Desmond’s Arrival: Part 2

Tuesday morning, December 20, 2011. 

We leave the hotel and arrive at JFK International Airport, find the parking area for our terminal, and start following the signs to where we are supposed to meet our agency’s greeter.  (The greeter is there to make sure the proper child is delivered to the proper family and also handles the brief amount of paperwork that must be signed before you can take your child home.)  When we spoke to her the night before, our greeter told us that the terminal was in the basement of the building, and that we would have to walk down around the building into what felt like the underbelly of the earth.  She was not kidding.  It certainly felt like the sidewalk to nowhere, and it ended up at a terminal whose only sign of life was the tiniest Dunkin’ Donuts kiosk you have ever seen; this is where we would wait to meet her and the other families.  It was a long wait, as we were very early.  We drank some coffee, ate some ridiculously expensive banana bread, took pictures, and checked the flights every five minutes or so:

Steph and soon-to-be big brother, Jack.

Super excited Sara and Brendan.

Fourth from the bottom, Desmond’s flight (Tokyo-Narita) finally landed! 

If you have never waited for an international flight to come through immigration, then you should know that this is a long process.  The sign saying that they had landed was very exciting for about ten minutes; we then waited for what seemed like hours for people to start coming through the gates.  (During this waiting period the abandoned-looking terminal became inhabited by a pigeon eating a bag of Cheetos.  I kid you not.  Steph and Jay have photographic evidence.) 

Finally, the gates opened up and travellers started pouring through.  We found a spot near the railing so we could watch for our babies.  The first baby to come through went to the only family expecting their first child and we were able to witness their first moments as a family.  The second baby, another boy, met his family.  And then we saw them:

Steph and Jay’s Sophie and our Desmond walked off the plane, the tiniest travellers stretching their eager legs after more than a day’s worth of travel induced confinement. 

It took my breath away.  There was an audible “awww!” coming from the crowd around us and Desmond stopped for a moment, perhaps overwhelmed by the sea of faces that had gathered in the terminal.  Then, in what we now know as true Desmond fashion, he started to run.  His escort, the young gentleman in the photo, kept a close eye on him.

One moment a railing and a hundred people separated us, and the next he was in my arms, crying and reaching out for his escort, not too happy to see us, though we were so very happy to meet him.  The airport is a cruel place to meet your child for the first time: large crowds, lots of noise, errant pigeons, and other crying babies make the scene overwhelming.

 

There is no place to sit quietly and gaze at one another and really our only instinct, and that of the other families as well, was to get out.  Sign the paperwork as fast as possible and head for home, or at least the quiet of the car, away from all of the staring faces of curious onlookers.  We said goodbye to his escort, who let us know that he needed a diaper change and change of clothes, and we walked up and out of that basement into the fresh air.

There are those who will tell you that their moment of meeting their child was one of bliss, the magic something that was always meant to be coming together at long last, and that it all went beautifully.  I am not that person.  I will tell the truth, because what, really, is the point of sugarcoating it all?  He cried hard.  He screamed and his head never stopped turning to look for a familiar face.  It was heartbreaking and people stared at us, but having been through this moment twice before we knew that keeping calm and going forward would get us through it.  I whispered to him that it was fine to cry, to scream, to rage; he had every right, given what had happened to him in the last 30 or so hours.  We made it to our car, determined that his being in need of a diaper and clothing change was a huge understatement, and in our first moments alone with our littlest boy we got down to the business of cleanup.  As soon as the first two layers of pants came off, our little guy settled down to sniffles and sighs, his sweaty body relaxed, and he started to take us in.  A fresh diaper made things better yet.  The moment of pure magic happened when I pulled out a cup of Cheerios; he reached for them and knew exactly what to do:

“Feed the lady with the ridiculous grin; she seems to like it.”

And later, “ Feed the guy some pizza; he seems to find it funny.”

And so we met Desmond and began the second leg of his long journey to our family. 

Desmond’s Arrival: Part 1

Let’s back up

In May of last year we knew that our agency in Korea had reached it’s quota for emigration permits (EP) and that our littlest son would not come home in 2011.  Fast forward to November 2011, when rumors started to circulate through the families working with our stateside agency that all of our children had somehow been submitted in the very last EP batch.  It turns out that we were all submitted because our stateside agency is due to close in the near future due to the loss of the agency’s director early last year; our Korean agency submitted all of our agency’s files so that the closure could happen in a more timely manner.  Being submitted held no guarantee of actual travel, but the hope and positive energy of that little bit of news could probably have floated all of our children home in a big happy bubble. 

Emigration permits can take weeks or even months to be granted, with the trend at that time running about four to six weeks.  If we were going to get good news, it would likely coincide with the Christmas/New Year holidays.

What does it all mean?

When the rumors started flying about EP, the speculation meter hit an all-time high.  Would they arrive before Christmas?  Would we even be granted EP, given the fact that the babies referred in Dec. 2010 would not even receive EP before the end of the year?  Should we buy another set of presents to put under the tree?  Honestly, I did not think that he would come home.  I didn’t let myself believe that it could all work out and be true.  Friends and family joke all of the time about my eternal optimism, but on this I could not afford to believe because I was afraid that if I got my hopes up and he didn’t come home I would be crushed.  We had heard nothing official from our agency, who always err on the side of caution and preparing their families for the worst-case-scenarios, so it was truly a huge guessing game. 

Then one day we got a call from our agency’s stand-in director, who asked for our updated email, cell phone numbers and work numbers, because “we are hoping for some very good news to call you with in a day or two”. 

And like the Grinch, my heart grew a few sizes that day, and made room for the possibility of miracles. 

Long Story Short

EP was granted, travel and escort were arranged, and Desmond was due to arrive in the United States on Tuesday, December 20th.  We shopped for more presents, got all of our wrapping done, cleaned the house, packed and repacked the diaper bag, and made about a million excited and nervous phone calls to our friends, Steph and Jay, whose daughter was coming home on the same flight (along with the sons of two other families).  On Monday we headed to NYC, stopping at the Ikea in Paramus on the way, because what else do you do the night before meeting your youngest child?  We stayed in a hotel next to JFK airport, which had a great breakfast waffle station but also smelled ridiculously of Carpet Fresh.  We did not sleep at all, a result of both excitement and the musical group in the room next to ours who insisted on singing and playing instruments well beyond 2 am.  It didn’t matter, though; our happiness could not be tempered by exhaustion. 

Getting ready to head to the airport in the morning was one of the most pinch-me moments I’ve ever lived through, as in Pinch-me, because this can’t really be happening.  We cannot seriously be on our way to meet our son for the first time when he was not expected to come home for another 6-10 months!  For a bit of perspective, families with our Korean agency and the same referral month (March 2011) still have not been submitted for EP as of May 2012. Even if they were submitted today, they might still be weeks away from approval and travel.  To say we were lucky is the understatement of the century; our families had been given the most amazing gift and we all knew it. 

How Are We Doing? This About Sums It Up.

Our mornings are chaotic.  There is never enough time, it seems, to simply get the day started with three children without telling someone to hurry, stay on task, just put on your gosh-darn socks.  Our school day starts early; we must leave the house by 7:30 or we’ll be late, the oh-so-dreaded late for kindergarten and first grade, the very stupidity of which thought makes me giggle and want to take them out for coffee, because who cares if you’re late for kindergarten?  How much does it matter in the grand scheme of things?  Yet I rush them along, but sometimes the universe has other plans for my humility.

Yesterday was one of those mornings of constant hurry-ups; we were running later than our usual standard, and the grey, grey sky and silently falling rain did not help our scheme.  When we finally made it out the door I realized I had left my keys in the locked house and then the sky let loose with rain that fell in sheets.  Since I know myself and my habit of locking myself out, I had long ago hidden another set of front door keys in the garage.  Big kids crouched under the garage eaves while I ran around to the front door with the shoeless baby in my arms, both of us soaked through within seconds, but we got the car keys and started off for school a mere 15 minutes late and in surprisingly good humor.  I firmly believe that being able to laugh at one’s own follies is the most important skill to have as a parent. 

We got to school, parked the car in the very most pothole-filled parking lot on the face of the planet, and ran around the corner toward the school’s entrance.  As we did so, another very-late-parent-type was pulling up to the curb and ran over a seltzer bottle, which exploded in a very loud POP!, spewing its contents and cap directly into poor Emma’s face and mouth, down her shirt, in her jacket hood.  These things only happen to me, I thought.  She burst into tears; we headed to the nurse to clean her up, and she recovered with her usual grace and good humor.  Both kids made it to their classrooms in time to begin morning work.  Phew!  I thought I was in the clear, with the morning marathon complete I could now go home and have that cup of coffee and try to convince myself that the shower I sped through only an hour ago was worth it despite the sweat now running down my back.  But as I turned to leave Emma’s classroom, her teacher turned to me and with a sarcastic smile said as she looked at my beautiful littlest son, “Boy, he really slows you down, doesn’t he?” 

Damn.  That one sentence crushed me in an instant, undid all of the upbeat thoughts and smiles I had managed to be putting forth all morning.  To be scolded by her teacher was a slap I did not need on a morning that had been less than stellar.  Against my better judgment I immediately went on the defense, telling her about the soda bottle and the trip to the nurse, turning it around to make her be the one to feel bad – oh, this was not one of my finer moments.  I will admit that I stewed about it all day long, even called a friend who recently added a nearly two year old to her family and she commiserated with me about how hard this is, how tender and fragile these new family relationships we are building still are, and how not sleeping for a month can kill your sense of humor. 

I let that one comment knock down so much of my parenting self-esteem, and I know better.  So at the end of the day I picked up those two great big kids of mine, threw scooters and stroller in the car, and headed to my in-laws’ house for a walk/scooter in the sunshine, up and down hills, around and through puddles.  I cheered them on when they made a good splash and instead of telling them to hurry up, I cheerfully hollered wait for me and raced them up the road.  We stopped to watch the snow-melt draining in rivers and rivulets down the storm drains, listened to bird calls, and praised the balmy wind that flushed our cheeks.  They giggled at their new brother, he called back to them with his biggest grin, and I smiled at how strong their bond is, how very far we have come already.

Yes, they slow me down, but it is wonderful, it is everything I ever wanted and more.  And I really don’t care if we are late for kindergarten.

Party of Five

It would seem I have some explaining to do:

Sometimes, when you least expect it, life throws you a surprise party.  Six months early and smiley as can be, Desmond arrived home just in time for the holidays and put a pretty great spin on what had otherwise been a really tough year.  I’m still not sure how it all transpired, but I know that our new son is terrific and that his little hand wrapped around my finger is pure magic. 

Shaking my fist at Google+

Have you noticed that when you scroll back a bit in the archives of this blog you suddenly find black boxes that look something like a strange road sign instead of the pretty pictures that used to be there?  Yeah, me too.  Annoying!  It seems that upon signing up for Google+ I hit a snag that many others have unfortunately found as well.  In short, Google+ ate all of my photos from associated accounts, including Picasa web albums and Blogger. 

Now, before you get all computer hero on me and try to save me from my poor blogging self (not that I do not appreciate your valiant efforts, because I do!) I have been in contact with the powers that be at Blogger and there is no quick fix, perhaps no fix at all for the foreseeable future.  Luckily I had a backup of my archives saved to a file on my computer and I was able to export that to Wordpress and basically rebuild my blog from that, sans comments.  It took some time and I am still tweaking it, but once things are up and running I will post the appropriate links and get back to writing. 

All of this to let you know that yes, I also see the bog black boxes and yes, I am working on fixing them.  Go carry on with your last few days of summer and check back here next week.  And whatever you do, if you have a blog on blogger, do not join Google+ until they have this glitch fixed!

The Edge

I made Brendan drive us all out to Wellfleet last week during our vacation in Cape Cod.  It was out of the way and took awhile to get there, but I insisted and he relented and even agreed that perhaps it was a good idea.  I just felt this strange need to be there, in a place where I had once stood decades before; I felt as though my soul needed to breathe in that particular air and gaze upon on that particular stretch of sand. 
While standing at the edge of the water, at the point where ocean meets land, I was reminded of some things that seem important and noteworthy.  Before me the sea spread out, wide and expansive, reaching as far as nowhere and more powerful than anything.  The sand dunes, like mountains, plunge down steeply to meet it and in between the two I realized this: we are nothing.  Insignificant.  A mere blip on the radar that is this time on this earth in this universe.  The feeling that came with this realization was one of immediate and overwhelming peace: no matter what I do in this life, the world is much, much bigger than my circumstances, choices, mistakes, or ideas at any moment in time.  It will all go on whether I am here or not, wave after wave will pound the shore and grains of sand will move in the water and wind and rain. 
Then I turned around and saw this:

and this:

Two shivering kids waiting for their mama to finish with her crazy picture taking so they could run on the open expanse in front of them; one husband, knowing his wife needed to see this for some reason that stretches back in time to another family trip that was clouded with grave sadness, waiting patiently for the time to be enough, for the ocean to soak into her pores and restore her.
Seeing them there, waiting for me, I realized that we are bigger than the sky, our actions are broader reaching than any ocean, more grand than any sand dune.  The connections we have with the people around us are the biggest thing I know; I remembered that as much as we are nothing we are also everything, entirely significant.  All I have to do is look in their eyes and I can see it:  we are bigger than we know.  Being at that edge, on that particular stretch of sand, refilled my soul and brought back to the forefront all that I know about life and family and friends and connection: slow down and be, give each other a little room and time when it’s needed, live with intention and listen with an open heart.  Allow them to grow and change, and bend like the dune grass in the wind when they need me to change and grow.  Enjoy this push and pull of life.  Dream bigger than the ocean, but remember my own insignificance in all of this. 
Perhaps this is why the ocean calls to me, why it calls to so many people across time and religion and state and country and continent: to realize that we are everything and nothing all at once.  Maybe we need this reminder as much as we need food and  water, air and shelter.    Maybe we just need to be able to stand on the edge of something and find an inner peace and a reserve within ourselves that fills whatever emptiness the rest of the world and life carves out.  Maybe we just need that reminder to be human again. 

Their Order

“I will always be the oldest around here!” he declares with a look of superiority sent in his sister’s direction.  She rolls her eyes a little, for this is nothing new, this place of second child that is hers to possess.  She possesses it well, striving, always, to be as good as her eldest brother at everything.  This drive makes her come in close behind him though she is a full 18 months younger, such that she reads better than he did at her age, she climbs higher than he did, swims deeper and further than he did when he was four.  She pushes herself, sometimes to the point of tears because she is, after all, quite a bit younger than her brother.  Hers is the advantage spot, a perch in life that allows her to see how to do something by watching someone else figure it out before her, perfecting her approach before she even begins.  She puts puzzles together in her head before her fingers even touch the pieces; she plans her next move before her turn comes around on the board game.  She, more than any of us, tends to plot.

The first arrived child has it harder, I think.  He has had to break us in, to survive us while we lurched, suddenly, from child to parent in the swift movement of a baby passed from one set of arms to another.  There was no labor and delivery to mark the momentousness of the occasion, no nurse there to show us how to hold him, comfort him, give him a bottle.  We had to learn through trial and error and he bravely endured our many gaffs on the way to knowledge.  His place of first in our family is worn well on his shoulders, but sometimes I worry that the pressure of being first will mark him somehow.  He is, right now, the child that we sit and talk about at night: How will we keep him busy enough but not too busy?  Is this the right school?  Is he getting a good balance of freedom and structure?  Do we know who his friends are, who their parents are?  What is our stance on video games?  Violence in media/movies/television?  How are we going to not screw this up?  It’s not that we don’t worry about Emma, it’s just that the first child somehow requires a different sort of worry, a more intense scrutiny of life and surroundings and influences and decisions.  Our first child knows how to buckle down, to put one foot in front of the other and make his way through whatever comes his way; our daughter follows quietly and keenly in his footsteps, perfecting his moves with her own brand of intuition and authority.

As we wait for our third child, I cannot help but wonder who he will be, how his piece of this life’s puzzle will fit into our family.  And how will we be with him?  With two children safely and successfully growing under our care, how will we approach the raising of our littlest?  I will not lie – this wait seems endless and insurmountable right now, and there are days when I wonder and despair about the possibility that the child in those pictures we so adore might not come home at all.  I find myself thinking a great deal about the past, about the adjustment periods that both of our children went through upon arrival.  The third time around, will these new circumstances in our adoption make a difference in how we, as a family, process each other?  Will Joon, the stoic, sad face in all of these pictures, join our family with, finally, a smile?

 

I wonder if he will be the happy-go-lucky ‘third child’ I see in the families that blossom around us, or if he will have the yearning to always catch up that his sister so acutely feels.  I grow weary of the wondering, and here we are five months in and possibly more than a year to go. 

The time burns by so very slowly.