Learning to Cry

"It's normal," said our international adoption doctor.  "Normal, at least, for where she's come from...."



Our daughter was 11 months old when she came home from China, young for a special needs adoption.  She had spent 10 months in the orphanage and one month in foster care.  Overall, she was doing very well and was on-target or perhaps even beyond in every way.  But one behavior worried me.  Or more accurately, it was the lack of a behavior that worried me.  When she got hurt, she didn't cry.

In China, during one of our first days together, she was cruising along the furniture, tripped, and hit her head.  It wasn't a terrible injury, but one that should have hurt.  Had to hurt.  Yet she didn't cry.  She laid on the floor and very deliberately breathed deeply in and out.  In through the nose, out through the mouth.  In through the nose, out through the mouth, like she was attending a Yoga class.  Then she pulled herself back up and continued her cruising.  During our first weeks together, I saw this repeated many times.  Any little injury and her eyes would glaze over and the Yoga breathing would begin.  In and out.  In and out.  Sometimes she put her thumb in her mouth, hugged herself with her other arm, and gently rocked.

Her paperwork, written when she was 6 months old, said, "she's learned the ways of the orphanage and does not cry to interrupt adult's work."   Even before I met her, I knew what that meant.  She hadn't learned, "Oh, I see that you're busy; I won't interrupt you."  She'd learned, "when I cry, my throat hurts and my eyes burn and my wood mattress gets wet.......and no one comes anyway."

So when I talked to our doctor, herself an adoptive mom, she said I should overemphasize the owies.  Every owie.  All the time.  With our other kids, who had no trouble at all producing a healthy wail, a typical response to a little trip and fall was, "Up you go!  You're O.K.!"  With Cholita, those tiny owies became hug and kiss fests.  We snuggled, we coddled, and I'm proud to say, within a month, she was screaming like a banshee just like our other children.

And as much as my husband and I joked that we'd created a monster, I was happy to have my work interrupted by a crying baby who was looking to her Mama for comfort.

After all, Yoga will still be there when she's 40.

An Anniversary, a Hope, and a Video

It's been nearly two years since our youngest daughter had her last shot of PEG Interferon.  Two years since we happily bid farewell to the sharps container and the alcohol wipes.  Two years since we left behind the marathon naps and achy tummy and bloody noses.  And two years since we learned that our daughter no longer tested positive for Hepatitis B.

Which brings me to the hope part of this anniversary.   When our daughter began PEG, it was not approved for pediatric use with Hep B.   Another type of interferon, Intron-A, had been used for many years with children, but not PEG, the extended release version of interferon that took the number of shots down from three times a week to only once a week.  Although the convenience was a factor, the biggest reason we pushed for PEG was that our daughter's doctor felt that it might have a slight edge over Intron-A in achieving success.  If we were going to spend a year doing shots, a year getting weekly blood tests; if we were going to inject our little girl with something that would make her feel sick, we wanted the very best stuff we could get our hands on.  As it turned out, getting that PEG delivered to our door wasn't so easy.   Because it wasn't FDA approved for Hep B, our insurance company said they wouldn't pay for it.  Our doctor wasn't surprised and wrote a long letter explaining why our daughter's situation was unique and why she felt PEG was her best bet.  The insurance company wouldn't budge.  I looked into purchasing the PEG out-of-pocket.  It would be $1,000.00 per shot, once a week, for a year.  In addition, there would be the fees for the regular lab work, and unbeknownst to us at the time, another $700 per shot medication she would need sometimes up to 3 times a week to counteract some of the detrimental effects of the PEG.  Out-of-pocket wasn't going to work.  So I gathered all the information I could.  In the dark den, illuminated by the glow of the computer screen, I spent many late nights taking notes on adult Hep B usage of PEG or on the safety of PEG used in pediatric cancer patients.  I sent all the information to the insurance company and filed an appeal.

With the appeal process, the insurance company sends the patient's information, and anything else the family wants to include, to another specialist in that field, one of their own choosing, and the decision is in the hands of the doctor.  Within a week, I heard that our insurance company's decision had been overruled and that a refrigerated package of PEG would be arriving on our doorstep whenever we wanted it.  I happily paid the monthly $35 copay.

And now, in small part due to my daughter's success, doctors at major hospitals on the East and West coasts are recruiting children with Hep B for a research trial of PEG interferon.  They plan to combine it with an oral antiviral, hoping that the lowered viral load will give the PEG the edge that it needs to wipe out the virus. I don't envy those parents or children the year of treatment.  It's not fun.  But I do hope and pray that when they pick  up lab results at the end of that year, in the column where it says: Hep B Surface Antigen, next to it will be the blessed word NEGATIVE.

In honor of this anniversary, I wanted to re-post my little girl's video.  She was 4 years old when she told her story.  She sounds so babyish compared to her current 6 year-old self, but at the same time, I'm impressed with her maturity and strength.  Always have been.

Only a Mama

Last week, our 4 year-old son, XiXi had just had his bath, was in his favorite pair of monster jammies, and smelled of that wonderful combination of shampoo and toothpaste.  I was tucking his blanket around him when he brought up China.  He's only been home eight months, but very rarely mentions anything at all about his years in the Kunming orphanage.  "In China," he said,  "one night I have to go potty, but NO get out of bed.  No, no, no."  With each "no" he wagged his chubby little finger back and forth, indicating that getting out of bed was definitely against the rules.

"What happened?" I asked gently.  "Did you wet the bed?"
"No," he answered.  "I cry and cry and an ayi come and take me to the potty."
Always happy to grasp onto moments of love and kindness coming from the orphanage, I said, "That was so nice of Ayi.  I'm glad she did that.  I bet when she took you back to bed, she tucked you in, gave you a kiss on the head, and said, 'Goodnight, XiXi.'"
He pouted and shook his head.  "No," he said.  Then the corners of his mouth turned up in a grin.  "Only a Mama do that."

I swelled with love for our son and thanked God not only for XiXi's presence in our home but also for the reminder that there is nothing more important on my agenda than tucking in that little four year-old boy.

Boy, Oh Boy

When we toured our son's orphanage, I asked the assistant director so many questions that Helen, our poor translator, needed to stop for a water break.  The assistant director, on the other hand, asked only one question of me, a question that left me stammering: "Why are people not adopting boys?"

They have many boys, "very good boys", she pointed out, and they cannot find families.  Our own son, obviously adored by the orphanage workers, was not quickly snatched off of the shared list.  He had two special needs, both considered minor in baby girls.  Females with these special needs are snatched up quickly.  Our son's file sat on the shared list for five months.

So why is it that boys struggle to be adopted?  How did I answer this woman's question?  Well, frankly, I didn't.  I just kind of stammered that I didn't know why.  Any answers that went through my head seemed so ridiculous that I didn't want to waste our translator's breath.  What could I possibly say?


Girls are cuter?

We won't even go there.

Boys are more destructive?

You'll have to trust me on this, but given a perfectly clean and pristine room, his big sister could dismantle it in about 30 seconds flat.  XiXi can't hold a candle to that.

Boys are too active?

Again, not to rip on the big sister, (who we all adore), but XiXi does not climb the counters (like she does) or scale the bookshelves (like she does) or hang from his arms on the fireplace mantle (just for fun?) like she does.  He's the perfect amount of active.  He loves riding his bike and chasing the dog, but he's also quick to calm down for story time.

Girls are more loving?

Love-Bug is this boy's....

......middle name.

Girls have better hair?

What my daughter would not give to have hair like this.  True, the styling options are limited, but don't you want to rub that head of hair? Most people cannot fight the urge and his head calls to them like a genie's lamp. So do his cheeks.  Thankfully XiXi is very tolerant.   

Boys might be violent or aggressive?

Maybe.  But this one sure isn't.  If someone is crying, he cries with them.  If someone is hurt, he's quick to hug.  Compassion is his middle name.  Oh wait, after Love-Bug.

Girl's clothes are cuter?

O.K., you've got me there.  But this boy does appreciate fashion.  Check out the shoes.

People don't know there are boys waiting for families in China?

Based on the question I get at least once a week:  "How did you get a boy from China?",  I think that might be true.  Even in China, a local woman commented to our guide, "I see many families adopting little girls, but never little boys.  Did this family pay more?"  In the U.S., people seem to think along those same lines: this family had to do something special (pay more money, pull some strings, wait longer...) to get a male child out of China.  The opposite is true.

Our XiXi is a walking, talking, loving, snuggling, smiling, charming-your-socks-off 

billboard to the world.  

There are boys waiting for families in China.  

Wonderful boys who will bring joy to your home and fill your heart to bursting.

P.S. For my birthday, I told my kids I did not want a single store-bought present.  So while I was out on a walk, my kids wrote and recorded this little song.  With my oldest on guitar and vocals, he had his siblings all join in at 2:08.  Feel free to jump to the end; my kids won't know.  Listen at the very end, right after the song finishes, to my little China boy.    The Mom Song  What mom could not use a little more of that in her home?

Yes, we must have pulled some strings to get this boy!

What are you afraid of?

I'll never forget the first time I saw my son's face. The magnetic smile, the cocky pose, the peace sign. Something about him spoke to us; spoke to us so strongly that despite not planning for this adoption at all, we suddenly found ourselves adopting. His paperwork said that he was smart and outgoing, well-adjusted and friendly. Our agency, based on their experience with this orphanage, felt confident that he'd been in foster care since infancy, something that reassured us, considering he would be almost four years-old at the time of adoption.

Months of waiting passed with nary a glitch. One late night, I found a blog with pictures of our son's orphanage. I'd seen plenty of pictures of the fortress-like exterior of the buildings, but had seen very few of the interior. Adoptive parents are never allowed to take photos inside, but for whatever reason, this particular heritage tour shown on the blog was given the rare opportunity to bring in cameras. I eagerly scanned through the photos, not because our child was there, because I knew he was in foster care in a village in the countryside, but because he'd spent his first months there. When these photos were taken, he would have been two years old, the orphanage walls a distant memory.

I quickly clicked through pictures of adorable infants and smiling workers and then suddenly I gasped. There he was. My son. Without a doubt, it was him. He wasn't smiling like he was in the referral photos. Frankly, he looked....I couldn't even think of the right adjective .....hardened? Can you even use that word to describe a two year-old?

I went upstairs, crying, to my sleeping husband. "He's in the orphanage, " I told him. "This whole time he's been in the orphanage. " The feeling of total assurance that I'd had when I first saw his referral photo was quickly slipping away. "I don't know if we can do this," I sobbed. "If we can be all he'll need us to be." My husband sat up, realizing that I was very serious. "Of course we can do this," he said. "Were we planning on adopting a child who's already living in a perfect situation?" My husband can be rational like that, even past midnight.

What kept me awake that night and several nights after was the question WHY? Why had he lived at least two years in the orphanage when almost all of the other children had left for foster homes as babies? Is there something wrong with him? Is there something they're not telling us?

I contacted the owner of the blog. She was very sweet, but said she couldn't remember him specifically. She did have another friend though, who was also on the tour, and she sent me her e-mail address. I contacted her right away and included our son's photo. Did she remember him? Could she see any reason why he was still there? Did he seem O.K.?

The next morning, she'd e-mailed me back and included several photos. The first one cheered my heart considerably. There was the smile. There was our boy.

She ended her e-mail with a link to her blog so I could see her other photos from the trip. On the blog, I again saw the pictures of our son, but this time I also saw the woman's comments that she'd written back in 2009. Under one photo she wrote, "I could have taken this one home." With motherly pride I thought, of course she could have. He's adorable. Then, under another picture, I literally rubbed my eyes, sure that I was seeing things incorrectly. She'd referred to him as, "a less-affected mentally handicapped child." This was not his special need. This was not even hinted at in his referral information. Was his referral complete fiction? Could I trust any of it? Who was this child we were adopting and why had he been kept at the orphanage?

I called the blog owner, a kind woman with a huge heart for adoption. I asked her about the comment and she said that looking back on it, he didn't seem mentally handicapped at all, but she'd written that because he was in a room that she'd been told was for mentally handicapped children. We talked for a long time and I was reassured. To a degree.

I'm embarrassed to say that I didn't tell my husband anything about this. I can't believe I didn't tell the boy's father that he might be intellectually stunted. Maybe forever. I knew the feelings we'd had as we prayed about this little boy and I knew the doubt I was now feeling. I needed my rock to stay steady. Because for me, I was losing it. I thought horrible thoughts. Why did I tell everyone about him? Why did I have to post his picture and call him ours? If I hadn't done that, maybe I could quietly step away and go back to our normal life. A life that didn't include a son who might be a less-affected mentally handicapped child. And was it only to save myself embarrassment that I was following through? Is that any way to welcome a child into a family? Then I felt guilt. What was I afraid of anyway? Why wouldn't I accept a referral for a mentally handicapped child? I knew others who had and they loved their children with a passion and were blessed to have them in their lives. I also knew that with every birth, every adoption, there was no guarantee of honor roll status or college graduation or even shoe-tying. And whatever the case, I knew we'd parent and love and cherish and adjust to a new normal.

I knew all that, but I didn't tell my husband and I absolutely should have. As a parent, he had a right to know. I also could have contacted our agency and asked for more information from the orphanage. I composed many partial e-mails doing just that but could never click send. First, I didn't know if they'd give us an update, and second, I didn't want to hear their answer. Deep in my heart, despite the doubts, I wanted to adopt him. I had fallen head over heels for the boy with the mega-watt smile and the image of him that I'd created. To question his mental capabilities, even to my own husband, felt like a betrayal of the boy I was already picturing at our breakfast table. I did ask our agency to find out where he was and if he was still in the orphanage. They said he had recently been moved to foster care, "to help him learn the ways of family life." I took this to mean basic skills.

Then, through a series of events, I was able to meet a woman on-line who had recently adopted a 13 year-old girl from our son's orphanage. I e-mailed them our boy's picture to see if she knew him. The daughter jumped and squealed and called him "DiDi!" (little brother). She'd known him from infancy and even helped him learn to walk. I felt blessed to have this window into our son's life, but didn't think it was fair to ask a thirteen year-old using a hand-held translator to assess a three year-old's mental potential. I did ask what I felt like was an innocent question, but one that would tell me a lot, can he talk? It was two weeks before I heard a response. I wondered if the mother was delaying her reply because she didn't know how to tell me that he was very delayed. Finally when I heard back, she said that her daughter told her that he could speak very well for a small boy. To me, that didn't sound like a mentally handicapped child. But still, the doubt had been planted.

We met our son a little over a month ago. He walked into the Civil Affairs Office, was introduced to us, and burst into hysterical sobs. He screamed loud and long that he did NOT want us. He kicked. He flailed. It was exactly what you'd expect a three year-old boy to do under the circumstances. I knew in my heart that he was just fine. I knew in my heart that no matter what his future potential, he was still just fine. The grieving boy in my arms was suddenly human, with all the talents and challenges of any human.

When he'd calmed down enough to sit next to me on the couch, he looked quietly through a photo book we'd made for him. He paused for a long time, staring at a baby picture, his baby picture.

In a tiny but clear voice, he spoke his very first words to his mother: "Shur boo shur wo?" Is that me? He was seeing himself in photo for the very first time, while for me, that's the only way I'd ever known him. "Shur, shur ni," I said. Yes, that's you. It had always been him. Meeting him didn't change that. He was and would be what he was meant to be. Suddenly, with that knowledge, the fear departed and love took its place.

a family of seven.

Eileen is a regular contributor here and has shared her thoughts and feelings over the last year as she and her family have anticipated meeting their newest family member, Xi Xi. Today was the day they finally were able to hold their long-awaited son. And Eileen was happy to share their story here...

We are in love. Xi Xi is not so sure.

We walked into the Civil Affairs Office at 9 AM and were directed to sit down and start paperwork. I'd just pulled out my chair when a group of women walked in, one holding a baby. I recognized her as the daughter of our travel companions and quickly grabbed my camera to take a picture for them. Through my camera lens, I noticed a very scared, sad-looking little boy trying to back out of the room. He was older, much bigger than I'd envisioned, and so tan, but I knew it was Xi Xi. As further proof, he was clinging to the photo book we'd sent to the orphanage.




A woman, who I later learned was the assistant director of the orphanage, pushed him toward us and he erupted into hysterical sobs. The woman picked him up and handed him to me. He's extremely heavy and with the kicking and flailing, was nearly impossible to hold. He was screaming in Mandarin, "No! I don't want it!" and many other things that required no translation to understand that he was not pleased with the situation.

I'd been holding him all of thirty seconds when our guide asked me to come back to the table to do paperwork. There would be no 24 hour harmonious period like we'd had with Cholita, they wanted the final adoption papers done immediately. I handed Xi Xi to Lyle and the screaming and kicking continued as I signed my name saying we'd love and care for him forever. Based on the present state of things, I wasn't feeling especially confident. Every time I'd glance over at the chaos, our guide pointed to the paperwork and asked me to hurry.

Xi Xi was yelling something to "his auntie", as we learned that he called her, and then she told Lyle that he wanted to be put down. He sat on the couch next to Lyle and the kids opened his backpack and showed him that there was another copy of his photo book. I wasn't sure if he'd get the one I'd sent to China, so I'd made another just in case. He stopped crying and quickly grabbed the book, added it to the other book and held them close to his chest. He then hopped down from his seat and walked out the door, causing us to panic. His auntie motioned for us to stay where we were. From my seat at the table, I could see him in the hall outside, breathing deeply, slowly looking at each page in his photo book. I wanted to cry for him.

The auntie called him back in and after having that moment to collect himself, seemed much more content. He looked at the toys we'd included in his backpack, but it was all done only one-handed because he would not let go of his books. The ice breaker came in the form of a ball--such a boy. I'm not sure who threw it first, but he was all over it. His tear-stained face broke into a huge grin and he laughed.




When this boy smiles, I challenge anyone to not smile with him.




At this point, there was a break in the paperwork and I showed Lianne's letter to Auntie. She seemed so happy to see it and knelt down next to Xi Xi and put the picture into his available hand. He did a whole face smile and immediately yelled, "Jie Jie!"




There was no doubt whatsoever that he remembered her and that she was a very special person in his young life. I will always love this girl who sent our boy such a precious gift on this most difficult day


Now it was Lyle that needed to add his signature to the many papers and Xi Xi once again looked through his picture book, this time pointing and asking questions. I'd included the two pictures we have of him as an infant and he looked at them for a long time. Then very clearly he said, "Shur boo shur wo?" (Is that me?) My mandarin stinks, but I was so happy that I understood exactly what he was asking and could answer him "shur", yes, it is you. I told him he was a very cute baby and he nodded his head and smiled. He saw a picture of Bruder and pointed to him and said, "Gu Gu" (big brother).

The next big hit was Lucy's camera.




Xi Xi loved taking pictures of everyone and then would laugh as he shared their picture with them. Funny picture faces were very appreciated.




Even though it's not the clearest photo, this one completely cracks us up.




Xi Xi showed his result to Cholita and they both thought it was just hysterically funny, which it was.




While the officials did whatever else they needed to do, we all sat in a circle on the floor and threw the ball to each other. Each time we threw it, we'd say the person's name. After just a few rounds of this, he threw the ball to Rose and very clearly said her name. We all clapped and he seemed quite pleased with himself. The next time he got the ball, he said "MaMa" and threw it my way. He had my heart right then and there.

A couple of times Cholita over-threw the ball and I'm pretty sure he scolded her in Mandarin. Cholita is taller, but Xi Xi is much, much heavier. I wouldn't be surprised if he weighs more than Rose. Later in the day when I asked his auntie if he had any favorite toys, she said no, but that his favorite thing to do is eat. I believe it. The boy is a tank. While we waited for the officials to finish their part of the paperwork, we played Ring Around the Rosie, and he quickly learned to sing the "Ashes, Ashes" part. Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes was also a big hit, with him attempting to sing along.

He looked very concerned as we left the office, but was happy to get a shoulder ride from Baba.



He sat quietly on the bus, calmly looking out the window at the commotion of the city. It's not just the U.S. that will give him culture shock. His orphanage was in the city, but he never really went anywhere. The foster village, where they said he'd been for the past six months, was a couple of hours away in the countryside, so this bustling city was all new to him. When the bus stopped and the auntie got out to run an errand, he cried, calling her name. When she got back on the bus, Xi Xi told her that he wanted to sit on her lap, but she told him in no uncertain terms that he could not. He tightened his grip on his photo books and laid his head on my shoulder, resigned that he was staying with us.

Our next stop was at another office for his passport photo. Only Lyle and I needed to get off the bus with him, so as we were leaving, Lucy waved and said, "Bye, Xi Xi" He waved back and said in English, "bye". In the office, he listened very attentively to the adults that spoke to him and responded in a quiet, clear voice. Someone at the office asked him if he liked his new dad and he shook his head and said no. Lyle wasn't at all offended. We were told that in his foster family he had several siblings and was very much loved by the parents. Auntie said that they took him back to the orphanage a week ago and that it was very sad and his foster mother cried when he left.

It was clear that he'd had his photo book for quite a while, which was an answer to prayer. At one point, his auntie jokingly asked if she could take one of his books and he hugged them closer and shook his head no. As we were going back to the bus, he tripped and fell and his precious books went flying. He frantically gathered them up and let Lyle give him hugs. Besides the clothes on his back (which we would later discover were many), the photo book was the only thing he was taking with him and he wasn't about to hand that over to anyone.

On the bus, he let me snuggle him and he promptly fell asleep. Mercifully, it was while he was asleep that Auntie got off the bus.




He didn't ask about her when he woke up. Back at the hotel, we discovered that he wasn't as chubby as we'd initially thought. He was wearing: a t-shirt, a long-sleeved collared shirt, a heavy sweater, a coat, jeans, pink polka dotted long johns and some funky undies. He kept repeating something that seemed to end in "shway" (water), so we gave him more and more water. We have now learned that that particular phrase means he has to go to the bathroom. Filling him with water every time he said he needed to use the toilet was not really a good move. Despite our mistakes, he hasn't had any accidents and has been fine with the western toilet.

There is so much more I want to say about our day, but I'm exhausted and the rest of the family is asleep, so I'll end with a few observances we've made in our first day together:

*Xi Xi is all boy and loves cars and trucks.
*He's a great mimic and has said several English words.
*He is a total and complete ham.
*He's got dance moves that you would not believe.
*He likes dogs (at least in theory, we'll see what he thinks when he meets Olaf)
*He's awesome with chopsticks, but a fork will do in a pinch.
*He has great dexterity.
*We think he's double-jointed.
*He's got a great throwing arm.
*He's obedient.
*He has a sweet, quiet voice, but speaks very clearly.
*He laughs with every part of his being.
*He's smart.
*And he's so very, very brave.

We love him and feel privileged to be his parents. Tomorrow we'll continue our adventure as a family of seven.

To follow Xi Xi and his new forever family in China, visit their blog here.

Bye Bye, Baby

I've done this with each new addition to our family -- be it through pregnancy or adoption -- I go through a mourning phase. I hate to admit it, but in the midst of the excitement and joy, I also feel loss.

As my husband and I left our apartment to be induced with our second over-due baby, I decided right then and there that Tuesday just wasn't a good day for me. Yes, I was 41 weeks pregnant and yes, I wanted to see my feet again, and absolutely yes I wanted to meet our first little girl, but it was the thought of our 2 1/2 year old son that made me want to put the kabosh on the whole thing and reschedule for maybe.....oh, sometime next year. It hit me like a ton of bricks: Our darling boy would never be the baby again. And I cried all the way to the hospital.

With our third baby, another girl, I mourned that our sweet Maddy Magoo was getting ousted from the baby seat. She was nearly five years old when her sister was born and with her brother in school, we enjoyed our days together, just the two of us. Now there would be someone else. Someone adorable. Someone precious and priceless, but life would change. And life had been pretty darn good.

I can't blame these episodes entirely on pregnancy hormones. With our first adoption, I cried as I put this darling girl on a plane to her grandparent's house. The rest of us were leaving for China the next day and never again would my Rose be the baby of the family.


Now it's happening again. I adore my days with this little sweetheart. She gives the best hugs and she knows my lap is totally hers. Soon, when she needs it, it may very well be occupied.


We leave for China in eighteen days, eighteen days until our lives change. I've been cleaning pantries, consulting packing lists, and giving lots of hugs to our current baby. The baby, who frankly, seems happy to pass the torch on to someone else. Still, I mourn the change that will happen.


But it all comes down to this: there's room for one more in this family. Each time we've grown, in the midst of my emotions, I knew that someone was missing. Do you see the hole in this photo? I do and I see a hole in every single family picture I've taken since we signed our LOI. He should be right there. "Move your legs, Rose, give your brother room."

When he does come home, I know there'll be some jostling on that porch swing, but I also know that these precious children will make room. They always have. And every time, our love has grown. We're ready to welcome baby number 5.

From Paperwork to Person

My daughter was carried into a room at The Lottery Hotel in Nanning by the orphanage accountant.  In all honesty, I learned that later.  In that moment, I didn't notice anyone was holding her at all--she could have floated into the room on a magic carpet for all I knew.  I couldn't tear my eyes off of her.  She existed!  

That girl whose picture I'd stared at for months was right in front of us, in the flesh.  She was older, skinnier, tanner, had crazier hair, but it was absolutely her.  I told my husband afterward that it felt like a celebrity sighting.  Not that I've had many of those in my suburban life, but occasionally in airports or waiting in line at a ski slope, I've seen someone I "know" and I just can't help but stare (how tacky) because this person that I've only known as an image has now come to life.   I almost blurt out a greeting, but just in the nick of time, I realize that of course I don't really know them and they certainly don't know me.   Until that moment at The Lottery Hotel, our daughter had been only an image--a cherished image--but just an image still the same.

When we first saw our son's picture and talked and prayed about adding him to our family, I thought a lot about what I envisioned as the little boy behind the photos.  I read and reread the information sent by the orphanage.  I tried to imagine his life as it was in China.  I tried to imagine his life as it would be in our family.  He felt very much like a person.  After we made the decision to adopt him, we threw ourselves headfirst into the process.  We had to.  China gave us a three month deadline to have our papers not only finished, but logged-in.  We made the deadline by one day.  After that hurdle was cleared, there were always other milestones on the horizon.  More paperwork.  More forms.  More signatures.   Somewhere in the midst of the paperwork, I stopped focusing on the boy in Kunming, and focused more on the process to get him home.

Now, as of this week, we're waiting for only one more paper--our T.A.  It's hit me that even though I frequently look at his pictures and say his name in my prayers, I haven't really thought about our son, the person, in a long time.  Now that the process is nearly done, I'm adjusting my focus once again.  We're building a bed for him.  I'm buying him clothes.  I'm picturing him at our breakfast table.  I find myself staring at boys who are 3, almost 4, and hope no one is creeped out.   A new little person is really coming into our home.  A person is going to leave behind everything he knows.  A person is going to be scared or sad or angry or excited or happy or any combination of the above.


I already love our boy, the picture.  I can't wait to love our boy, the person.

Full Disclosure--Is it wishful thinking?

Disruptions happen.  I don't know if they're happening more than they used to or if I'm just hearing about them more, but it's always heartbreaking.  And it's always an emotional topic, often eliciting angry and judgmental comments directed at the adoptive parents---they hadn't adequately prepared, they didn't do their homework, they didn't fully understand the medical condition, they hadn't gauged the emotional effects of life in an institution, they were looking for a "perfect" child....   In many cases that all may be true, yet there is another party that I think is often culpable, but rarely brought to task: the orphanages.

I almost feel guilty saying that, and maybe that's part of the problem.  I know that they are often doing the very best they can.  I understand that.  I also know that they want children adopted and will paint the best picture possible.  However, a parent needs to make an informed decision, and sometimes that information is lacking, misleading, or outright deceptive.   I recently read of a case where a child had been disrupted more than once while still in China due to behaviors that were never mentioned in the referral paperwork.  Prospective parents in the future still weren't given the new information gleaned by people who'd spent time with the child and weren't even told that the disruptions had ever happened in the first place. The rationale in keeping the previous disruptions quiet was that this information would unnecessarily scare off prospective parents.  In my opinion, parents have a right to any feelings they may have when reviewing a referral.  If those feelings are fear and apprehension, then they have a right to be scared and to make their decisions based on those feelings.  Is this unfair to the child?  Possibly.  But I think it's also unfair to the child to match them with parents who are denied the full story.

And speaking of the full story, how many orphanages have an "open file" policy?  In my admittedly limited experience, that's not something that I've seen.  When we toured our daughter's orphanage and asked to see her file, a palpable tension immediately filled the air.  We were told absolutely not.  When we asked for some details about her finding, we were quickly waved off with, "Oh, we know nothing," and then we were offered snacks.  Conversation over.  Another orphanage I know of has NEVER reported that a birth note was left with a child.  Ever.  With over 600 children in their care during any given time, I find that hard to believe.  What is the thought process behind that decision?  Why is full disclosure--good, bad, or otherwise not a healthy thing?  It's their story, the child's story, and yet the orphanages don't seem to agree.

We are in the process of adopting a little boy.  We are ecstatic and feel very well-prepared for his special need, yet the information we have from the orphanage is scant.  If that was all that was available, fine, but I know it's not.  Our son, who has a condition that requires consistent monitoring by blood work, is supposedly getting those consistent lab draws done and yet the only test results I have were from when he was 7 months old.  He's now 3 and a half and the orphanage refuses to give updates.  We're fully prepared to parent him if his condition is on the severe side of the spectrum, but I sure would  appreciate a heads-up.  Even when we get to China, I've been told that we won't get those records.

There are also willful deceptions.  I almost was afraid recently to get our son's LOA.  No, let me rephrase that.  I was thrilled to get his LOA because I knew that meant we were one step closer to bringing him home, but I was apprehensive because more than one parent that I know personally was recently given "new" information immediately after they signed their LOA---serious health information that was never reported in the original referral.    Maybe this was all on the up and up and a condition was legitimately just discovered, but that's not the vibe that I got.

When we talk about preparation on the part of the parents, a very worthy topic, I also think there's a real obligation on the part of the orphanages to prepare the children.   I know these institutions are often woefully understaffed and already stretched.  I do understand that, but I'm talking about the most basic preparation--starting with telling the child that they're going to be adopted.   Our son's orphanage says they don't tell the children because they don't want to upset them in case the adoption falls through.  Fair enough, but I would think that at least after an LOA is submitted, a child has a right to know that this huge change is coming.  Instead, based on what I've heard from other parents, the child is told on Gotcha' Day morning that it's time to get in the car.  Sometimes on their way to the civil affairs office they're given the care package sent by the family, but oftentimes not.   My children and I spent hours choosing photos for our little boy's photo album that we'd send to the orphanage.  We included Mandarin captions and envisioned a nanny reading these to him in the final weeks leading up to his adoption--pointing to his big sisters and brother, showing him his bedroom, saying, "Look, there's your Mama and Baba and they say they love you."   It brings me to tears to knowing that when he walks into that room at the civil affairs office, with 6 strangers from Seattle eagerly awaiting his arrival, it will be with no preparation at all.

These things have been weighing heavily on my mind.  My question is: what can be done?  Is there anything at all?  I would guess that the CCAA has some regulating committee that oversees orphanages.  I would think that there are standard procedures, but is there any recourse for parents?  Will we ever be able to demand access to a file?  Can we ever complain that an orphanage has been dishonest and feel like our voice will be heard?   I don't know if there are any answers, but I feel like there should be.

From Mother to Child

I look at our amazing little girl and try to imagine her birth mother.  I know that some, if not many, of Cholita's traits must have come from her.  I feel certain that she's a smart and charming woman, with a beautiful face and determined will.  She probably has great dexterity, a propensity toward impatience, and may have an obsession with shoes.  I also know that she almost certainly has hepatitis.

Over the weekend, on a beautiful sunny morning in the Pacific Northwest, I sat inside a conference room in the Asian Cultural Center in Seattle.  I was one of only a handful of people not wearing headphones.  The doctors presenting that day spoke in English and translations came through the headphones in Mandarin, Cantonese, Vietnamese and Korean.  There were whole families in attendance.  At the table next to me sat an elderly woman with her daughter and her two teenaged granddaughters.  They were learning about a disease that had been passed down through their family for generations:  Hepatitis B.

One woman asked through her translator why the virus seems to target Asians.  Why are 1 out of every 5 people in China reportedly infected with the virus?  Why are Asians in the U.S. ten times more likely to test Hep. B positive than Caucasians?  The doctor explained that it is not a racial preference.  It all boils down to money.  Yes, the virus has been in Asia for hundreds of years, recently found in the tissue of a 500 year old mummy in Korea, but it's the lack of money for immunization that has kept the virus thriving.

Historically, the most common mode of transmission by far has been mother to child.  Today, a pregnant woman with Hepatitis B has an excellent chance of preventing the virus from spreading to her baby.  She can also protect her own health during her pregnancy with new antivirals that do not harm the infant.   Immediately after birth, the baby will be given a Hepatitis B immunoglobulin shot and start the 3 shot immunization series.  Following this simple routine, over ninety percent of these babies will live their lives hepatitis free.  If they don't begin these shots within that first 24 hours, and they contract the virus as a newborn, over 90% will chronically have the virus for the rest of their lives.  It's a small and crucial window.

Those granddaughters sitting next to me at the conference, at least three generations removed from the start of the virus in their family, will put an end to the cycle.  It's something I feel sure Cholita's birth mother would have done had she known or had the means to do it.  During a break in the conference, I struck up a conversation with the family.  I showed them Cholita's picture and the grandmother oohed and ahhed and unable to speak English, pointed at the picture and asked, "Gon yen?"  Not knowing what that meant, I looked to the granddaughters.  "Gon yen?" the grandmother said to them, pointing again to Cholita.  The elder granddaughter said, "She wants to know if your daughter has hepatitis."  I nodded to the grandmother.  "She did," I told them, "but she's better now."   The  granddaughter translated and then the grandmother kissed Cholita's picture, then put it down and clapped.  It's what mothers everywhere want for their children: a healthy future.

Names: Fitting In vs. Standing Out

Lately I've been obsessed with baby name books.  One book that I personally own is called, "Beyond Jennifer and Jason".  I bought it years ago and when the book is set down, it naturally flops open to one well-consulted, dog-eared page.  At the top of the page are the words "Fitting In vs. Standing Out", a list of names that in the opinion of the authors will be unique, yet not weird.  And while I might disagree with the authors that a boy named Barnaby would fit in, while an Aiden (as I said, this is old) will stand out, I do agree that "unique, but not weird" is a balance I'd like to strike.

When I was with family at a recent reunion in Idaho, I threw out a few names and was surprised by the reactions.  Across the board, family members felt that a unique name would be a hinderance to our son.  Their reasoning was that a Chinese boy who will be in predominantly Caucasian classrooms will already stand out and that an uncommon name would be just one more thing that would classify him as different. Fitting in, they thought, should be of the utmost importance.  "Why not Jake or Ryan?" they asked.

As a group of adoptive parents, I'd love to hear your opinions.  Do you feel you're more or less likely to use a unique name for your internationally adopted child?  Did their Chinese heritage influence your naming decision?  Has a unique name been a hinderance to your child?  Have any of you chosen a name and then changed your mind once you met your child in China?

These kids are being asked to give up so much and make so many changes.   I don't take that lightly.  Their American name, as much as anything, is a symbol of their new life.  It's a life where I hope my son always feels like he fits in, even while standing out.

Back to School--Here and in China

My littlest one, my almost five year-old Cholita, is ecstatic about a certain date circled in red on our calendar.  It's not her birthday, it's not Christmas, it's the day she'll head back to school.  She adores all things scholastic--sharpened pencils, little chairs, worksheets, story time, sharing time, recess, and don't even get me started on the book orders.....


In China, her school experience would likely have been very different.  In fact, she probably wouldn't have qualified for an education at all.  This was not due to her orphan status (although that certainly wouldn't have helped), but solely based on the results of a blood test.  Last year in a petition, thousands of Chinese citizens appealed to their government on behalf of their children.  I could hardly read some of their entries:

From Yunnan: I have endured enough to be a Hepatitis B patient, but my child is too young to understand why he can not go to kindergarten like other children. Every time he looks at me with inquiry, my heart breaks. When will it come that my child can get an equal opportunity?

From Hubei: It is not our fault being infected by the virus and we do not desire too much sympathy and help. All we need is the right to be treated equally and the fair competition. We are impeded in schooling and refused by employers in so long a time. The determination of standing on our own legs therefore becomes faint in reality. In many times I almost cannot help yelling out the voice in my heart: how could we survive in such a society?

From Guangxi: I was just admitted by Jilin University in 2008 while I was diagnosed Hepatitis B in the entrance physical examination and was thus forced to quit schooling. What I have been working so hard for, turns to be meaningless. The sunshine in my life dims. I have no idea what I should do in future. I can not help wondering: when will this situation be changed?

From Guangdong: In current China. it is almost of no use for HBV positive youth to work hard. No matter how diligent, excellent, and noble they are. The tag of POSITIVE is attached to them forever.

Last year at this time, I celebrated a headline from a Beijing Newspaper, "China's Kindergartens to Take Normally Functioning Hepatitis B Children".  It seemed such a momentous step in the right direction.  Unfortunately, the reality is that the stigma is still strong and the hope of equal rights in Chinese education is still far from realized for these children.   Instead of an outright denial, a parent is now required to produce "medical recovery documents" to show that their child is no longer infectious.  Most children with Hepatitis B will never clear their virus.  They may get to a point where their viral load is undetectable, but it's doubtful that will happen during childhood.  So even with seemingly hopeful legislation, they can still be denied a basic education.

This is something I simply cannot fathom.  I cannot read those pleas from parents in China and not think that that would have been my daughter--a young girl with an amazing mind, frustrated and angry that the world is passing her by.  What a tragedy.

My Baby Tells Her Story

It's been less than six months since my daughter finished her year-long treatment with interferon.  The needles, the sharps container, the smell of the alcohol wipes, that whole experience has quickly become a distant memory.  At age four, it's doubtful that my daughter will remember anything about it into adulthood.  That's wonderful, but at the same time, I want her to remember.  I want her to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she's always been a fighter.  She's always had courage beyond her years.

I didn't want to rely just on my telling of the story.  I hoped to preserve something that would capture her, the girl she is right now with the scratchy little voice who could talk about such big things.

We stand in awe of her amazing result, but just as amazing, just as awe-inspiring, is her tenacious spirit.  We feel so blessed to call her our daughter.

The Best Stuff's Never Planned

The family photo shoot was certainly planned. The outfits, the hairstyles, the location, the photographer, all planned.

The head bonk, however, was not. And I love it.








The day before we left for China, five year-old Rose flew by herself to Idaho to stay with her grandparents. I snapped this picture at the airport, blinking back tears. My baby wouldn't be the baby anymore. The next time I saw her, things would be different. Hopefully better, but different.



What if her new sister had issues that would now take the lion share of my time? What if I'd tempted fate and messed up the good thing we had going? Would this changing-point-in-our-lives moment be something Rose would thank me for someday or need to hash out with her therapist?

It's been over three years now. Almost four. And the joy I see pass between these two little girls, even when they're hitting heads (literally and figuratively), warms me through and through. Cholita, our baby number 4, was planned. Ditto with the trip to China. Finding Rose a best friend was unplanned. And I love it.

Parties, Cell Phones, and Mercenaries: A Hep B Primer

Have you read many medical journals? Have you perused through any articles in the Journal of Gastroenterology? Let me tell you, I'm not completely convinced they're written in English. So when my big kids started asking questions about their sister's hepatitis, I had to get creative. If you happen to be a pediatric gastroenterologist/hepatologist, just look away.

There's a party going on in Cholita's liver. It's been going on most likely since she was born. These party-goers (Hepatitis B virus) are not the type your parents would want at their house. One look at them, and you know they're trouble.

The dad sitting on the porch (immune system) is unfortunately clueless. This is a newbie dad (a baby's immune system) and he just hasn't had enough life experience to know a bad actor when he sees one.....Seem like nice young men..... A more experienced dad (adult's immune system) would have seen these guys coming from a mile away and gotten rid of them before they could even step foot through the picket fence (acute infection= less than 6 months).

But this dad is naive and the thugs soon have a rip roaring party going on in the liver house. The partiers are having such a great time, they keep texting their friends (replication) and pretty soon the house is bursting at the seams (high viral load). So the party goes on and things start to get a bit messy (inflammation). Dad continues to think all is hunky dory (immune tolerant phase). This can go on for years.

Eventually, Dad wises up and when he does, he's not pleased with what he sees. He grabs his water gun and starts shooting. Unfortunately, these thugs have jumped onto the backs of his sweet little babies--the liver cells. So, he's shooting at the thugs, but when he hits a thug, he also hits a liver cell. Virus thugs and liver cell babies are falling in large numbers (high ALT). Thankfully this dad has LOTS of liver cell babies and when one of them goes down, another one grows and takes its place. He keeps shooting and the party seems to be clearing out (viral load going down). Unfortunately, the thugs don't really want to leave. They love the liver house and keep texting their friends. It's an all out battle (immune clearance stage). Can the immune system dad shoot faster than the virus thugs can text? Sometimes he can, but most often he can't.

The immune system dad is working hard, killing off thugs in large numbers, but sometimes he needs to rest. Sometimes he needs to refill his water gun. When that happens, the thugs go into texting overdrive. Dad comes back with his full water gun and sees that the party is even bigger than before. And so the battle goes on. With thugs and liver cells dropping like flies, you can imagine that the carnage gets a bit messy and the liver house is starting to show some wear and tear (fibrosis). Poor dad isn't making progress and the neighbors are complaining, so we need to send in reinforcements. We have two options: mercenaries (interferon) or cell phone smashers (antivirals).

The mercenaries are well-muscled killing machines. They make dad's water gun look seriously wimpy. Now, we like having Rambo on our side, but frankly, he makes us a little nervous too. He's shooting away at the virus thugs and mowing them down in great numbers, but he's also a little unstable and sometimes he shoots at completely innocent party-goers, just hanging out at the punch bowl (platelets, neutrophils, red blood cells, etc.). Anyway, what we hope the mercenaries can do is put an end to this party all together (stop replication, HBeAg-). The very BEST thing that could happen would be if the mercenaries, with the help of dad and his water pistol, could wipe the thugs out so thoroughly that a permanent guard is placed on the porch (surface antibodies) and the party can never start again.

If mercenaries aren't your cup of tea, there's also the option of the cell phone smashers. They're trying to stop all of this texting-your-friends nonsense (replication). The only problem with this, is that the thugs are determined to keep the party going. Maybe you can smash most of the cell phones, but now a few have showed up with steel-plated cell phones and our antiviral cell-phone smashers can't seem to stop them (mutations). Pretty soon, everyone has the steel-plated cell phones and we need to try a different breed of antiviral cell phone smasher. It might work, it might not. There are only so many cell phone smashers and the virus keeps making stronger cell phones that are harder and harder to smash.

So Cholita's party was out of control. She had so many thugs crammed into her liver, we couldn't even count them anymore. Somewhere over 5 billion. Daddy immune system shot millions of them down, hundreds of millions as a matter of fact, but when he took a break to reload his water gun, a billion snuck back in. The doctor took a little sample of Cholita's liver house (biopsy) and it confirmed that the party was making a mess (fibrosis). We knew Rambo could be dangerous, and yes, he made us nervous, but Daddy immune system needed help. If he was willing to keep shooting with his water pistol, we'd send in the machine guns.

At the start, the machine guns seemed to be winning. But as time went on, the partiers just turned up the music and texted faster than ever. At the very end, somehow, miraculously, not a single thug could be found. It was time for the mercenaries to clear out too, and so once again, we're left with only Dad on the porch with his water pistol.

In two months we'll check to see if the thugs are still gone and if a permanent guard has been installed at Cholita's garden gate. For now at least, the party's over. We're hoping forever.

Celebrating Miracles

January 22nd had been circled in red on our calendar. It was a Friday, and like all Fridays before it during the past year, that meant an interferon shot for Cholita. Wednesdays meant blood work, Thursdays meant lab results, Fridays meant interferon; it was the rhythm of our weeks during 2009. But this Friday was different; it was her last shot and we planned to celebrate. Based on her past labs and based on conversations with her doctor, we were not celebrating treatment success, but instead celebrating Cholita's amazing resilience, her patience, and her strength. When the nurse had told us months before that it was obvious Cholita had failed treatment, I fumed. My daughter had not failed treatment. The treatment failed her. It felt like an important distinction.

And so we'd celebrate Cholita's triumph; labs be darned. And since this was her day, she was allowed a rare pleasure--she could wear any outfit of her choosing in public.

We ate pizza, we played games, and our little girl who'd had well over one hundred needle pokes in 2009 smacked around a syringe-shaped pinata. It seemed therapeutic.

Cholita blew out 12 candles on her cake, one candle for each month of interferon.

And we went home happy, refusing to acknowledge the nagging sense of disappointment. "I have no regrets," I told my husband later that night. "We did all the research we could have done. We knew the odds going into it. We'll find something that works."

I thought back to a year earlier, a few hours after Cholita's first shot. One minute she was fine and the next she had a high fever and screamed over and over, "My body hurts!" I thought of the first time I had to give her the injection. My husband, the shot-giver, was gone with our son's Boy Scout troop canoeing near the Canadian border and I had no choice. I sat with her on my lap, my hand shaking as I held the syringe. "Just do it!" Cholita said, rubbing her leg with the antiseptic wipe. Soon the wipe dried up. "Ugghh," she said. "Now I have to get a new one."

Two wipes later, and still I couldn't do it. We heard music from the next room; her sisters were watching a show and Cholita wanted to join them. She sighed and rolled her eyes. I breathed deeply. Finally, I looked away and dropped my hand down. The needle didn't go in, just bounced off her leg, and a trickle of blood ran down her thigh. I wiped it off, angry at my own squeamishness and leaned in close to see the hole I'd already made. Determined to not inflict two wounds on my daughter in one sitting, I did what seemed logical at the time but what even my four-year-old could see was a bad idea. I set the needle down on the hole, closed my eyes, and pushed. By this point, months into her treatment, she had some scar tissue and it took more force than I'd guessed. I kept pushing until finally it went in, accomplishing what had to be history's ugliest injection. Before Cholita ran off to watch her show, she patted me on the back and said, "I'm proud of you." I dropped the syringe in our sharps container and prayed that this would work, that it wasn't all in vain.

Two days before Cholita's party we had her final blood draw. The nurses at our local hospital hugged her; we'd brought them flowers, one of them brought Cholita a serrated grapefruit spoon. An odd gift for a four year-old, yes, but in the course of their conversations throughout the year they'd discovered they shared a mutual love for a tart zing in the morning and Cholita was thrilled with the gift. It would take a week for her viral load result to come in. At last count it had been 27 million. I didn't need the doctor to tell me that wasn't encouraging.

I went to pick up the final results during Cholita's preschool time. I'd accepted the fact that the treatment hadn't worked, but I wasn't sure I could completely contain my emotion when faced with the irrefutable evidence. Cholita, just happy with her grapefruit spoon and shot-free Fridays, didn't need to worry about why her mother was crying.

The nurse called the lab for the results and soon the fax machine hummed and my palms went sweaty. The nurse handed me the papers with a sympathetic smile. I walked down the hall to an empty spot. I scanned the labs until I found what I was looking for: HBV VIRAL LOAD--the place that was always followed by a number containing lots of zeros. This time there were no zeros. This time there was no number.

HBV VIRAL LOAD: UNDETECTABLE.

I screamed and immediately started to cry. The nurse jogged over from the nurse's station and fanned some papers in my face. I think she was afraid I would faint. "Is it bad?" she asked. I shook my head. "It worked." My voice was barely a whisper. I said it again, more loudly than I anticipated, "IT WORKED!"

I went to my car and with my forehead on the steering wheel, said a prayer of thanks. Never have words felt so inadequate. It worked. I looked at the labs again. I checked the name on top. I read it again and again. And then I saw something else. HBeAG, the "e" antigen which shows that the virus is replicating, the antigen that has always been positive on Cholita's labs. Now it said HBeAG: NEGATIVE. I cried some more.

When I told Cholita the amazing news later that day, she said, "Awesome.....can I watch a video?" She is, after all, only four.

And being only four, as she grows older she may not even remember her year of shots. But I will remind her, especially when she's faced with trials, that when she was tiny, she went through something hard and she did it with grace. I will remind her that she's strong and that she's a fighter. And I will remind her that even when the odds seem insurmountable, God can accomplish miracles.

Xie Xie

Thank you.

Thank you for passing the milk.

Thank you for helping me with the dishes.

Thank you for the Christmas present.

In most situations, thank you works. It's appropriate and conveys the intended message. But sometimes, words just aren't adequate.

On July 27, 2006, I stood in a sweltering reception room in the Guiping Social Welfare Institute in China's Guangxi province. I had in my hand a little green box containing a gold necklace with a heart-shaped charm, a good gift for a foster mother, our guide had assured me. Most of the people from our adoption group had already left the room to go to lunch, and our translator was poised with her pen over a tiny piece of paper, waiting for me to tell her what to write.

Over a year before, in the very beginning stages of our adoption, I'd happened upon a stranger's "Gotcha' Day" video that affected me deeply. A toddler was being adopted and for some reason, going against protocol, the foster mother was delivering this child to her adoptive parents. The foster mother handed the girl to her new mother, but then quickly pulled the child back, hugging her to her chest and sobbing. A man in the room spoke harshly to the foster mother and with large hand gestures insisted that she give the child back to her new mother. The little girl was hysterical and the foster mother, clinging to her, ran for the door. The man stopped her and forcefully pulled the girl from her arms and gave her to the distraught adoptive mother. The whole thing lasted probably less than thirty seconds, but it disturbed me so much that I called our adoption agency that day.

"I don't want to go to China and take a child away from a loving family," I said to our adoption coordinator. "What I saw today is not what I signed up for. I completely support foster care, but if a child is loved and cared for and cherished, why am I even there? I can't do that."

Kathy, herself an adoptive mother many times over, listened calmly and said that it's a great gift to adopt a child who can form strong attachments, that it may be harder initially, but that in the long run it's always better. I agreed. Of course a foster family is preferable to an orphanage. "I'm sure it's better for the child," I said. "I'm sure it's better for the adoptive parents. But what about the family left in China? Was it better for them? Did that foster mother want to adopt the child she'd raised from a newborn and keep her as her own? Was it only money that held her back? Shouldn't the love of a family trump money?" Kathy, our ever-patient advisor, listened and reassured. "Foster families go into this knowing these kids won't stay," she said gently. "They are the heros of the adoption world. If you're fortunate enough to adopt a child who's been in a loving home, be thankful."

When we got our daughter's referral, we saw on her paperwork that the box which said "institutionalized" was checked. She was living in the orphanage in Guiping and at age six months the nannies there described her as "a very obedient baby who will not cry to affect adult's work." I couldn't even read that sentence aloud when I called our extended family members to tell them our good news. My voice caught every single time. Babies should affect adult's work. That's just what they do. This baby needed a mommy and we so wanted her in our family.

When we arrived in China, our guide handed us a paper with updated information. After reading her schedule, and her likes and dislikes, we read at the very bottom, "living with foster family." I told our guide that that was wrong. We saw her paperwork only two months before and it said she was in the orphanage. He said that it had only been a few weeks, but that she was now with a foster mother, father, and older brother. I rejoiced for her, for our daughter who I knew needed a mother, but I couldn't shake that heart-wrenching video. Like a mantra, I just repeated Kathy's words in my mind: This is a great gift. Be thankful. Foster families are the heros of the adoption world. This is a great gift. Be thankful. Foster families are the heros of the adoption world.....

We met our daughter the next day, a charming and developmentally on-track little 11 month-old. She was absolutely perfect. And I was thankful, oh so thankful for her foster family, truly heros of the adoption world.

So on our visit to the orphanage, I brought my little gift of jewelry, feeling it was silly and inadequate and wishing I knew what they really wanted or needed. We spoke with the orphanage director and she said they could not divulge the name of the family, or supply a photo of them, or facilitate contact. She did say that they are kind people and an experienced foster family.

Now it was time to leave and I wanted to write a note to go along with the gift. The translator had pulled out a piece of paper only slightly larger than a credit card. She stood waiting, looking toward the door where everyone else had already gone.

"Thank you," I said quickly. "Tell them thank you."

"Xie Xie" she said, writing.

"And that we'll always be in their debt."

She looked confused.

I tried again. "That we can never repay them for their kindness."

The translator nodded and wrote, nearly filling the paper. "Anything else?"

"Yes, " I said. "We love her."

She wrote the characters. "Very good," she said, folding the paper and placing it in the box.

On the bus, on our way to lunch, I looked at the envelope of pictures the director had just given us--pictures from every month she was in the orphanage, and starting at nine months, pictures from the foster home. The difference was startling. Yes, the environment had changed, but more than that, the pictures showed a change in our daughter. The blank expression was gone. She was eager and happy. Her eyes sparkled with a light that hadn't been there before.

The photo below was taken on the day she left the SWI. In the orphanage, staffed by kind and loving women, whose work she did not affect, she never smiled for the camera.

In her foster home, I get the impression she affected their work, oh just a little bit. Either waiting for someone to give her a ride...

....or sitting in the middle of the desk. The desk, which I noticed held photos of other babies, presumably others babies they had also loved and sent off to permanent homes.

And because these babies knew what it was like to give and receive love, they were better prepared to meet and attach to their new families.

There truly are no words to express the gratitude that I feel for them, these heros of the adoption world. All I can say, with sincerity and a horrible American accent, is Xie Xie. From the bottom of my heart, Xie Xie.