Ukraine Adoption

In the quiet of the night

Tara is tucked in bed, at last. I took today off to get some things done, but in the afternoon after pre-school, we rode bikes through the puddles at the park, picked up some dinner at Boston Market, watched a movie, she took a shower, I read her a story, I rubbed her back in the dark. While she was in school, I took Austin to a matinee. We were the only two people in the show, but we still whispered.

I was going to say that I can't believe I haven't even had a few minutes this week to update this blog. But just the last few hours are pretty indicative of how the whole week has gone by. It seems like some activity filled every waking moment.

I told John last week when I was hiding Easter eggs in the pool table pockets in the family room, like I do every year, that holidays are very important in our lives, even if they seem repetitive. They are the landmarks of time, they help us remember. Where were you Feb. 5? Ok, where were you on Easter Sunday? Or Hannukah? See what I mean?

But then what about those days that aren't big celebrations but are just as important? And how can we make sure we remember them too?

In the quiet of the night, that's when I really catch my breath. We watch our favorite shows and snack on ice cream or fruit. John and I try to have private TV time, when the kids are asleep or at least pretending to be. It is then, at the end of the routine days, that I remember the things Tara did or Austin said. Or the way they make each other laugh so hard. Or cry. Or scream. But always laugh again. Nothing amazing about these last few days, really, just remembering the sounds of Tara squealing when she flew through a deep puddle on her bike, or screaming when she got stuck in the mud. I remember being alone with in the movie theater with Austin, chuckling in the dark, sipping his frozen Pepsi.

Aren't these the times that we want to remember most?

Tara questioning authority

The photo session last weekend was so much fun, you'd think Tara was a professional.

Here is one picture that we aren't getting copies of but I love. She had practiced raising one eyebrow in that "question authority" glare, and she used it quite well that day.

I'll post a few more when I get them back, along with a plug for the awesome photographer, Amy.

Happy Easter to all!

Famous Grandma

My Mom, "Grandma Jeanne," has been a loyal reader of this Ukraine adoption blog since the beginning, so I want to give her a shout-out today. She wrote an essay about how much she loves her city for a big marketing contest----and she won the grand prize! That's a whole bunch of gift certificates for things like a massage, dinner for two at three different restaurants, a carry-on bag, money to spend at the mall, season tickets to the symphony. The list goes on and on. All of this was presented to her by the mayor at a special breakfast. How cool is that?!!! Congratulations Mom (Grandma)! She'll be on the local cable TV sometime soon. We're all so proud of you, the way you went up to the microphone and said a few words after the mayor introduced you. You didn't even seem nervous at all. And you're so kind to say you'll share some of your prizes. OK, now about that massage...I can't believe my sister beat me to it!

Two words

Yes, two words: Crazy busy.

We've been running from morning until night lately, mostly with fun stuff but even that can wear you out.

It seems like the warmer it gets, the more plans we make. I think that even a hint of spring in the air has given us all springs in our steps. The days are longer, we are seeing sunshine, kids are playing at the park.

I took Tara to a professional photographer yesterday, we have never done that with her. It will be interesting to see how the pictures turn out. I will try to post one or two when we get them back. She smiled on cue every time. We were changing her outfits, putting her hair up, then down. She was a good sport. But then finally, after more than an hour (!) she declared: "OK, that's enough. Just two more pictures and we're done."

John took Tara to a cousin's 3-year-old birthday party on Saturday evening, I had to take Austin to a mandatory baseball practice. Tara went kicking and screaming, I had to buckle her into the seat in John's car. She wanted me to go, too. Five minutes down the road, she apparently stopped fussing. She had a fabulous time, John says, and wasn't afraid to talk to people. When her cousin was opening his gifts, Tara just sat right up front so she could watch. This is good, she needs to get out with John more and not be so dependent on me. But frankly, I don't always mind...

Tara-isms Part XXI

Tara and Austin were goofing around in the back seat of the car (he is 12) All I could see in the rear view mirror was arms flailing, fingers grabbing, a foot trying to kick a brother. Lots of laughs. And then Tara squealed, "Let go of my arm ankles!" (um, wrists? we call them wrists.)

Tara has more recently picked up some kind of southern-speak, even though she was born in Ukraine and we live in the midwest. She has been saying, "I was gonna about to..." (I cringe) When we lived in Atlanta, pre-Tara, people used to say, "I might could do that."
Now Tara stops herself and says, "I was gonna about to...GOOO-EEEENG TO." OK, catching on. But we can cut back on some of the vowels there. And the volume.

On a particularly cold Saturday when four people in the house can wear on each other's nerves, I finally scooped Tara up and took her to run some errands. Five minutes into the drive, she burst into tears. Apparently, Austin ate the little bag of crackers she had wanted, that she had left on the kitchen counter for four days. Yes, four days untouched. So he ate them. "I WANT A DIFFERENT BROTHER!" she belted out. It's not so easy sister, I told her. We're all stuck with each other. Thank goodness.

How does this happen

They don't know me and I don't know them but I'm trying to make sense of what has happened to an American family in Ukraine right now that had three bad referrals in a row of children mostly too sick or mentally ill to leave the orphanage. Their files did not come close to explaining their actual conditions. The family traveled across the country and back.

It is heartbreaking. They will be shown no more files. They were told it's illegal. Illegal? They were told that it must not have been God's will. There are 100,000 orphans in Ukraine and somehow there was not one child available for them to take home and raise as their own. Is that God's will? They were open to ages, gender, even siblings. This is simply devastating. They did everything exactly the same as the other families---the documents, the doctor's appointments, the home study, the updates.

Many families are arriving home in the U.S. with their new children, others are getting referrals, some are waiting to travel to Ukraine, their high hopes tangling with their fears.

And this family, emotionally drained and physically spent, was given such a raw deal that it's unimaginable how they must feel right now. But as they prepare to leave Ukraine, they are thinking not so much about themselves but of all the children waiting for families. And the one or two children that they could have taken in and raised as their own. They would have given them a good life.

Drew and Rita did all they could.

A lot of dreams were dashed today. Too numerous to count.

How many shots?

"I'm getting a shot in this leg," Tara proudly told us this morning. I didn't know how to break it to her that she would actually be getting more than one. Perhaps even three. Today was her exam that is required for kindergarten in the fall, which includes updates on immunizations.

In the office, the friendly doctor looked at Tara's file and then said in a sort of hushed tone, "She's five." Yes, yes, right, I said. She's five. She turned five in January. "I'm five!" Tara said.

The doc strained her smile and tried again, "No, I mean, she needs five..." OH! I said. OH! Right. OK. Um. C'mon Tara, hop up here on the table. The doc handed me five sheets of paper, each explaining the purpose and the risks of each of the immunizations. She needs another chicken pox shot? I asked. "Yes, a booster shot." The word booster sounds like they use a giant contraption and punch you with it. I never liked that word.

Tara was brave. Tara is always brave. The most painful one was the pinch in the back of her arm for the chicken pox shot. She clenched her teeth but didn't cry. She rarely cries at the doctor's. (Remember she laughed at the flu shot?)Then she got two shots in the front of each of her thighs. Boom boom boom boom. Like that. She was very still. She watched every part of it. "You are the bravest girl I have ever seen," the doctor said.

Tara sat up. I saw her little chin start to tremble. She was fighting it but she finally hit a breaking point with a very quiet whimper. I picked her up and hugged her, she hid her face in my neck, It's ok to cry honey, even big, strong grownups might cry from five shots, I told her. "Will I get 5 stickers for this?" she asked, one tear streaming down her cheek.

At the check-out desk, the sympathetic clerk let Tara pick out five stickers. Walking back to the car, Tara said, "I want to share these stickers with my friends at school." Today is a snow day, so we'll share those tomorrow, I told her.

So the doctor says Tara's height, weight, development, blood pressure, etc etc etc: "Perfect." The doctor used that word. Tara is ready for kindergarten. But we knew that, didn't we?