further investigation, he’s dismayed to learn that the traffic light transformer doesn’t work. Society is a safer place.

“A level,” he holds up the phone one day as we’re visiting his brother-in-law, the bubble gliding side to side, as though suddenly he’s suddenly a bonafide building contractor.

“Brilliant,” the BIL replies, making a note of this fantastic feature.

A girlfriend shows me her cat’s close-up photo on her phone. He just died and I find myself virtually petting his fluffy face and purring pleasantries while she weeps beside me. The photo-phone helps us say our goodbyes to a good, old, feline fellow whose only shortcoming was that he was a cat.

Petya decides to go fishing, somehow synonymous with the Russian soul and deep-running, icy rivers. I must have missed that growing up, and now have an aversion to eclectic establishments offering Espresso and Live Bait. We are in the midst of summer’s heat and five of them wish to head to the ocean, battling mosquitoes piercing any inch of exposed skin and crabs grabbing at submerged toes, to which I respond, “Bon Voyage”. Petya conspires with his father, my non-fishing husband always happy to please, as they hunch over the i-Phone and giggle like little old ladies.

“Papa says there’s an app for that,” my son says excitedly.

“A tide chart,” Benedetto whispers in awe, as though this city-dweller were now Captain Ahab.

He can send and receive faxes, and all of his supermarket courtesy cards are currently uploaded onto his phone (or is that downloaded?). It’s all beyond me. While waiting anywhere, he peruses the Bible, or volumes of Sherlock Holmes. He rarely has time to answer the phone any more.

“Did you ever know how Holmes and Dr. Watson became investigatory partners?” he tries to wow me one morning in the car.

“Umm, no. Could you microwave this?” I hand him my cooled-off coffee. “And while you’re at it, get the satellite going. I need to beam a live feed to Istanbul,” I add.

“There are limits,” he huffs. “You really need to learn what a phone can do these days.”

“As long as it can clean the house, bathe the dogs, and hem the kids’ pants, I’m in.”

There must be an app for that.

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

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

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

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

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

“Nyet.”

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

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

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

“Nyet,” he shook his head, confused.

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

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

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

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

Scary stuff.

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

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

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

“One whole month….”

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

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

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

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

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

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

They probably never will.

Take the plunge, people!

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s nothing like a summertime heat wave, followed by thunderous storms and refreshing breezes. In our experience of late, insert “loss of electrical power, causing one to stumble around in darkness and suffer through a sweaty, steamy night with pounding head and drenched pajamas”, instead of any cooling relief.

I generally like to sleep with a small light on. It helps to inform me if one of the dogs jumped on the bed, rather than perhaps a baby lion cub wandered in and wanted to snuggle for awhile. Then there was that time in a foreign hotel when a worker popped his head in the door in the middle of the night. I was glad that a small lamp was burning the midnight oil and I could report this sorry specimen of a security guard to his superiors.

So when the lights go off, I’m a bit at a loss. Particularly when it’s nearing 100 degrees inside and out, with humidity about the same. It takes me back to any of a number of uncomfortable places, probably the worst of which was in Uganda, sleeping under a mosquito net, soaked with equal parts perspiration and bug spray, hungry dogs gnawing the bones of something outside our open window all night, and the joy of pit latrines lying just beyond. I didn’t sleep for the entire sultry, sticky, seven days we were there.

Our latest loss of power went down something like this: we arrived home at 6:00 pm, to discover that the electricity had gone off during a late afternoon storm. The a/c was on before that, but the temperatures were already soaring. We scooped up the Scotties and headed to a meeting in another part of town that still had power. Returning home at 8:30 pm, everyone quickly grew hot and tired. We resorted to bringing in Chinese carryout, dining by candlelight, and then trying to sleep.

Did you know that there are summer nights when the temperature really doesn’t decrease at all at night?

It was hotter than hot and darker than dark. Unless you’re used to darkness, it’s uncomfortable. You can hurt yourself. Danger lurks where there are no lamps.

Our whole neighborhood was dark. Nary a candle burned anywhere. There were a few neighbors seen strolling on nearby streets, walking to cafes, trying to find a market that might still have ice for sale. We glimpsed others in garden chairs, sipping cool drinks in their backyards, imagining themselves to be in the Adirondacks, no doubt. I hoped for their sakes that the votive candles on the tables were packed full of industrial-strength citronella, to fight off the meat-eating mosquitos-on-a-mission. It was nice to see people making lemonade out of lemons, shall we say, while my husband longed for his namesake sparkling ice water, San Benedetto.

Many of our neighbors were gone, poof, vanished, checked-out like a resort abandoned just after the season’s close. I think they all headed for hotels in other sectors of the city. Because of the dogs, we were stuck.

Misha and Grisha groaned in the heat and finally went into a sleepy, hibernation mode. I gave them water and checked on them repeatedly, Benedetto drawing the line at my putting a cool cloth on their furry foreheads. I heard the kids get up and down out of bed to splash water on their faces through the night. Personally, I tossed this way and that on top of the bed, my sinuses swelling and throbbing, no sleep in sight.

And I don’t even have sinus problems.

At 2:30 am, I approached Benedetto, who was out cold. Well, “out”, in any event.

“I think we’re all going to die.”

“Huh? What?” he snorted awake. “What do you want me to do about it? I’ve called the electric company three times. How about we all go sit in the car?”

“Fine,” I agreed, and it took practically no time at all to saddle up the troops and head ‘em on out. Anyplace had to be better than “here”.

Most everyone fell asleep as soon as the frigid airconditioning hit their faces. Pasha, of course, did not. He went into his pretzel-boy routine, twisting long arms and legs this way and that, restless enough to keep me awake for hours, even in the cool. Which made me hot under the collar and defeated the whole auto adventure.

At 4:30 am, we returned inside and the interior temperature of the house had dropped slightly. At last, I was able to fall to a fitful sleep for a couple of hours. As the sun began its ascent, so did the heat.

We were going out of town that day, anyway, so I instructed everyone to take cool showers and pack their things. I looked in the mirror in the dim and semi-dark bathroom, spying my puffy eyes and bright red cheeks, and shuddering. Weren’t we a pretty sight?

Somehow we made it through the day, sleep-deprived, but cool. By the time we returned to the city late at night, there was still no power. It was time to leave for the dacha and call it a day. A very long day—and night.

This was my second experience in as many weeks to be without electricity. The first time it was imagined that our home had been struck by lightning—yes, only us—out of an entire metro area of millions. It made me wax philosophical during those sleepless, silent hours on end.

We’ve probably all tried to live life without power and without light. I can tell you, it’s dangerous in many ways, and not a lot of fun in others. People in other parts of the world can manage to get-by on no power if they’ve never experienced it. They may scoff at what they do not know.

All I can say is that when the lights at last came on again, I might only describe it as pure and utter relief, and the sense that all was well with the world again. There were no longer any plaguing, paranoid thoughts of banditi robbing the block blind, Scotties stumbling down the stairs, food rotting in the fridge, or kids crying from heat exhaustion. We definitely did not need such drama.

I am going to live with power. It’s possible to survive without it… but why?

The Russians were coming and our family grew excited at the prospect. They wanted to interview us and show the world a “happy adoption story”, an elusive idea that was rumored to exist.

We could only imagine the questions.

“Have you killed any of your Russian children?”

“Let me see… 1, 2, 3, 4… nope, all present and accounted for.”

“Are you holding any in a closet, starving them to death?”

“No room—too many other skeletons there.”

“Do you impart Russian culture and customs to them?”

“Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday,” I would declare with uplifted sworn-statement hand, upon which we all might swing into a rousing rendition of “Kalinka”.

You think I’m kidding.

Partly. We actually did sing “Kalinka”.

Interestingly, we got a hip, young journalist whom all the kids really liked. She no doubt gave us a fake name, so we turned the tables and gave our real names for once. I could see her press pass dangling from her neck as she manipulated her microphone this way and that, speaking in rapid Russian, her mp3 recorder taping more than five hours of both amazing insights and inane chatter.

In our family, that amount of talk could be recorded at just one meal-time, and hardly did us justice. She had enough space for 37 hours—what were the other 32 hours going to be used for—the perpetrators of the “parasailing donkey incident” in Russia?

I considered which one might grab more column inches in print, and more air-time when broadcast. Well, if anyone could compete with a flying donkey, it was our laughing hyena of a family.

With professional panache, the kids rose to the occasion and gave enough significant soundbytes to springboard us to a front-page spread. The fact that they were all photogenic didn’t hurt matters, either.

What’s next? Probably a Russian reality show with our kids as comic relief, singing, shmoozing, splashing their way to prime time.

Just about the time the ten (make that eleven and counting…) Russian undercover agents were being arrested for spying in America, our family invited five Russian students home for dinner. If they were planting microphones for information-gathering purposes, they’d get an earful at our house, that’s for sure.

“She took my pencil!”

“I don’t know vhere are my spelling vords!”

“His feet are touching me!”

“Tell her to stop reading out loud!”

Ah yes, such gems are bound to entertain the FSB (formerly known as the KGB). At least the eavesdropping agents would not require simultaneous translation on their direct feed, since our kids regularly resorted to Russian for all complaints, quarrels, and questions.

Many casual observers could not fathom that the suspected spies lived among them in surburbia, just outside major metro areas. Made absolute sense to me. Not everyone can afford the high-rent districts of the city. Plus, where else do you think they would live—in the Kremlin, or on Capitol Hill? Maybe. But these were the elusive “everyday folks”, couples, families that you’d never suspect. Probably kids like ours will be their next recruits—I mean, who would imagine that children with their never-ending questions might be involved in covert and clandestine operations? Perfect.

They say that most of those arrested did not have Russian names. Oh well, that disqualifies my kids. But many are the days when my kids become confused about their own names, addresses, and emergency phone numbers—what city are we in, and what is our street number?

That might make them very attractive as spy recruits. They would be so deeply under cover that they would forget their own identity, which could prove advantageous in times of torture and interrogation, yet work against them when reporting-in to headquarters.

“Hello, this is Parrot… no Pelican… uh, Rhino?… no, Rubber Ducky!”

A Ph.D. counter-terrorism expert friend of ours once commented a year or two after we brought home Petya, that we should monitor his activities. He knew we were part of the Russian-American community and that Petya could be found at some official functions.

“They’re going to start recruiting him,” he informed me.

“For what? He’s nine years old—,” I laughed.

“It begins with careful cultivation over years…. E-mails, cellphone calls, sleep-overs….”

Little did the Rooskies know, Petya had a secret anti-agent weapon of his own: helicopter parents, aware of his every movement-! The boy’s conspiratorial career would be over before it ever began.

It is currently estimated that there are more Russian spies operating in the US and in the UK than were operating during the Cold War. At any given time, approximately 50 couples work under deep cover in America, “illegals”, while thousands of others engage in everyday secret snooping and surveillance, “legals”.

I’m not sure that the Russians would want to try recruiting any of my Russian-American, dual-passport kids. There would be no successful outcome for several reasons. First of all, they were adopted at older ages and take a very dim view of all that had befallen them in the homeland. Secondly, some of them have the attention span of a distracted ten-year-old waiting just before the school’s final dismissal bell sounds for summer break. Thirdly, they’re not the best blackmail candidates.

“We’ll spread it around that you don’t eat your broccoli,” comes the sneering, threatening voice over the crackling phone line.

“Go ahead, Big Nose, and I’ll tell your mom…..”

On the other hand, doggies Misha and Grisha show some promise, having a lot to recommend them. They can often be spotted fake-sleeping, peering at my computer screen from behind their bushy brows, no doubt passing information to neighbor dogs feigning to lift a leg in our yard. Best to stay alert to the seemingly-benign.

As they say in America: “In God we trust.”

All others, we monitor.

I am starting a mini-series of sorts. Every once in awhile, I’m going to be posting about some unique, out-of-the-ordinary museums that we have come across, whether at home, or in our travels. I’m sure that there are some near where you live, and in this economy, many families are opting for stay-cations, keeping close to home for any time off. Check out the treasures that are in your community. If it’s particularly germane, I will mention the exact museum location and name.

You see, I spent part of my early childhood in a very remote northern territory. There were birch trees, and bears, and lots of snow. People skated and went ice fishing. In early spring, we saw maple trees on tap with wooden buckets hanging to collect the delightful syrup. In the summer, residents went to small holiday homes to swim in freezing lakes. There was not a whole lot to do beyond these basics.

Occasionally, our family resorted to a small eatery offering chicken-in-a-basket. Now, this was a treat. (Only those of a certain era will identify with this unique culinary presentation featuring either a wicker or plastic basket and semi-waxed paper, upon which fried chicken and french fries were placed. For children before the time of fast food, it was heaven.)

Anyways, attached to this eatery, for a nominal Entrance Fee, was a Museum of Local Artifacts, prominently featuring a real “Shrunken Head!!!” Because of the gruesomeness of said item, children had to be over a certain age to glimpse its utter goriness. Unfortunately, I was never old enough, which I regret and disturbs me to this day….

I have always been interested in museums, whether whimsical and wacky, or straightforward and scientific. I remember visiting one museum in Calcutta where the bird droppings inside were so thick, it was difficult to see into certain glass cases. The upright ones more than made up for the soiled ones, as we examined the belly contents found in the Eastern Indian saltwater crocodile growing to sizes longer than 15 feet long and holding bracelets, anklets, and other jewelry and paraphernalia gobbled with its victims. Alright, it was a local holiday (Guru Nanak Day) and there was nothing else to do….

Most of these serendipitous “finds” have been discovered while trying to fill time—whether for myself, or for our children. There’s that strange pause, when you think you should be “doing” or “experiencing” something in your city or another, and yet, if you’re anything like me, you don’t want to join the masses at the usual, overcrowded sites. And hence, we find ourselves stepping into unique experiences that would not normally be on our Top Ten To Do lists.

This past week, I took the kids to a local archaeological museum. It was all of one room, and turned out to be more educational and informational than many museums boasting budgets in the millions. An elderly volunteer greeted us, while university interns worked on computers. We were taken through the steps of research, site evaluation and preparation, stratigraphy, tools, sifting of earth, collecting artifacts according to site squares, rinsing back at the lab, reconstruction of anything broken, photographing and publishing the findings.

On the drive there, we had one of the most lively discussions ever, with the children enjoying the idea of finding “treasure” hidden beneath the earth and what it could tell us about previous inhabitants.

“What would an archaeologist be looking for in a dig?” I challenge them.

“Deenozah’beree!” Sashenka shouts out, not yet having mastered the raise-your-hand and wait-to-be-called-on process.

“Dinosaurs? Good, but that’s more for a paleontologist, rather than an archaeologist….”

“Bones!” Pasha chimes in.

“Possibly, but again, an anthropologist might be the one interested in actual bones…. After someone dies, or if a home burns down, or a war is fought, what would inhabitants leave behind that would tell us something of their lives?” I suggest.

“Jewels!” Petya enthuses, always aiming high in life.

That’s my boy. He was obviously referring to my demise.

Once at the museum, they were a bit dismayed to learn that older privies (outhouses) were ideal dumping grounds for cast-off pottery, tools, and even weapons that were no longer in use. The four spent time at a favorite table, collecting plate pieces that had been smashed specifically so that children could try their hand at putting them back together again, like a real archaeologist would do.

We talked about the items that might typify our culture and again, they blossomed and came up with many insights. Usually, thinking creatively in a free-form fashion, stumped them. This time, I sensed real progress being made in a fun environment.

It took all of an hour in the museum itself. Several of the staff came to meet us, discussing the old handwriting found on a letter from long ago. They had me read it aloud to my four children, never imagining that mine were once orphans. It was from a son who was too young to run off to war, but had, anyway, against his father’s wishes. He begged for forgiveness and talked about how, should he survive the battles he faced, he would always value his family and respect his father. “If God lets me get home safe again, I will try to behave and mind my parents better than I have….”

Everyone grew a little misty-eyed. We were home in time for lunch, greatly benefited in more ways than one by visiting this diminutive display of a museum.

“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!