Some truth: Three Months post-placement

There is a recent blog post that is quickly making the rounds of adoptive parents:
Jen Hatmaker: The Truth About Adoption One Year Later

Jen Hatmaker is a wonderful writer, and the words of this piece in particular resonate with many of my friends in the adoption community. Several of these friends are singing the praises of this post because it says out loud what some of us are afraid to admit is happening in our own homes. It is comforting to see that other families are also struggling, that our childrens' reactions and behaviors are not unique--especially when there are so many other adoption blogs that document a seemingly flawless transition to family life. That with time our family lives will return to something close to 'normal'.

It is a relief to read the post and identify which stage your child is currently in; are we still in "Spaz out?" Could we be in "Triage?" You nod your head in sweet agreement when you find the description that matches your reality.

And I get that, and I appreciate that.

But, as Ms. Hatmaker herself writes in the start of her post, the "One Year Later" timeframe is specific to HER family, and HER experience. For many children the truth about adoption one year out is that the challenges are *just* beginning. Some children, like my child, have irreversible brain trauma that may manifest in behaviors that *never* go away. Other children are so overwhelmed by stress that they can't self-regulate. For some families the first-year post-adoption is a whirlwind of doctors appointments; urgent medical needs masking the equally-urgent emotional needs beneath the surface.

So while seeing a list of stages with specific time-lines attached can provide relief for some families, for  others it can only lead to frustration and feelings of failure. What if at five months post-placement your family is nowhere *near* triage? What if your child's grief-fueled rages get stronger with each week that passes? How does the family with a child recently diagnosed with PTSD feel when they look at that post?

Of course this is all part of the bigger issue, right? Just as the "happily ever after" adoption blogs don't tell the one true story, nor do the posts like Ms. Hatmaker's--the ones that are supposed to speak to the rest of us. The truth is that there is no *one* true story. The truth is that the story shifts and changes for each child, for each family.

The truth is that while your your family may identify with Ms. Hatmaker's post today, tomorrow could bring you to your knees in unexpected ways.

****             ****

In our home we are barely able to speak to the truth about adoption *three months* out.

YH and I walk the big kids to school each morning. We wander back home together and do chores, or wait for our Early Childhood Intervention Specialist to come over, or go to tumbling class. Starting next week we will spend Tuesday and Thursday mornings in YH's preschool class.

In the afternoons we pick up the big kids and go to a park, or out for ice cream. We play until Sean comes home from teaching high-school math and we eat dinner together. YH takes a bath and then goes to bed while the big kids finish their homework or clean their rooms. The big kids are asleep by 8:30pm and Sean and I have some time to ourselves. We could  use this time to cleaup, or play cards, or make-out but mostly we sit on the couch and watch "Breaking Bad". It could be worse, we think. At least we're not meth dealers. It could be much worse.

And from the outside it all looks lovely--like a "happily ever after" post.

But inside the house, inside my heart, it is hard.

I love this child so much more than I ever thought I could at three months post-placement. Before we took custody I had prepared myself for the fact that we might need to "fake it until we make it". That we may need to demonstrate love to YH, without actually feeling love (this is not uncommon for families joined by adoption).

But from the beginning the love was there. I LOVE him. I do.

And he loves me back--at least a little. We are at the point now where I am his preferred care-giver. He does not reject Sean, but if he has the choice between the two of us he will choose me. He gives both of us hugs and kisses--sometimes without us asking. He follows directions for both of us--with the occasional two year old tantrum/protest.

When it is just the two of us he needs to be aware of my presence every minute. "Mom? Mom? Mommy?" I cannot be outside of his line of vision. If we are in the same room he needs to be touching me. Meals are consumed at the dining room table, sitting on my lap. If he is playing with his toys he will stop every few minutes and come over to me, needing a hug or a pat on the back. We hold hands when we are walking next to one another. YH will sometimes get out a sling or baby carrier and bring it to me, asking me to wear him while we walk around the neighborhood.

Sean and I try to make sure that we alternate which one of us puts YH down for bedtime and naptime. During the week this means that Sean usually covers the bedtime routine. He tells me that when he leads YH back to "his" room (in reality a part of the master suite) YH happily drinks his milk while Sean reads him his books, then he lies down and pulls his blanket up tight under his armpits. He smiles as Sean leaves the room, sometimes blowing him a good night kiss.

 When I put YH down for bed/naptime the routine is different. We read stories, yes, but YH insists that I climb into his toddler bed with him. I sing lullabies to him and he pats my face. We rub noses and whisper things to one another. Sometimes we just whisper words: "car" "truck" "bird" "airplane". Sometimes we whisper the names of all the people who love YH: "Miss A" "Sweet Bubs" "Daddy" "Appa" "Nuna" "Umma" "Halmoni"...and so on.

YH pulls my arm across his body. He wants the weight of it on his stomach as he tries to fall asleep. When I kiss his cheek and say "Sweet Dreams" in advance of leaving, he cries. He pats the mattress over and over. "Stay. Please. Stay."

I give in and stay for five more minutes. I am in desperate need of some time to myself; time when NO ONE is touching me. But I stay--how can I leave?

By the end of the day I am fried. The sensory overload of having somebody touch you all day long is intense. I am an extrovert and yet despite this I am still depleted by meeting this child's needs all day long, every day.

I do not feel like myself--ever. My skin feels like it doesn't fit quite right. I bristle and chafe every time someone other than YH touches me. His little hand grounds me at the same time that it saps me dry. I feel like my only purpose is to lift him up.

I go to a boxing class, or a hip-hop dance class, at my gym three or four times/week. It sounds like a lot of time when I type it out like that, but those hour-long blocks of time are often the only chance I get to start to reclaim my body as my own. My mind as my own, my heart as my own.

Parenting YH is a lot like parenting an infant. I remember feeling similarly depleted when my big kids were three months old--and in terms of tenure in our family, YH *is* only an infant. He has the physical prowess of a toddler, but the dependent heart and soul of a baby. We need to prove to him that we are worthy of his love and trust, just as you do with an infant. When an infant cries you pick him up--and I do the same with my 30-month old "newborn".

The challenge is that lifting a 10lb newborn takes a fraction of the energy that it takes to "lift up" a 31lb newborn. I should have been in training for this months and months ago.

There is more. There are self-soothing behaviors that YH exhibits that worry me. I know they are behaviors that he exhibited when living with his foster family too, but that doesn't make my heart stop clenching when I see them resurface. I know they are driven by anxiety. I know they are an external expression of the turmoil in his wee heart. I know they help him cope.

But man, I wish I could take them away.

(I can't. I know this too.)

All I can do is softly clasp his hands, stroke his cheek and say "Please be gentle with my YH." All I can do is try to provide alternate stimuli for him: deep pressure back rubs, stroking his arms, rubbing his scalp--all in hopes that his reliance on these behaviors will lessen each day.

I watch and wait. I wonder what tomorrow will bring. I take stock of my arsenal each night and prepare to fight for him anew each morning.

The worst, the best.

One day last week the worst thing ever happened.
YH came up to me distraught. In his hand was THE microphone--the one with his foster mother's recorded message on it. He held the microphone out to me, saying and signing "Help. Please. Help. Please." over and over.

I took the toy and pressed the "play" button.

Nothing.

No words. No Umma's voice delivering her message to YH.

Just a tinny "click" followed by sickening silence.

YH stood before me with tears in his eyes.
"Help. Please. Help. Please."
His little hands smacked together harder and harder each time he signed "help".

I pulled him into my lap and told him there was nothing I could do. Umma's voice was gone. Someone had accidently deleted it; no way to know who.
I'm sorry baby. I miss her too. Should we look at some pictures of her? I'm so sorry baby.

Then I burst into tears as he said "No. No. No." over and over.

****               ****

We've been a family for three months now.
THREE MONTHS.

We are riding the waves of grief and transition as they come--for all of us.

The big kids are grieving the way our lives were before YH joined us. Back when we could be more spontaneous, stay out at the pool later, eat at any restaurant. When it was easy to buckle themselves into their booster seats (no cumbersome car seat smushed in between in the backseat of the Honda Fit). When our days weren't carved into tiny windows of time between meals and nap.

YH is grieving his former life too--his foster family, his first home, all that was familiar. His grief shows up in many ways. Fussiness. Tantrums. Frustration. Constant eating. Crying. Needing lots of physical contact.

Along with the grief there is joy. My Sweet Bubs has found his groove as a big brother--and YH *loves* him so much. YH calls out his name and follows in his footsteps. He repeats every word Sweet Bubs teaches him and copies everything he does.

Miss A also loves to teach YH new things and she claps loudly at his every accomplishment.

YH has started calling us "Mommy" and "Daddy". He draws out "mommy" into at least eight syllables, rising and falling like a song.

That part is bitter-sweet. We miss being called "Umma" and "Appa", but we are happy that he knows he is loved by a Mommy, a Daddy, an Umma and an Appa. (And his first mother).

At three months home we've found a normal, but I don't think it is the normal. I imagine it could take years to get to that point. I do know that I love my little family. I love the work we're doing, and the way we can laugh our way through the uncertain parts.

****                   ****

The day after the worst thing ever happened, I received an email from YH's foster mother. I try to send her a written update (translated into Korean) on YH's growth and development every other week. I know she is worried about some of his special needs, and I want to be sure she knows that we are doing everything we can to help him rise up.

This email was the first response we received from her. She said she was glad YH was doing well and receiving the medical attention he needs. She said it has been hard for her family to be in their apartment without YH. That she was very sad and missed him very much. She thanked me for sending emails and lots of pictures of YH in our home. She asked after the health of my mother, and sent her love to the big kids.

Then she said she was sending three videos to YH--would we show them to him? Three videos: a video message from each member of the family, each telling YH he was loved.

I cried when I watched them (I cry a lot these days).

As soon as YH woke up from his nap, I sat him in front of the laptop and pressed "play".
There was Umma--her face, her hands, her  voice.

And YH's face LIT up. The hole left by the deleted microphone was filled. He laughed and waved at the screen. He kissed his foster family's faces. He turned to me and yelled out "Mommy!" in delight when his Appa appeared on the screen.

And I cried again, but this time it was happy tears. What a gift--and what perfect timing.

It was the best thing ever.

                              (Please forgive my high pitched squeal--it couldn't be helped)

ARND.

There's a game I play sometimes.

I fix a drink (usually gin and topo chico with cucumber slices). I swirl around the ice and listen to the clink clink clink. I take a sip and feel the bubbles on my tongue and the bite of gin on my gums.

I finish that drink and I fix myself another one. More ice this time, a little less cucumber.

At this point I am usually feeling a little happy, a little buzzy, a little extra lovely.

I finish my second drink. More slowly this time.
At this point I am feeling a little tired, a little woozy, a little impaired.

I rarely make it past the second drink before I give up the game.

I don't feel good if I drink more than that. I get the spins, my mouth gets dry. I fall asleep easily but wake up an hour later with my heart pounding. I'm not good at drinking a large quantity of alcohol,
so I doubt I'll ever win the game.

The point of the game is to try to drink a specific number of drinks in one sitting. To try to equal the number written on the grainy fax we received in mid-December 2010. To swallow the booze and sit with the effects. To feel what it is like to flood my bloodstream with the alcohol.

To take it a step further and imagine what it would feel like if I was pregnant.

If I was pregnant with YH.

If I was pregnant with YH and I drank the number of drinks his firstmother reported drinking--every night for the first seven months of her pregnancy.

I can't do it.

****                  ****

The thing about prenatal exposure to alcohol is that it is horrifying. The amount of damage that can be done to every major system of a developing fetus is staggering. The injuries can be profound and life-altering--for everyone who loves the affected child.

There is no way to predict how ANY amount of alcohol will impact a child in utero. It's like a tornado, or a freak hailstorm. A wildfire that completely razes some homes to the ground while passing over others.

 Some children may have the "classic" facial features of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome: thin upper lip, smooth philtrum, low nasal bridge, and small palpebreal fissures. Some may also have secondary physical characteristics like "railroad track" ears, "clown" eyebrows, epicanthal folds, bent pinkie fingers, short stature, and microcephaly.

Some children may have none of the facial features or physical characteristics of the disorder. These children carry their congenital brain damage on the inside. They pass for "normal" because they don't look different, but may struggle with social immaturity, impulsivity, learning difficulties, impaired memory functions, global developmental delays, and mental illness. They may become easy marks for people looking to take advantage of them. They may battle addiction and incarceration.

The other thing about prenatal exposure to alcohol is that the damage is irreversible. Once a child's brain has been hurt by the toxins that injury can never be reversed. It can be accommodated for, and supported with interventions and therapies--but it can never be undone.

****             ****

Talking about children affected by prenatal alcohol exposure makes people uncomfortable. Some medical professionals are hesitant to diagnose the disorder because it assumes injury by another party, ie the woman who carried the child. Children who are affected by exposure and who remain undiagnosed are at greater risk than those who are diagnosed, and diagnosed early.

Children suffer because of the judgement and shame associated with the damage caused by prenatal alcohol exposure. Kids with prenatal exposure are often labeled "problem" children. They are talked about in whispers, they are used as central figures in cautionary tales about adoption/foster care. They are assumed to come from bleak backgrounds. They are punished by society for the presumed sins of their mothers.

Earlier this week YH had his last big doctor's appointment, with the geneticist. The aim of this appointment was to get him diagnosed on the Fetal Alcohol Syndrome Disorder continuum. While we wish our beautiful son had never been exposed to alcohol in utero, we are thankful that his firstmother disclosed the exposure when she relinquished him. It is much easier to get a concrete diagnosis with confirmed documentation.

The geneticist did a thorough evaluation of YH's physical features. She talked to me at length about his developmental and birth history. She took measurements and plotted them against the averages for children his age. She went through the diagnostic criteria with me step by step.

Our son does not have Fetal Alcohol Syndrome (FAS). This is usually the most profound level of impairment, often presenting with very low IQs and severe behavioral and emotional challenges. Failure to thrive and feeding issues are also often present in this group. Diagnosis requires the presence of the "classic" FAS facial anomalies.

Our son does not have P-FAS (partial-FAS, sometimes called FASD or FAE). This category includes some but not all of the classic facial features, plus a combination of other developmental and physical growth challenges.

Our son does not qualify for the next category down the diagnostic criteria: ARBD (alcohol related birth defects). This group presents with defects of the skeletal systems and other major organ systems.

The letters that YH walked out of the office with are: ARND. Alcohol Related Neurodevelopmental Disorder. This means that his outward appearance and physical self are not visibly damaged by exposure to alcohol. He is at risk for developmental delays, learning differences and behavioral challenges due to the damage caused to his brain by the exposure. We do not yet know the extent of the damage (his development is currently on-target); we sit and wait for new symptoms and challenges to present themselves.

Because of his "normal" appearance he will pass as neurotypical.
And that terrifies me, for many reasons.
But I am THRILLED to have those letters recorded in his file now, before he turns three.

They will serve as our magic pass into future services and evaluations. They will automatically qualify him for certain interventions.

These letters will not define him, but they will be an important piece of lifting him up. A key block in the very strong foundation for success that we are building for him.

****          ****

It would be easy for me to pass judgement on YH's firstmother for the "choices" she made while pregnant. It is absolutely heartbreaking to think of the challenges YH's future might hold--challenges caused specifically by his ARND. I am angry and sad at his diagnosis, but not at his firstmother.

As I said in an earlier post, I recognize that the information we received in YH's referral is at best an incomplete snapshot of a (very sad) moment in time in his firstmother's life. I cannot pretend to know anything about her daily life or her own challenges and struggles. It is not fair to imagine that her life today, in this moment, is anything like the life described in his referral.

So instead of thinking of her in anger I choose to hold her in peace.

****                ****

At bedtime last night YH wanted to drag out our routine. In addition to reading five board books and singing two songs he wanted me to lie down next to him. He insisted we sing "Happy Birthday" to each member of the family--Miss A, Sweet Bubs, Papa, Mama, the dogs, the cat. He clapped at the end of each round and blew out an imaginary candle.

He wanted to put his nose up against my nose. To take his index finger and trace the outline of my eyebrows, then his eyebrows. My nose, then his nose. My ear, then his ear.

At the end of the day he is the same sweet and silly boy that he was before his diagnosis. He is smart (so smart!) and curious and loving. He is all of the letters in the alphabet and all of the colors in the rainbow.

He's YH.
And he's perfect.

Risk and Reward

On Friday morning we had our pediatric opthamology appointment--the one which would determine if we would really and truly be able to set cranial surgery aside. 

Sean went with us. We sat in the busy waiting room for close to an hour before they called us back. There was a small corner of the room which had been furnished with kid sized tables and chairs, a box of books and some puzzles. YH zoomed his toy car all around the space, past the other kids. 

At one table sat a little girl about his age with the tiniest feet I have ever seen in my life. She kicked her wee glittery jelly sandals back and forth as she stared at the pages of a book. She wore a back brace on the outside of her clothes, her eyes appeared crossed and she had several silver teeth. Her hair was in two long pigtails and she turned each page with great determination.

Sean was hovering nearby keeping an eye on YH. The little girl smiled up at him and asked for another book. Sean showed her each book in the basket, and she shook her head "no" at the ones that displeased her and "yes" at the ones that met her approval. 

Of course Sean ended up reading one to her. Of course "one" book turned into four turned into five turned into...a lot.

Geez--the sight of my giant husband crouched next to a tiny chair, with a tinier girl in it patiently reading her stories....just. Just, wow.

Eventually YH was called back to the exam room. I had to cradle him while Sean held his head still so that the nurse could put drops in his eyes to make his pupils dilate. The drops sting so first they have to put in numbing drops. YH screamed and cried--it was awful.

When his pupils were finally dilated the ophthalmologist came in to try and see inside his eyes. She shined a light into each eye (when he wasn't squeezing them shut or burying his head into Sean's shoulder to avoid her) and quickly pronounced him nearsighted. Very, very nearsighted--with a slight astigmatism.

I asked about his intracranial pressure--did it appear elevated? 

No, she said--his optic nerve is fine, not swollen at all. 

So, no surgery?

No surgery.

Tiny glasses?

Yes, tiny glasses.

Oh, thank you universe! THANK YOU!

****                       ****    

The tiny glasses are ordered. They should be here in about 10 days.

We have one more specialist appointment on the books, and another to be scheduled.

The latter will definitely result in surgery--but it is not life-threatening, and it isn't time sensitive. At the moment it doesn't effect his daily life so we can wait a little longer to pursue the correction.

The former will likely result in a similarly permanent change to our sweet boy--the assigning of a string of letters to follow his name. 

Our next specialist appointment is with the geneticist--the first stop in what may prove to be a long road to get our son the services he needs to be the best he can be. You see, our son is likely on the spectrum of a "disorder" which is comprised of myriad different physical, emotional and developmental challenges. Each child afflicted by this disorder has a different constellation of symptoms/behaviors/physical defects--and differing levels of severity for each.

This is a disorder which almost always results in congenital brain trauma. It is a disorder which can leave kids looking "normal" on the outside, covering up their damaged brains, so that they are more vulnerable to people taking advantage of them, less likely to be able to control impulses, less likely to keep pace with their peers, more likely to be labeled "troubled"....the risks of "passing" include secondary mental illness, incarceration, addiction.

It is maddening to parent a child with this disorder because it is so hard to find a medical specialist who can tie together all the pieces--and so the onus is on the parents to gather information, stay informed, and advocate advocate advocate.

This is a road many parents of special needs kids have walked. This journey of needing to be one step ahead of the "experts". 

I have mentioned YH's risk factors--his likelihood of having this disorder--loudly and in clear speaking voice to each specialist we have met with so far. And each one has pointed out that he lacks certain distinguishing physical features, features which used to be key in diagnosing the disorder.

And I push. And I say, yes but he does have "x" which is a secondary physical characteristic. And I say yes, but in my reading I saw several articles discussing how this type of "risk factor" can effect his vision--is this the case for my child? And yes, he is on-target *now* but most kids with this disorder start to fall behind around 3 years old UNLESS they receive intervention/diagnosis...

And I can see the experts silently cursing my access to google. I know they think I'm being overly cautious, overly fixated on something which isn't yet an issue. 

Too bad.

This is my job. It is my duty as his mother to fight for this kid--and I am going to make sure that he gets the diagnoses he needs, and the intervention he needs. 

It is easy to dismiss the presence/absence of one symptom; it is harder to map the galaxy of factors that combine to inhibit my child.

I'm willing to risk the eye rolls and the dismissive responses of the doctors.

The improved health of my son--my son who has the deck stacked SO very much against him--is the only reward I need.

Adventures in attachment parenting.

So this afternoon when YH got up from his nap I thought we'd play some "fun" attachment games. He's big on snacks so I decided we'd do one where you put a teddy graham in your pursed lips and have the kid take it from you with his mouth--like a teddy graham kiss. 

Oh the sweet bonding times we'd have!

Turns out we have no teddy grahams. No problem, I'll use O's. The article I read where I learned this game suggested using O's for older infants; I'm sure it will be fine.

So we go out to the front yard and he sits on my lap and I start the game and he quickly gets the hang of it. We're laughing and kissing and I'm mentally patting myself on the back for rocking it on the attachment front.

Then he goes in for another O, only this time when he pulls back there's some resistance and at first I don't understand what's happening. But then I feel a wet numbness on my upper lip, followed by intense stinging and my mouth fills with a copper taste.

Little dude TOTALLY bit my lip, majorly.

Now I think quickly enough to realize that all our cozy-attachment work would be undone by a) me screaming or b) the sight of my face covered in blood. So I tuck my wounded lip into my mouth, puff out my cheeks and cross my eyes--like I'm making a silly face. Then I get up and start dancing like a monkey into the house. YH follows me, laughing.

I see my husband and wave my arms at him wildly, trying to communicate that he should take hold of YH. He looks at me confusedly, but starts to distract YH.

I go into the bathroom and close the door so I can inspect the damage.

The center of my upper lip has a deep gash and the labial frenulum is pretty badly nicked.

Attachment parenting fail.

As it turns out the reason you use teddy grahams and NOT O's when you play this game with a toddler is because O's are REALLY small and a toddler could eat your face off trying to get them.

Lesson learned.

Seemed like a good idea at the time.

We are less than 48 hours away from the big kids leaving town for three weeks. They are headed on vacation with my parents, to an idyllic island off the Atlantic coast, while the rest of us stay at home.

This splitting of the family seemed like a brilliant idea--back before we traveled, back when I was so sure I knew the *right* things to do when became a family of five. You see we typically travel thousands of miles to this island every summer. It is a place where the kids can run through the woods for hours. A place where they spend entire mornings building fairy houses from moss and rocks and shells. We have a whole fairy village nestled at the trunks of trees near our house there, carefully constructed over the last two summers.

My parents go to the island for several months over the summer--it is the only way they can stomach living in Texas for the rest of the year. Sean's family has a home on the adjoining plot of land and it is all so ridiculously Robert McCloskey-esque that I can't read "A Time of Wonder" or "One Morning in Maine" without my eyes tearing up.

Over the past year we completely changed our professional lives, in part to maximize the amount of time we can spend on-island. Now that Sean is on a teacher's schedule we hope to spend at least a month there each year--every year.

Except not this year.

Before we traveled I thought that if the big kids got to go on-island with my parents for a few weeks it would give YH intensive time with Sean and I. I thought he would be resentful of having the big kids share the attention, and this way the kids would get their summer voyage and we would get to work on attachment.

It looks so perfect spelled out like that, doesn't it?

What I didn't account for was the utter joy that the three kids find in one another--even the middle child. What I didn't account for was the way YH runs out of our bedroom each morning yelling out his sister's name. When he find her he wraps her in a hug and they both tumble to the ground giggling. What I didn't account for was how intently YH listens to his siblings, and mimics their speech and patterns of play.

And now I'm feeling like his little heart will be broken AGAIN when he wakes up on Thursday and the big kids are nowhere to be found. Now I'm feeling like I really messed this up.

I know that in the grand scheme of things it could be traumatic to move to a new home base this early in our attachment dance. I know that routine, and keeping YH's world small, is SO important right now. But the idea of cocooning as a family on a small island--of spending every day outdoors and wrapping my youngest in cozy sweaters at night--is so appealing right now.

I can imagine the big kids introducing YH to all the island sights: swimming at the quarry, searching for shells at low-tide at the Carrying Place, tromping through the woods to get to Fine Sand Beach and splashing in the tide pools that dapple the rocks surrounding the beach.

I can see us spotting bald eagles from the deck as they swoop over Ghost Hollow. I can see early dinners and even earlier bedtimes. Somehow every night on the island ends with everyone in an exhausted heap--sometimes hours before sunset.

So I am spending this week mourning what could have been. Trying to take comfort in the "right on paper" aspects of the split, and preparing to say good-bye to my wonderful eldest children. I have never been away from either of them for this long--and it hurts my heart to think of the silence that they will leave behind.

We will get through it. They will have a WONDERFUL time. We will talk over skype each night, and we will be able to show YH that the big kids will come back.

People we love can leave and come back. We can love them while they're gone, and love them even more when they get back.

One month

One month ago we met YH for the first time.

Is that possible? Hasn't he always been a part of our lives?

Hasn't our house always had a layer of toys covering every surface?
Hasn't our grocery bill always been this high? (The boy can eat.)
Haven't I always felt his heavy weight in my arms first thing in the morning? Had his warm cheek pressed against my neck as I walk to the kitchen?

Hasn't he always been there to delight us with a nose honk/fist bump/high five?
Hasn't he always rushed the fence when a neighbor walks by, in order to call out "TRALALA" in greeting?

Didn't we always automatically open the sun roof when starting the car, because we know he loves it so?
Didn't we always call the dog "Roooo-tie" because that's the way YH says her name?

In some ways our family routine has quite naturally expanded to include our newest member. We for sure love this little guy--each and every one of us. Even the newly-middle child, who yesterday asked me, "Mom, wouldn't you agree that YH is sometimes annoying?"

In other ways each day is a challenge.

It is a challenge to pay enough attention to the "big" kids (who are really not-so-big-after-all) when my littlest needs constant supervision.
It is a challenge to make time for my husband when our schedules are pulling us in opposite directions.

It is a challenge to feel like myself when there is someone small who needs every piece of me (inside and out) every minute that he is awake.

If I'm being honest, this third child--my 30lb "newborn"--is the first one who has brought me to my knees to this degree.

It's not that *loving* him is hard--that part is sooo easy.
 What's hard is giving up personal space, emotional space, time to think, time to shower, time to wash my clothes, time to exercise, time to read, time to be spontaneous.

I know that before long I will start to feel like myself again.
But for right now I am a little bit lost. I am drowning a bit in this little boy, and his needs.

There are times when it seems like he is adjusting so well to our family, that I almost think "Maybe he is at a good place with his grief. Maybe we got through the first wave."

Then there are times when little things happen--tiny tremors--and I can see that we are just at the base of the swell of his grief.

Like when we were all enjoying a shaved ice at a picnic table, and a white van pulled into the parking lot and started to turn around right in front of us.

YH's eyes grew wide.
He dropped his spoon and scrambled--literally scrambled--across the table into my arms.
He grabbed my shirt with both fists and started to moan, head turned away from the parking lot.

It was a white van.
Just like the white van that took us from ESWS to the hotel on the day we took custody.
A white van that took him from the people he loved.

Or like the day when he fell and scraped his knee and a tiny spot of blood appeared.
And he couldn't bear it. Couldn't stand to look at it, couldn't let anyone touch it.
He just needed to sit in my lap and sob--heavy, wrenching sobs--for over an hour.
(This is a child who regularly crashes into things, climbs tall objects and acquires the bumps and bruises of boyhood with zest; nothing phases him--except a scraped knee)

The grief is there.
The loss is there.

But also: The joy is there. The love is there.

We're family. No doubt about it.

Breathe deep and let go.

I think I've mentioned before that as perfect as YH is for our family, Sean and I don't believe that his presence in our lives was preordained by a higher power. I know there are many families who do believe that a divine hand united them with their children--and I am sure they find a lot of joy and comfort in that belief.

In our home we believe that a string of tragedies occurred to separate YH from his first family. Through a series of twists and turns, and a mountain of paperwork, we found our way to his side. Where we will remain--lifting him up with love--forever.

I think I also mentioned a bit about my sanctimonious hierarchy of decisions about what constituted an "ethical" adoption. It's an elaborate matrix, and speaks solely to my personal beliefs. Every time I make a sweeping statement about what I believe to be an absolute truth in adoption ethics it can be easily undone by one family's story. I keep my eyes and ears open and make informed choices.

And the truth is that even though I did my due diligence, and worked hard to choose a program that I felt was time-tested and had a high degree of accountability, things did not go as expected. The truth is that even though we set out to adopt a "waiting child" from a country with impeccable medical care, things went wrong for our son. The truth is that even though our son received mountains of loving care from his foster family, the "experts" missed opportunities for intervention/medical care. These missed opportunities led to serious health problems. Health problems that will need to be corrected by major surgery. To be clear: this surgical intervention is separate from the (now minor seeming) surgery we were told he needed back in January.

Luckily, I have a very close friend whose own child faced similar health issues last year. Her son also underwent surgery, and it is only through her experiences that I was able to recognize right away (on the day we met him) that YH needed immediate attention for his as-yet undocumented need. My friend very generously reached out in response to a panicky text message I had sent her and showered me with love and resources.

Through her leads I connected with an online support forum for YH's biggest medical challenge. And it was there, as I sought information and support, that I encountered my first negative comment about our family and how it was formed.

Ouch.

In response to my introduction post, and my raw pleading for information/words of comfort from parents who have walked this road, one person responded, "Only way I approve of international adoption is for children with medical issues. Albeit, even then I am hesitant due to the rampant amounts of child trafficking."

So, um yeah.

Thanks?

I mean I get that this person was trying to express approval at our decision to adopt a waiting child but really? A medical forum--a forum for hurting parents worried about their children--that's where you decide to pass judgement on how families are formed?

I guess it would be easy to say "There is one scenario where I approve of international adoption: waiting children." Except where it's not so easy, and not so clear-cut.

Do you approve of families who adopt a waiting child with a "correctable" special need? (ie: one that is readily fixed through surgery/treatment and has no impact on the child's life moving forward)

Do you approve of families who accepted a standard referral with no identified medical needs who later turns out to have serious health problems?

Do you approve of families who adopt a "waiting child" who later turns out to have been a trafficked child?

Do you approve of families who accepted the referral of a waiting child only to find that the needs of child they took custody of don't match the file of the original referral?

Do you approve of families who adopted domestically, from a birthmother who was coerced into her decision?


I know families who have experienced all of the above. And more.

At the end of the day, I'm not going to sit in judgement of how families are formed. I'm just not.

I'm also not going to sit around and bemoan the unexpected in our own adoption. YH's medical needs are more immediate and of a different nature than what we anticipated they would be. We spent months and months preparing to accommodate and support needs that have yet to present themselves.

And so we start over. We learn about new needs, and new treatment options. We decide to pray, to send out requests to the universe, to beg and plead to a higher power to let our insurance cover his needs.

The next few weeks are filled with specialist appointments. So many! And my poor sweet boy--he can't stand the doctor's office. Can you send some love our way, if you have any to spare?
We're taking love donations.
We'll take all we can get.

Up in the air.

Over the course of our first night together YH slept reasonably well--but as morning drew near he began to thrash. First his legs kicked, then his arms flailed, then his head whipped from side to side. His not-quite-awake little body rolled, and punched, and tried everything it could to make us (his new reality) retreat.

Eventually his mind caught up with his limbs and he opened his eyes.

Hello.
Hello small child.
Hello small child I have known for less than 76 hours.
Hello small child.
Hello.

He was eager to get out of bed. To run and explore and eat. To do anything but think about what was going on.

We had several hours to kill before we headed to the airport, so we ate breakfast and headed out to the closest palace to wander.

YH didn't want to be carried. He struggled in the ergo. He wanted to run, without holding anyone's hand. We didn't approve this plan. He screamed. Heads turned. We scooped him up quickly and walked. He struggled and then fell asleep in Sean's arms. People stared openly at our family. It was uncomfortable. I worried that passers-by were judging us, and we were falling short.

We entered the palace and I took YH from Sean so that he could go procure drinks and a snack for everyone. The big kids played hopscotch on the ancient paving stones as I sat on a nearby bench with YH on my lap. He woke up, and leaned into my chest. I stroked his back as he watched Miss A and Sweet Bubs laugh and chase one another.

On the bench next to me sat a young Korean woman in her late 20's with her companion--an older Korean woman. They stared at us. I smiled at them and looked away, resolute in my desire to escape any harsh glances.

The younger woman got up from her seat and came over to us. She said, with an American accent, "Your children are beautiful. All three of them."

I nearly wept at her kindness. She will never know how much that meant to me.


***                  ***

Our flight was scheduled to leave Incheon airport at 9:30pm. We opted to leave the hotel at 3pm and take a taxi-van to the airport. We would run the kids ragged in the airport in hopes that they would all sleep on the first, longest leg of the journey home to Texas.

Luckily our departure gate was very close to one of the indoor playground at Incheon. YH ran and played for four hours straight. Four hours.

At this point it was clear that as long as his body was moving, his wounded heart would be ok. If he allowed himself to sit still for more than a minute a look of pain would settle on his features. He would literally shake it off and jump up to run off somewhere.

I watched him and worried about what this would mean for the arduous flights ahead.

***                 ***

On the first flight--Incheon to LAX--YH had a seat between Sean and I in a middle row. My mom and the big kids were in their own row, just to the left of us. After an initial resistance to the seat belt YH settled down in a nest of blankets and tiny airplane pillows. Against all odds the plan worked and he fell asleep. He slept off and on for the majority of the 11 hour flight. It was supremely uncomfortable for Sean and I--as our arms were trapped by his heavy snoring body--but magnificent to behold.

When he would wake up he would fuss and mess around with all the knobs and headphones and buttons he could reach. He would loudly protest any restrictions to these activities.

I mention this because that behavior was in character with the YH we had come to know; and it was in stark contrast to his behavior on the second flight, from LAX to Austin.

***                ***

By the time we were ready to board our flight in LAX we were all hungry, tired and cranky. We were dirty and smelly. Our hair stuck up in weird tufts. We hated to be around one another but we were glued to one another in collective misery.

(Ain't travel grand!)

Little did we know that the 7pm Friday night flight from Los Angeles to Austin is in fact a giant happy hour in the clouds. A giant happy hour at the grossest bar you can imagine--and not gross in a fun dive-bar kind of way. No-- it was gross in the "Hey, is that the cast of the Real World over there?" kind of way.

A man and woman in the row in front of me began flirting with one another before take off. They downed several drinks in quick succession and their pre-coital banter grew ever louder. Her hair flipping was violent.

Across the aisle and behind Sean and Sweet Bubs sat a group of dudes who appeared to emulate the cast of "Entourage". They hooted and hollered and lived large over the duration of the flight.

My mom sat with Miss A several rows ahead of us. Their heads were barely visible in the sea of well coiffed youngsters discussing which bar in the warehouse district was the best.

And in the middle of all the boisterous, sexual energy-fueled, power hungry partying sat me and YH. Tired and wrinkled. Bags under my eyes and a travel-zit emerging on my jawline. Ignoring the seeping warmth on my lap from the leak in YH's diaper. Feeling the frenzied beat of YH's little mouse heart against my collarbone.

YH had shut down.

As soon as English became the only language being spoken around us he shut down.
He refused to sit in his own seat.
He was not leaving my lap.

His fists clenched my shirt with superhuman strength. He buried his face in my neck and refused any offer of food or drink. He scrunched up his eyes and hummed to himself until he fell asleep.
He did not move or shift position for the entire three and half hour long flight.

The woman in the window seat of our row said, "Wow--he's a great traveler! I hardly knew he was there."

A great traveler. Hardly knew he was there. How wonderful.

No.

Not great, not wonderful.

Sad. Scared. Blocking it all out.

I have never not enjoyed a child's silence on a long flight--but this time, YH's motionless form broke my heart anew.

I said a prayer to the nameless deity in my head: "Let him get through this. Let him come out of this. Let him get through this."

***                   ***

And then we were home.
And he got through it.
And he came out of it.

And each day is better than the one before.

The microphone.

On his first night in our care my son listened to the voice of his foster mother, filtered through the plastic innards of a toy microphone, over and over.
More than ten times.

I sat across the room and watched him.

Watched his little face scrunch up, and then relax when her voice came on.
Watched him lean forward, straining towards the words of comfort.
Watched his mouth mutter "Ne, ne" in response to her message.
Watched him stare intensely at the microphone when the message ended, and then shake his head once or twice before hitting "play" again.

Repeat.
Repeat.

And in my head I thought "This is grief. You are watching your son's heart shatter and mend itself."
It was the most horrifying thing I have ever seen.

It was not outright screaming in anger, it was not sobbing with bereavement, it was not shutting down entirely to avoid feeling anything. These were the expressions of grief I expected, the ones I was watching for.

No, this was a different kind of expression of grief. A trying to make sense of it all kind of grief. A retreating into the comfort of a recognizable voice, willing her to materialize kind of grief. It was my son trying to be strong and good (as his foster mother's message instructed him to behave) while his world rebuilt itself around him.

 When he was through with the microphone, YH lay it on the ground and picked up a new toy. He came over to the kitchen, where I sat numb at the table, and asked for a cracker.

(He hasn't touched the microphone since.)

That night Sean and I were like first time parents all over again. Mrs. S had spelled out YH's night-time routine for us, and we did the best we could with her instructions--but it was obvious we did it WRONG.

She said he drinks a bottle of milk or water at bedtime.

We heated up a packet of formula the agency had given us, got the little tyke in his pj's and headed into the bedroom. We put YH in the middle of the bed--one of us on either side. We handed him the bottle and stared at him expectantly. In my imagining of his nightly routine this was the part where he would drink his bottle as he lay down. He would become drowsy and I would rub his back until he fell asleep, just as Mrs. S said we should do.

He took the bottle and looked at us like we were fools.
NO. NO. NO.

He sat bolt upright and drank the bottle then handed it to us when it was finished. He lay on his stomach in the middle of the bed, firmly closed his eyes and waited for a hand to stroke his back.

He was asleep in a few minutes.

I lay by his side staring at this tiny stranger sleeping next to me. It was weird. The adoption books tell you that you may feel like you are babysitting someone else's child for the first few days. Instead I felt an enormous amount of responsibility for YH; for protecting his already fragile heart, for doing what I could to balance out the losses he had suffered.

I didn't sleep much; nervous about him waking up, nervous about the plane ride the next day, nervous about coming home to our pets.

I watched his back rise and fall. I watched his limbs twitch and heard him moan a few times. I scooted closer and smelled the top of his head. I breathed in his baby breath and cautiously, ever so slowly, stroked his fist with my index finger.

I think I fell in love with him over the course of that sleepless night.

My beautiful boy.

And then, there he was.

After our second meeting at ESWS we had one full day with the big kids before we were scheduled to take custody of YH. We decided we would spend that day doing exactly what the big kids wanted--sort of a last hurrah before it all got real. Really, really real.

Which is how we ended up spending a very long, expensive and surreal day at Lotte World, a GIANT amusement park inside a mall.

The above happened at Lotte World, and it was probably the most normal thing that happened all day. Here's a view of the whole place, for you to scrutinize and say to yourself "Wait...what is that?" The answer is: I have no idea what THAT is. But my kids loved it.

So, we returned home very poor and very tired. Some of us fell asleep on the subway. Not naming names.

And after we tucked the snoozy littles into their beds, Sean and I looked at each other and thought, "WHAT.THE.WHAT." One more sleep until we take custody of YH! One more!

And that one more sleep was hard to come by. Nerves. Worries. Anticipation. All of it.

The next morning my mom watched the kids for a few hours so that Sean and I could make a run to Lotte Mart to buy food items that we thought YH might enjoy.

Rice. Gim (dried seaweed laver). Tiny little yogurt drinks in impossibly wee bottles. Shrimp chips. Small buns in a bag.

(And a packet of Tim-Tams for me. Because, hello! Tim-tams!!!)

And we got frustrated and sweaty and snippy with one another.
"I don't *know* where we should get a coffee from--just pick someplace!!!!"
"Ugh--*this* place? No, no it's fine."

(Both of the above were me. I'm awesome.)

We made it back to the hotel with enough time to unpack our purchases, shower, and put on clean clothes to wear to ESWS. Nana came back to the room to watch the big kids again, and Sean and I set out.

With each footfall my mood changed.

I am so excited!
This is horrible, what are we doing????
I can't wait to hold him!
Ugh, I feel sooooo guilty.
I am so sooooo excited!
That poor little boy's heart is going to break.

And so on.

Until yet again, we were in front of the building where our lives would change. Where the S family's life would change. Where YH's life would change.

We walked in and immediately saw Mrs. S. She was smiling and waving at us all while trying to round up YH, who was running like mad around the offices on the first floor. He came over to us and we hugged him and Mrs. S, and then she introduced us to her daughter--a university student who loves YH very much. I hugged her too and told her how happy we were to meet her.

We gave Mrs. S flowers that we had purchased on the way over. We knew she wasn't taking a new foster baby home with her that day and we wanted her arms to be filled with beauty on the sad return trip to her now empty apartment.

She showed us a little backpack she had filled with YH's favorite toys, his hanbok (lovingly packed away in special wrappings), and a photo album filled with pictures from his life with them. And a wand, loaded with thousands more images and videos.

That's when I first started to cry.

As we talked YH moved easily among us. He smiled at Sean and I and would lean against us. We brought a small Pororo football with us and he delighted in throwing that around the waiting area.

Slowly, the room filled with the three other adoptive families taking custody of their children that day.

Across from me a Korean business man in a three piece suit held a little girl in a super-frilly dress with bows carefully arranged in her shiny black hair. He wept into her shoulder as she looked around the room at all the commotion.

Next to him stood a foster family with a little boy. The foster mother held her charge one last time, while the high-school aged foster sister stood by her side--tears streaming down her face, shoulders hunched.

Our social worker came over to tell us that a staff member would say a prayer over all the children and families, and then we would leave--a van was waiting for us out back.

"Now??? This is happening now?"

Yes, now.

By chance, YH leaned over from Mrs. S' arms in the middle of the prayer. He reached out to me and I took him in my grasp just before the staff member said "Amen".

Mrs. Shin leaned in and said, "Go. Out the back. Go now."

And I turned to Mrs. S and her daughter with a bewildered look on my face. Surely, I should say something. Surely, our parting wouldn't be this abrasive.

Mrs. S was crying. She was worried YH would have a hard time falling asleep that night. She pressed a box of his favorite cookies into our hands.

We tried to express our gratitude to her one more time. We were hurried towards the exit of the building.

YH didn't look back.

And then, there we were in the parking lot. The driver loaded the three of us into his van. YH perched on my lap, oblivious. I nervously fed a steady stream of cookies into his mouth. He moved into Sean's lap and looked out the window at the city.

I held my breath, waiting for the screaming to begin at each new transition. Now, when we get out of the van and go into the hotel. It will happen now.

Ok, now. Now when we get into the elevator.

Now, now when we enter our hotel room.

The screaming didn't come. The screaming was put aside in favor of exploring every nook and cranny of our hotel room. Of playing with every toy, and chasing after Miss A and Sweet Bubs.
The screaming didn't come.

As night fell our son began to realize the permanency of the situation. This was no play date. He dug through the tiny backpack that Mrs. S had sent. He searched until he found a toy microphone, something we had sent in a care package months earlier. It plays music but it also has a feature where you can record your voice and play it back.

YH took his orange plastic microphone into a corner and hit "play". Mrs. S' voice, made tinny by the device, came to life.

"YeHoon-ah?"

As soon as he heard her voice he leaned in closer, a serious and sad look on his face.
He listened so carefully to her words, muttering "Ne" (yes) to himself, and to the disembodied voice of his foster mother.

He listened once all the way through. He didn't take his eyes of the microphone.

He hit play again.

And again.
And again.

In the lab.

We are in the waiting room of the children's hospital lab services.
YH is every child's friend here.
He runs gleefully up to each new face that enters, grinning from ear to ear.
"You're here! Hooray!"

The little girl with the visible mustache.
The pale little boy curled up in a chair, head leaning against the wall.
The brothers--carbon copies of one another. Same beak noses, small chins, brown eyes made large by thick glasses.

It's like a party to YH.

The parents watch him with guarded smiles. Their faces are pale too, but from worry.
Worry about whatever brought them to this waiting room.

A woman enters carrying her son and a large body pillow. She checks in at the front desk and begins to arrange her child and his comfort items in a chair. She does it so matter of factly, in such routine movements--this is not her first time in this space.


She sits next to her son and opens a bag of crackers. YH's ears perk up--he can hear a snack being opened from a mile away. He dances his way over to them and says "Gakka juseo" while rubbing his chest in the "please" sign.


It is a charming performance. The mom asks if he can have a cracker. I say yes. YH carefully accepts the treat and climbs up next to his new friend to eat while happily kicking his feet.


The mother asks me "Is he yours?"
"Yes. He joined our family through adoption two weeks ago."


Oh, she says. She takes a breath and says "My husband and I want to adopt." She is stroking her fragile son's hair as she tells me this. "We don't know how to go about it. We want a daughter. We can't risk..."


She stops.


I tell her there are many ways to add to your family through adoption. I tell her the name of our local homestudy agency. I tell her she can email me if she wants to talk about options. She looks confused. I know that look.


That look says "But if we want to adopt, and we have a home and love to share, can't we just *get* a baby? A baby girl?"


I'm sorry. It's not like that.


*****                *****

We leave the lab with tear-stained cheeks, band-aids aplenty, and a list of referrals as long as my arm. Plastic surgeon. Opthamologist. Geneticist. Developmental pediatrician.

And so on.

He is full of surprises, my youngest.

Things we prepared for seem to be a non-issue.
Things we never contemplated are taking priority.

Nothing to do but hug him tighter. Nothing to do but buy an accordion folder for medical bills.

We're in this for the long haul little man.

Second meeting.

Once we arranged a time for the second meeting, Mrs. S scooped up YH and prepared to take him down the hallway for a last doctor's appointment. Before they left she had him give Sean and I each "po-po" (kisses). That little guy did exactly what his Omma told him to do; he walked resolutely over to us and put his tiny warm hands on our shoulders and leaned in to press his lips on ours.

YH's self-portrait, taken when he commandeered Sean's camera

I might have died a little in that moment. I might have held my breath in fear of scaring him away.

We walked out of the agency stunned and giddy. It was like the aftermath of a great job interview, or a fabulous first date. We kept saying things to each other like "He seems really smart, don't you think so?" and "I know Mrs. Shin is concerned about (x factor of his development) but I think once he's in the right environment..." and "Did you see when he hugged that teddy bear? He's so loving..." and "His smile is incredible".

And underneath the giddiness that buoyed us through a shopping trip to Insadong, was creeping dread at our role in turning this boy's life upside down.

The next morning we left the hotel early in order to fit in a ride on the Seoul city tour bus before we had to be back at ESWS.

The big kids took the tour very seriously and listened with great care to the pre-recorded spiel for each stop. Based on the recordings, Amalia decided Itaewon must be the most exciting place on earth and begged for us to stop there. We conceded and decided to hop off for lunch--and immediately regretted it. Not so much a great place to take your kids. Unless your kids like restaurants and clubs geared towards the recreational pursuits of single servicemen. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

After our brief gritty detour, we got back on the bus and headed to Namsan Mountain, in hopes of putting a "family love locket" on the fence at the base of the N Tower.

We bought our lock and wrote all five names of our family members on it, added the date and a message of love forever. Then we locked it to one of the "love trees". And of course I cried.

We rushed home with just enough time for everyone to get changed into their best clothes for our meeting. We picked up Nana and headed over to ESWS. We hoped our squeaky clean exteriors would help to show Mr. and Mrs. S that we were going to love YH. We really, really were.

When we arrived at ESWS Mrs. Shin and Mrs. S cooed over how cute the big kids are. Mr. S and YH sat in the playroom already; as soon as the big kids came in they began valiantly trying to win over their littlest brother.

They did a good job.

While the kids played the adults talked. Mr. S wanted us to know that we must be consistent with YH; we can't give in to his tantrums. He wanted us to know that YH probably wouldn't sit still on the plane ride home--we should know that beforehand. He might scream, he might try to run away. He will get frustrated if we don't understand what he is saying because of the language barrier--we should know that ahead of time.

Were they telling us he is a bad child? A difficult child?

No--he's a child they love very very much and they don't want anyone to treat him with anything less than kindness, especially if he doesn't live up to our expectations. I understand that, and I understand why they felt the need to fill us in on his behaviors (pretty typical for a two-year old behaviors) beforehand.

I asked Mrs. Shin to tell the S family that I appreciate all they have done to raise YH, to love him. I promised them that we would love and support him forever--no matter what. That we have prepared ourselves to help him face any future challenges and to meet him where he is; not to push him to be something he is not. I asked her to tell them that we would like for them to be a part of YH's life forever--that we will send them pictures and updates frequently.

They watched YH play with his new brother and sister, and give his new halmoni (grandmother) kisses.

At the end of the hour we took pictures together--pictures of all the people who are united by our love for this little boy.

Umma and the big kids.

Umma and Mom

Appa and Papa

And the whole of TEAM YH.

I can't even describe to you how important this meeting was for us--for the S family--for YH. I think it made a big difference in everyone's comfort level about the upcoming custody transfer.

I know it helped the S family to meet our big kids; to picture how YH's life will be enriched by having them at his side. To see that they are healthy and smart and well-cared for. That we can raise children who are loving and funny. That he fits in with them, and with us.

 Saying good-bye was hard; especially since we knew the next time we saw each other our motives would be opposing. Sean and I would be so happy to hold our son, while the S family grieved the foster child they were  losing.

Hard all around.

First meeting

I do finally stop worrying long enough to sleep--for a few fitful hours. None of us can sleep past 6am so we are up and bickering with each other for an hour or so before breakfast begins. We wrap the million gifts we have for the foster family and social worker and pack them carefully away in subway-proof backpacks.

I try to remember what each task feels like:

This is taking a shower on the day you meet your son.
This is putting on a dress on the day you meet your son.
This is trying to fill in your eyebrows with hands made shaky at the thought of meeting your son.

My mom comes up to hang with the big kids while Sean and I nervously stuff our pockets with "essential" items that we will forget about as soon as we leave the hotel.

Suddenly we are on the street. We are on the subway. We are at the right stop, searching for the appropriate exit. We are stricken.

We are early--about 40 minutes early for our assigned "check-in" time.

We sit in the cafe at ESWS, our placing agency. The cafe employs single mothers; thus helping to support women who choose to parent their children (women who are largely seen as "unemployable" due to their single-parent status). We are nervous and self-conscious as we order iced americanos. We are overly thankful to the barista and we sit and sweat in shamed silence as we sip our drinks.

Finally it is time to check in. Our assigned social worker is busy in appointments all day, so another woman guides us through paperwork. It is so busy at the agency that we are seated in a waiting area outside of a room where a family is meeting their child for the first time. My eyes water as the door to the playroom opens. A tall and beautiful woman steps shakily out--her eyes are damp too but she is laughing. I know who she is immediately--an Australian woman I "met" through the internet. We greet each other and laugh and cry together.

We are led on a tour of the agency.

We are taken up to the floor that houses that baby reception room. Currently there are 50 babies there, waiting for foster or forever homes. About 15 of the babies are sick and are in a separate room to receive extra care. The babies are SO small.

Next we (about 10 families in total) file into a room to listen to a presentation by Dr. Kim, president of ESWS. Dr. Kim tells us about the history of her country, the history of adoption in Korea and the many projects that ESWS runs to care for at-risk families/women/children.

I am trying to pay attention, but in my head I am only thinking about the fact that we will be meeting YH in two hours.

Now one hour.

Our social worker finds us and chides us for not bringing Nana and the kids to the meeting. She leads us to a playroom and we sit nervously on the floor.

The door opens and we see this.

Oh.
Oh.

Mrs. S pulls a package of crackers out of her purse and immediately starts feeding snacks to YH as a way to ease him into the room.

He looks around at us and then dives into the toys. He plays and plays, leaving each toy after a few seconds of attention. I try not to reach out to him, hoping that his ambulatory circuit will bring him naturally to my side. I try to ask Mrs. S the questions I formulated months ago, when none of this seemed like a real event.

Mrs. S answers in paragraphs with sweeping arm movements. I look at her while she speaks, waiting for our social worker to translate.

He is very busy. He gets bored with toys easily. He isn't interested in books. He waits for his Appa to come home each night, and then leads him through his evening routine. Appa, take off your shoes. Appa, wash your face. He loves smart phones and can use a touch screen readily. He drinks a few ounces of water or milk each night before bed and then goes to his room. He lies down and waits for Mrs. S to rub his back until he falls asleep. He is sensitive to the word no, and does better with redirection. When he doesn't get his way he screams. He climbs onto everything, opens every drawer, hides bits of paper int he corners of the apartment. He loves flowers, trees and big dogs. He is attuned to the moods of others and will comfort those he thinks to be in distress.

So many details about his life. And I haven't even touched him yet.

Finally, he wanders my way with a balloon in his hand.

 This is it. This is my son.

****

Later, Mrs. Shin will ask us questions about why we didn't pursue a "standard" referral (ie: one without identified medical needs). "You qualify, right?"
We explain what led us to the waiting child program.
She asks us why we want to parent this boy--she has another child with a similar background/profile who is almost three. This child will be transferred to a government orphanage soon, with no hope for being adopted, because no families have expressed interest in his file. (For the recond *YH* is almost three; this boy's fate could easily be his own).

We talk a bit about how we have prepared ourselves for his potential needs, and the personal connections we have to his "risk factors".

She asks us how he seems to us--developmentally.
I say he seems perfect, exactly the boy I was hoping to meet.

****

In the middle of our hour-long meeting, YH's foster brother calls his father (YH's "Appa") on the phone. YH talks animatedly to him in gibberish. He smiles at the phone and listens intently to his beloved Appa's responses. This is a routine for him; talking to the man he loves best, in a language noone can understand.

Mrs. S asks if we can come back the next day. Mr. S has the day off from work and wants to meet us.
Yes, we say, of course.

Seoul Day 1 and 2

When our plane landed at Incheon, after a 14 hour flight from Dallas, I was groggy. Too groggy to really *feel* anything, you know? I fussed over the big kids--were they ok? Did they get any sleep? And focused on getting our luggage, getting my mom the phones she rented, and figuring out the best way to get our tired selves into Seoul.

Then, as our taxi-van pulled away from the curb, I started to feel stuff. I started to *think* stuff. Thoughts like:
Is that guy related to my son?
Is that old lady his great-grandmother?
Is that his mother?
His uncle?

Every person we passed became a potential genetic link to the child about to join our family. It was overwhelming and sad, and made my heart race.

We checked into our very very nice hotel, and gawked at the view from our 2 bedroom suite on the 15th floor.

The windows wrapped in a boomerang shape along the curves of our apartment; through each frame a different urbanscape pulsed with noise and light.

We all crashed that night, barely managing to eat some take-out bibimbap that Sean found at a neighborhood restaurant.

The next day we woke up early--4:30am early--and watched Pororo cartoons until the breakfast service began. After we gorged ourselves we ventured out into our neighborhood--the financial district. I didn't have high hopes for the "interesting" factor of the area, but was pleasantly surprised to find a winding tree-lined street that led us to Deoksugung Palace where the changing of the guard ceremony was underway.

We stood and watched the elaborate process as little old ladies pointed at Sweet Bubs and Miss A and smiled.

It costs about a dollar for an adult to enter the palace, and that dollar is well spent. We wandered the grounds and peered in the ancient buildings. Several school groups were there and teachers and students alike stopped to talk to the big kids and take their pictures with them.

I watch the school boys with particular interest--will my son look like them when he is older? Will he work diligently on his assignment like that boy? Or goof off with friends like that one? My eyes fill with tears for no reason. For every reason.


Later that night we take the subway for the first time.

It is so clean, and so easy to navigate. There are special seats for the elderly, pregnant women and women with small children. Invariably someone gives up a seat for my snow-haired mother. Someone else smiles at the big kids and laughs when they respond with "Hello" in Korean. We teach them to give up their seats if an older person gets on a crowded train and is without a place to sit. They watch with eagle eyes for any opportunity to leap up and bow to an elder. This cements their position as most popular foreign children in Seoul.


We get off at our stop just before dusk and set off to find the Lotus Lantern Festival, an annual parade that celebrates Buddha's birthday. We think we are lost and ask for directions. We pass a hundred coffee shops (thank God Koreans love their coffee as much as I do) and finally find ourselves in the thick of a crowd. We go with the herd until we see this:

And this:

And then we are scrambling for a curb to stand on, to watch the lanterns swirl by:

It is one of those events that is so beautiful you can't believe you are really there. Sweet Bubs falls asleep and snores on my lap through the whole thing. He misses bright lights and loud cheering. He misses his sister's eyes wider than I have ever seen them, and hundreds of Buddhist monks marching in throngs illuminated by lotus shaped globes of paper.

We try to leave early to beat the rush but the joke is on us, because this is a big city and there is ALWAYS a rush.

The next day we wake up and plan to visit the COEX mall aquarium. The COEX mall is the largest underground mall in Asia, and the aquarium is massive. We see manatees and electric eels and manta rays with wingspans as wide as I am tall. We have the dead skin on our hands nibbled off by tiny ravenous fish. An older woman fills Miss A's cupped hands with homemade snacks and strokes her cheeks. Miss A says "kamsahamnida" and bows, because she is a polite girl and then looks at me with a bewildered smile. "Why do people keep giving me stuff?" "Why am I allowed to take food from a stranger here but not at home?" Oh, you got me with that one child. You got me. "I think it's because they are giving me things as a way to say welcome to my country? Do you think mom?"

As we leave the aquarium, my mom and Miss A fall ill. We find a pharmacy and pantomime the symptoms, leaving with bags filled with bottles and pills labeled in hangul. Miss A's fever burns through the night and she sleeps hard for the rest of the day.

I am burning too--but with the nervous energy of knowing that it is the last night I will ever spend without knowing what my son looks like face to face. The last night wondering what his hair smells like or what his laugh sounds like.

Our first meeting with him at Eastern Social Welfare Society is the next day.

I think of the worst case scenarios. He will be totally withdrawn. His development will be vastly different from what we expected. His FM will hate us. He will hate us.

I can't sleep.

I am terrified. I want everything to slow down or hurry up.

I can't do this. I have to do this.