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A Family of Her Own, A Family of Our Own

As I type, it is 9 a.m., Thursday, April 10 in China. Exactly one month ago, we waited in our hotel lobby, ready to board the bus that took us to the civil affairs office in Nanjing where we met our daughter for the first time.

Only one month. No time at all, and yet, a lifetime. As a friend observed, so magnificent, and so mundane. As always, life is in the details. A few weeks ago, we met our daughter on the other side of the world. Lanterns swung from trees and doorways. Unfamiliar sounds floated like music on the air. A shy girl hid her head on my shoulder and stole looks at us with dark eyes that wanted to trust, but weren't sure they were able. Back on this side, I struggle to keep the goldfish crackers swept from the floor before the mountain of folded laundry crashes from the couch. Somewhere in the distance, the raspy sound of a cat with a hairball promises a mess waiting to be found. And Cate darts in and out, eyes sparkling, begging to be chased, and caught and tickled and kissed.

So magnificent and so mundane is this life we all lead.

In one month, a little girl has blossomed. She is funny. She has a sense of humor. She has a temper. She is gaining confidence and making friends. She loves food. She's learning to dance. She likes to be tucked in under blankets and nestled beside her bunny before she throws them all out of her crib every night. She plays with her socks. She is particular about her shoes. She loves me, and her baba, and her brother. She has learned to kiss, big puckery kisses, with dramatic "MMMMMMA's." She loves the cats. She want to be outside. She loves being pulled in the wagon and going down the slide, but wants nothing to do with the swing. She will walk on grass, but refuses to move on crunchy leaves. She insists on talking on the phone. She leads us to the bathroom when she wants to take a bath or brush her teeth. She likes to sweep the floor. She hates it when her hands are messy.

I have learned these things in a month... these things, the things I have wanted to know. Every day, every hour, I learn more.

In a month, I have witnessed Alex become the big brother he wanted to be, the one who is teaching his sister, the one she copies, the one who feeds her new foods, the one who hugs her when he goes to school and holds her hand when they walk together through the yard. There is, of course, a vying for attention. Impatience when she has a tantrum. A call for justice when she hits. But there is also a calm and gentle voice drifting up the stairs in the morning, "It's okay Cate. Mama will be right down. You're okay. I am here with you."

In a month, Steve has been smitten, has jumped through hoops, for his new daughter. He is persistent. He makes her laugh. He lifts her high so she can touch the ceiling and barters for kisses with treats. She plays hard to get, but it is clear to see, he has her heart. And she has his. And I fall in love again with this man.

Certain moments in our lives define us. This is one of mine.

The journey to parenthood has not been the easiest for me. I carried both of these children in my heart long before I carried them in my arms. And yet, they are here. I would not undo a single tear, a single anxious night. They are here. They are what I waited for all along. Laughter and tantrums and smashed Goldfish crackers. They are what I waited for all along.


This is my last post on this blog. Every good story should find its ending and Cate is now home. I hope to start another tale and will post the address here when I do. There probably won't be moonbeams or dragons, but I am sure there will be pirates and golden crystals from the sun. I thank all of you, so many people I know, and many people I don't, who have kept us in their hearts throughout this journey. In my life, I have never felt such an outpouring of joy. I am not overstating this in a burst of emotion. This is a fact. The love, the welcome, the delight that has flowed into our lives since we knew Cate was coming into our lives, is astonishing. This little girl has magic in her. I feel it all around me. I see it in people's smiles. I hear it in their conversation. We will never know the circumstances that have brought this child to us, but I do know, that this is where she is meant to be, that her coming here has been a coming of joy. There is tangible joy all around her. I feel it all around me. I have all of you to thank for this pure delight and for filling her life with love. You have created for her a family, a community.

This morning was a typical morning. Alex had school. He didn't want to put his shoes on, wanted to fasten his own car seat (an exercise in patience when you are running a little late), needed a snack or he wouldn't have an once of energy for learning or playing. I forgot that Cate cries and fusses unless she buckles a part of her own car seat. I unbuckled her. Took a breath while she did it herself. We had left the windows down. My seat was cold and a little damp. But the sun was shining, the crocuses up.

As we drove toward town, Cate sang. Alex pretended to sleep. He told her to stop. Still she sang. He told her to stop. Still she sang. It had potential to become unpleasant. Then it was quiet. They were both pretending to sleep. I heard a little giggle from Cate. One eye opened, she was trying to see what Alex was up to, so she could do it next. Alex quickly closed his eyes. Then they both flew open again.

"Mom, I can't even believe that Cate is really here. Can you? I just can't believe she is really true."

I feel a catch in my breath, caught off guard, by the depth of this small boy, by the history of hope and emotion in his question. By the reminder that he too had waited and waited.

Next to him, his sister giggles, trying to catch his eye. He closes his eyes and opens them again.

"And Mom, I am just too, too hungry to go to school."

So magnificent and so mundane is this life we lead.

Just Trying It

I put a pillow in Cate's crib last night. Like may things related to Cate, her likes and dislikes, I can thank Alex for this discovery. It has been his insistence that we "just try it" with her that has unearthed many new discoveries, like the knowledge that she loves hard boiled eggs, chili, ginger and bubble baths. And he insisted that a pillow be added to her crib. I balked at the suggestion. My one pre-adoption obsession (besides checking my email and every site even marginally related to Chinese adoption at least every ten minutes) was finding the world's softest blanket and the world's softest toy for Cate. In my mind, I pictured her in a cold, sterile institutionalized setting. The caregivers, I imagined, were kind. But the kind of soft comforts a baby would need to thrive would be absent - replaced with stiff, scratchy, low thread count sheets. I had seen pictures of the stainless steel cribs. I knew this girl needed comfort.

And so, I allowed myself one purchase before we had the "OFFICIAL" word. Just one. And that was a doll. A tiny, soft doll who nestles herself inside an equally luscious peapod. My slightly superstitious nature wouldn't allow me to take responsibility for my breach of conduct. The doll wouldn't be from me... Santa, yes, Santa would bring it. And if he didn't want to, I would just put his name on the tag and slip it under the tree. And that is what I did.

When we were officially, official, I began my blanket quest. I spent at least half a day finalizing the research I had begun a year earlier. I touched blankets. Categories developed. Not soft. Pretty soft. Super soft, but in an unrealistic way. And Perfect. Then for size. Cate is two, and big for her age, so a baby blanket would not do. Neither would a full size blanket. Finally, after much testing and holding up for size, the blanket was found and lovingly packed, along with the tiny peapod doll, into a suitcase headed for China. With these item in tow, no language barrier could ever stand between us. She would FEEL the love and comfort all around her. She would hold it in her hand.

And so we met Cate. We brought her back to our hotel. She looked small and scared and not at all sure she wanted to be with us. Alex and I headed for the suitcase. We pulled out the small panda he had wanted to bring to her. She looked at it, unimpressed, and then flung it across the room. Next, a little lamb, a leftover from Alex's smaller days that pulled at my heartstrings. It too went airborne. "She needs the doll, Mom," he said. I was afraid. "Just try it," the four-year-old advocate insisted. And so we did. This was the first time we saw THE LOOK I have described. She took one look at that baby nestled in a peapod, gave a look of great disdain, and then hit it to the ground with all of her might. Next, she reached for the plastic hotel room key and refused to let go of it for the rest of the day.

And what became of that oh-so-soft- you will never want to let go of this-blanket? Well, I saved it until nightfall. I placed Cate in her crib and put the blanket gently beside her. She paid no notice. But when my head was turned, she stood up and threw it out of the crib. In fact, she threw everything out of the crib. The panda, the lamb, the doll, the blanket, the sheet, the thin mattress, and then she put her head down on the hard bottom and went to sleep. And this is what she has done every night since we have known her, with the exception that I made her work more challenging by adding a beautiful silk quilt to the mix. I figured, she needs the exercise.

So, fast forward three weeks or so... Alex insists we "just try it" with the pillow. I tell him she will throw it out. "Just try it, Mom. Trust me." And so we do. We put a full size pillow in the crib. We put her in the crib, and instead of standing up, she lays right down, her head on the pillow. I put the soft blanket over her. I put the silk quilt on top of that. And just for kicks, I tuck the baby (now out of its peapod wrap) in right beside her. And she smiles, and looks so cute and adorable that I want to crawl into the little nest too. Alex stands triumphant.

I turn out the light and sit down. Cate doesn't move, but begins to talk. And talk, and talk. And sing and laugh and copy any sound I might make - a cough, a sniff. She goes on and on like that, nestled in her pillow bed, and suddenly, instead of tears and cries and sterile cribs, I picture a huge pajama party every night when the lights go low at the orphanage. Little children calling out to their friends, making jokes, and laughing while the nannies quietly sing and shush them to sleep. I start to laugh and Cate laughs back in the darkness. Then, all is silent. The sweet sound of sleep. Or so I think. I crack open my eyes and in the shadowy light, I see her. She is standing. Out goes the silk quilt. Out goes the soft blanket. And yes, finally, the baby doll is flung with as much force as Cate's chubby little little arm can muster.

But the pillow remained. And a moment or two later, I crept out of the room, pausing to look at her peaceful little head nestled in its soft comfort and smiled as I imagine Alex's grin in the morning.