The Crab Chronicles

A Handicap Is a State of Mind

When I was ready to adopt a second child I knew I wanted a boy and I wanted a child with some sort of special need, who would nonetheless be capable and independent one day. I had so many people tell me I would not be able to stand the stress of parenting a "handicapped" child as a single mom. They were genuinely caring and concerned. I spotted this little guy on a website and knew instantly he was my son:

I got in touch with a nonprofit that made trips to Kazakhstan and could give me some inside information about Igor and his condition, and they reported he was a friendly, outgoing little guy who did well in school and was liked by the teachers and kids -- and he could dress himself, bathe, etc. They were right. He is completely autonomous. I've never had to do ANY caretaking for Michael.

Everyone who thought he would be a burden to me was utterly and completely WRONG. He is an enormous blessing.

Never assume that someone who is missing a limb is handicapped. Never assume that someone in a wheelchair isn't capable. Never assume a brain injury automatically makes someone helpless. I have a friend who is a veteran who suffered a TBI [traumatic brain injury] and he now runs a nonprofit and is a leader in his field and makes a great living [but doesn't take any $ from the nonprofit]. He is one of the most brilliant, energetic, articulate people I've every known.

I've known people who had a wonky ankle and thought of themselves as handicapped.

Being "handicapped" has nothing to do with physical issues and everything to do with ATTITUDE. My son Michael has the attitude that he can do anything he wants to do, and he is right!

Yesterday he made lasagna and brownies to take as a thank-you gift to some friends who recently did him a favor. He delivered the lasagna and homemade brownies that he made with great good humor, and his friends knew they were getting delicious food and his smiling face delivering it. Below, Mike making the lasagna.

At right, a funny shirt a co-worker gave him.

We laugh all the time about him telling people a lion bit off his hand, or he lost it in some climbing accident or some other silliness.

We think laughter is healing.

When Mike was wearing a prosthetic and learning to ride a bike, years ago, he fell off the bike but his prosthetic stayed put and it looked like his hand was severed.. a lady drove by in her car and nearly wrecked it when she saw the hand on the handlebars and no boy attached. LOL

Laughter heals.

My mother used to always say "If you don't laugh, you'll cry," and she was right. We laugh a lot.

Below, a drawing Michael did years ago. He is a very talented artist.

 

What Makes A Real Parent?

I have watched very little of the Olympics but I did flip the channel the other day and watch some of the women's gymnastics competition. I was blown away by the incredible athleticism and artistry of tiny [4'9] Simone Biles. She is amazing!

"Not only is she the first female gymnast since 1974 to win four consecutive all-around titles at the U.S. national championships, but she’s also the first woman ever to be the all-around world champion three years in a row. Not to mention that she's won fourteen total world championships medals—the most ever won by an American woman." [NBC]

Simone had a rough start in life, however. "Simone Biles was born on March 14th, 1997 in Columbus, Ohio. By the time she was three, it was clear that her biological mother, who struggled with drug and alcohol addiction, was unable to take care of Biles and her younger sister Adria. Her maternal grandfather, Ron, and his second wife, Nellie, stepped in and brought the pair to Spring, Texas, a suburb of Houston—and sixteen years later, they’re simply “mom and dad” to their adopted daughters." [NBC]

So I was startled and upset when I saw blogger Carrie Goldman's post yesterday, NBC Olympic Commentator Tweets That Parents of Simone Biles Are NOT Her Parents Because She's Adopted. Trautwig said "They may be mom and dad but they are NOT her parents."

What an incredibly insensitive jerk. Trautwig needs to be slapped. Carrie said "Despite Simone's very clear decision to call Ron and Nellie her parents -- because they ARE, because that is what adoption means -- sports commentator Al Trautwig repeatedly has referred on air to Ron and Nellie as "Simone's grandparents."

Another blogger, Leah Campbell over at Mom.me, went so far as to say Trautwig should be fired. I agree with her. Even though NBC made Trautwig apologize, it sounded insincere and forced to those of us who were deeply offended by his comment. Leah: "Let there be no doubt Trautwig’s apology came about because his higher ups forced it upon him—not because he actually thinks he said anything wrong."

Trautwig re-defines jerk. Leah: "Why this man thinks it’s his place to define anyone else’s parental relationship is beyond me. My guess is that his ego got in the way here, and when he got called out on his misuse of words, rather than back up and apologize for something that probably easily could have been swept under the rug and forgotten—he doubled down. Because apparently, this is not a man who likes to be told he’s wrong. Just ask the Twitter user who called Trautwig out on a misspelled tweet in 2013—Trautwig actually tracked the guy down and called his parents in the middle of the night, then engaged in a bizarre Twitter war of Trump-esque proportions."

One thing Carrie and Leah didn't quite address in their well-written blogs was what it truly feels like, as an adoptive parent, when someone says something about our children's "real" parents. My daughter was only home a short time when an elderly relative of mine said to me, right in front of her "Where is her real Mom?!" Now, this relative was suffering from dementia and meant nothing insulting by her remark. Nonetheless, I felt like I had been punched in the gut. I literally couldn't speak. My mother stepped in and said "Alesia's birthmom is in Russia. She is an alcoholic and couldn't parent her."

A few years later I took cupcakes to my son's school in honor of his Gotcha Day in April. His birthday is in July so he never got to have cupcakes at school like the other kids whose birthdays were during the school year. So we made a bunch of cupcakes and I took them in for Gotcha Day. One little boy said "It's not Michael's birthday?" I said "No, this is a celebration of the day I adopted him." The child then said "Where's his real mom?" I took a big breath and said "I AM HIS REAL MOM. The woman who gave birth to him is back in Kazakhstan." I didn't yell, but I was probably louder than I should have been. The boy looked startled and confused. I just quickly finished handing out the cupcakes and walked away to compose myself for a few minutes. I wanted to cry, scream, and throw things but I didn't.

To Al Trautwig and NBC officials and any others who think adoptive parents are being overly sensitive about this: you cannot imagine how painful it feels to be told you are not your child's REAL mom or dad. It HURTS. The pain is gut-wrenching. Everything implied by the word "real" makes me feel something like this - Because I am not real, I am second-best and my family is fake because we are not connected by blood. We don't count, adoptive parents. We're invalid.

If you are NOT an adoptive parent, try to imagine for a moment what it would feel like to be told your child is not yours. Try to imagine that pain.

I have worked very hard for years to establish myself as a loving parent - very different from my kids' early experiences.

When I got to bring Michael to my hotel room to hang out with me one day in Kazakhstan we spent some time in the hotel's gym, where he got to play badminton. We also played with a beach ball in the room. [It was cold and snowy outside.]

He cut his finger. I had some Neosporin and bandaids in my suitcase and I carefully washed and bandaged his hand. He looked at me with surprise at first, then he sat there and smiled. I did something his birthmom had likely never done. I was concerned about his booboo and I fixed it. I told him I cared about him. It may sound simplistic but when I finished bandaging him and looked into his beautiful eyes, I knew he was thinking This lady loves me and has concern for me. That was a new experience for him, from a mama-type person. (I know the caretakers at the orphanage were fond of him - they were instrumental in him getting adopted. They weren't mama, however. They got paid to look after him.)

With a child is adopted as a baby or toddler, the adoptive parent is all they remember. They have no reference for a biological parent. My kids remember their biological moms, however. Alesia was put in the orphanage at age 6, and Michael at age 8. My challenge early on was to establish that I was different, that I would care for them.

Biological parents typically just get pregnant and have the child and proceed accordingly. Sometimes they struggle with infertility, but most people just decide to have a child and have one, or more.

In contrast, most adoptive parents I know go through sheer hell trying to get their kids, whether it's a foreign or domestic adoption. I had to scramble to find the money to adopt, buy a house, deal with naysayers both times - it was a long hard road, both times. I have a friend who did a private domestic infant adoption some years ago and had 3 birthmoms change their mind - she was heartbroken 3 times before finally adopting her baby boy. I have a friend who spent more than 5 years, thousands of dollars, and went through 3 different agencies trying to adopt two little girls from Russia. She finally got her girls home and is an excellent mom, but it was a really rough journey. We all were determined to be mothers, and willing to do whatever it took.

Why is it that ignorant jerks think only biology makes a parent "real"?

We adoptive parents are the ones who get up in the night with our kids, take them to piano lessons and sports practices, bandage booboos, help with homework, take them to the doctor, take them on vacation, buy birthday presents, try to get them to eat right, etc. Sound familiar? It's called parenting.

When I had both kids at home, I never got up in the morning thinking "I'm going to tend to my ADOPTIVE kids today." I never thought about my kids as different unless some ignorant person pointed it out in a painfully insulting way. My kids are MY KIDS. Period.

My kids grew up with a mama and a granny. No dad, but a loving uncle. They were told they were loved every single day. That's far more than they would've gotten had they stayed in the orphanage.

If you are not an adoptive parent, please don't EVER EVER EVER say to someone "Where's his/her REAL mom/dad?" Even if it's a blonde blue-eyed adult with an African American child. There's no need to be rude. Get used to the idea there are going to be kids who are a different race from their parents. One of my neighbors who is white has an Asian adopted daughter. My next door neighbor is white, and he looks nothing like his biological daughters who have an African American mom. My friend Paul, who is black, is a terrific father to his two stepdaughters who are white. There are going to be kids like mine who have a different accent from their mama. There are going to be kids with much older parents, or two mommies or two daddies and THAT'S OKAY.

Families are defined in all kinds of ways, and there is NOTHING wrong with that.

In my opinion the only fair way to define a parent has nothing to do with genetics, but it has everything to do with love and caring. The national news last night - I watched NBC and ABC - was all over the fact that some of the Olympic athletes are using a technique called "cupping" to improve their performance. They totally ignored the Trautwig story, which is far more important, IMHO. Let's shine a light on jerks like Trautwig, call them out, show the world what prejudice looks like.

Simone Biles is a beautiful, shining example of the achievements possible for our kids who are raised in non-traditional families. She was raised with love and has a wonderful relationship with the folks she calls Mom and Dad. Let's concentrate on the miracles that LOVE can accomplish, and quit trying to define "real."

 

The Journey

It has been a really hard week for a number of different reasons, and there really hasn't been much to share here that would be of interest to most folks. I've had a ton of work to do, which is good, but it has been tough to do that and take care of Mother [who hasn't felt well this week] and deal with car issues, health insurance issues, etc.

I have shed a lot of tears this week because I've been following the journey of little Anton Delgado, the little boy adopted from Russia who has EB. For more of Anton's incredible story, see Everyone Loves Him:

Anton Delgado was born a twin in Moscow in 2010. His biological parents took home his healthy brother, but abandoned Anton because he had a rare genetic condition called epidermolysis bullosa. Anton's skin is as delicate as butterfly's wings and even the slightest amount of friction can cause crippling blisters.

In 2012, Vanessa and Jason Delgado of Haltom City, Texas, stepped in to adopt Anton from the Russian hospital. Now 5, he is at the University of Minnesota Masonic Children's Hospital recovering from a bone marrow transplant that will help stem the painful effects of his disease. Vanessa Delgado, 31, tells her family's incredible story of love and courage to TODAY contributor Susan Donaldson James.

Anton has been in the hospital for months, and it looked like the bone marrow transplant was successful until just a couple of weeks ago. Now Anton is not expected to survive because of extensive internal injuries.

I read his mommy's posts on Facebook every day and cry. I wonder why God allows this precious little boy to suffer, but I accept that there is a bigger plan in place, and I thank God for sending Anton here to the US, to a family that so clearly adores him. His mom and dad have strong faith, and that has sustained them through this journey. There are thousands of us who have watched and cheered from the sidelines, myself included, and now our hearts are breaking. I rejoice that little Anton will soon be well, and with Jesus, but he will be very much missed here on earth.

 

No word on Michael's car yet. Insurance is taking their time in evaluating it. I hope it can be fixed..

I wrote a Christmas letter yesterday and sent it to friends and family. This past year, 2015, has been so challenging for many different reasons, but my faith has held me in place, and sustained me.

One of the few benefits of getting older is that I can look back at tragic or sad events and eventually see the seeds of miracles. God can take even the most heartbreaking event -- for instance my son Michael losing his right hand at the age of 5 -- and turn it into a positive, like me finding Michael's photo and adopting him. I wouldn't have ever met Michael if he had not been placed in the orphanage and then been loved and cared for by his Kazakh caretakers, who worked hard to get him adopted. God Bless everyone at Adoption Ark, too, for helping me with everything. 

Michael is the joy of my life.

I miss my daughter every day, though, and pray for her every day. She is on a journey she is not sharing with me right now, which is very sad and scary, but I trust God to look out for her, just as he looked out for my brother in Iraq in 2008.

I am constantly reminding myself to trust the Lord, because he is always with me on this bumpy journey called my life, and he has never let me down yet..

Hopes and Prayers for Our Girls

Yesterday my father would have turned 85 years old. I didn't really remember it was his birthday until later in the day, to be honest. I had watched the Dawgs defeat Auburn, which Dad would have loved. We ate Mexican food from Eduardo's for dinner, which Dad would have tolerated.

The weather was chilly but clear, and I walked Lola several times. Dad always loved getting outside on a pretty day. He loved dogs.

The one thing that would have puzzled him is why I couldn't call my daughter and wish her a happy Gotcha Day.

In 2004 when I appeared in a Russian courtroom for my daughter's adoption hearing, I was very happy that it was my father's birthday. I thought that was a good omen.

Above, the two of us outside the courthouse in Russia on adoption day, November 14, 2004.

My journey to adopt my daughter was long and arduous, as I've documented in my book Adopting Alesia. Just finding the money to adopt her and then overcoming so many obstacles along the way -- the orphanage director who didn't like Americans, the adoption agency who kept telling me to adopt another child, the many naysayers among my friends and family who told me I was crazy -- that was a journey of faith and a very tough road. I really thought once I got her home, and Alesia learned English, and learned what it was like to live in a family, that everything would be fine. It never occurred to me that the process of acclimating her to a new country, new family, and new life would be so incredibly difficult.

I had Alesia here at home with me from December 2004 until June 2011, and then she left, at my request. She was going through a time of pushing the boundaries as hard as possible, experimenting with every drug and drink out there, and determined to do exactly as she pleased and to hell with the consequences. I didn't know what to do any more. All I knew was that I had to keep Mother and Michael safe.

What made the ordeal worse was that I simply couldn't talk to her. I couldn't reason with her. I tried. My friends Bronwyn and Leslie -- both very wise ladies who knew and loved Alesia -- tried, and failed. I took her back to the therapist, and she advised me to lock Alesia in her room at night so that she couldn't escape. [Alesia had been climbing out the window every night for months, to go out partying all night.]

The very simple concept of cause and effect was incomprehensible to my daughter. For example, IF you shoplift, you will be arrested. IF you take too many drugs you will overdose. [two terrible experiences I never wished for her]

In the 4.5 years since she's been gone, I have read a lot and commiserated with a lot of other moms of girls adopted from Russia and other countries. We've all had to deal with a very sad reality: most of our girls will bolt once they are 18, and they will seek out love in a lot of scary and dangerous ways. My friend Cindy [adoptive mom to more than a dozen girls] has watched many of her girls seek out their birthmoms and then learn that those women are still incapable of parenting because drugs and alcohol are still more attractive to them than being a good example to their children. Cindy has a number of grandbabies born to these girls who think having a baby will bring them love, not realizing they are facing a huge burden, not a cure for loneliness.

I have a friend whose daughter is 19 years old and who is pregnant and still drinking. So she will likely have a child with the same type of brain damage. Thus the sad cycle continues.

For most of our adopted girls, the early trauma suffered with birthmoms or in orphanages pales in comparison to the burden of trying to function in a world where their brains simply cannot really comprehend cause and effect thinking, and they have huge issues with memory. Fetal alcohol exposure causes, among other things, what's called "swiss cheese memory." You tell a girl something one day and she has forgotten it by the next day. It's very difficult for facts and ideas to stay put in a brain that doesn't function properly. Therefore just finishing high school is very difficult. Remembering to use birth control is difficult. Remembering that drugs are bad for you is difficult.

Perhaps worst of all, most of these girls and young women refuse to believe their brains don't work properly. Simple tasks of daily life will always be a challenge, therefore they will need help all their lives. If they do not find a life partner who is really devoted and good, that makes everything much more difficult.

It breaks my heart.

However, my daughter is now 24 years old, and when I spoke to her last summer I detected some new maturity and intelligence. She doesn't call me often and I don't have any way to call her, but I still hold out hope. I pray for her every day -- and for all the adopted girls of all my friends. None of them asked for their lives to be so challenging, but it's the reality.

Please continue to pray for all these girls and young women. Miracles happen every.single.day.

China Lifts One Child Policy

I was watching the news this morning and the Today show said absolutely nothing about a headline I found startling: China lifts one child policy amid worries of graying population. What startled me about the story is that the word "adoption" is not mentioned even once. The one child policy implemented by China in 1980 is the reason why there have been so many female babies available for adoption in that country. Families generally choose to keep male babies and give away females.

Now couples in China can legally have two children.

I have a neighbor who adopted her daughter from China, after about 4 years of waiting. It's not a fast process but it's fairly reliable. I have several friends and one distant cousin who have all adopted from China. I have one friend who adopted a little boy from China who is missing his hand, a congenital defect.These children are loved, cared for just as though they were biological children, and they have chances they would never have had in China. Yet, they will grieve for their lost birth families for the rest of their lives.

The part they missed, the part that's so interesting to me, as it would be to most mothers, is this: hopefully this will cut down on the number of abandoned babies in China. So many of my friends and folks I know who have adopted from China had children who were left at police stations, on street corners, in parks. These babies usually go to orphanages but there is no way for them to ever find their birth families, or it's highly unlikely. My kids were removed from neglectful and abusive birth homes but there IS information, should they every choose to return to their birth countries and search for their birth families. There are names.Conversations are possible.

The emotional cost to Chinese-American children of being abandoned, is very high.

Separating a baby from its mother causes anxiety and stress that can be felt even by a newborn. Then being put into an overcrowded institution, warehoused essentially, without real love or bonding, exacts an even higher toll on a child. According to International Adoption Stories these are common feelings in adopted children:

Questions arise,
“ Why did my birthmother offer me for adoption?”
“ How would life have been different if I wasn’t adopted?”
“ Where is my birthmother now?”
“ Why couldn’t my adoptive parents have just been my birthparents?”

"Most adoptees struggle with these questions several times throughout their lives. The first time is often when they just become old enough to understand the concept of adoption. They often think about these issues throughout their teen years and again each time a life changing event occurs."

Add to that the facts that most Chinese babies abandoned are female, or if they are male they have some medical condition, and you really begin to see the effects on the development of these children.

The sad fact is there are many male babies and children available for adoption in China but they are always "special needs." Many of them have congenital birth defects. I was on a Yahoo group for years, for people who have adopted children with limb differences, and 99% of all the parents there adopted from China. That culture feels like a child missing an arm or foot, or even a few fingers, is defective and brings bad luck. In traditional Asian cultures, the idea that handicapped people can lead full lives is not really accepted, or even considered.

It's hard for people outside the adoption world to really understand the deep feelings of abandonment and rejection experienced by Chinese orphans because in most cases, our parents wanted us and we were loved and nurtured. The wounds of that initial abandonment run very deep, however, and if not addressed and processed properly can lead to lifetime issues with self-esteem, and sometimes substance abuse and relationship issues.

My own kids have struggled with these issues, even though they weren't abandoned at birth. They will always have to deal with the fact that their birthmoms didn't try to parent them, but let them be placed in the orphanage. Good for me, but tough to explain to a child or even an adult. Trying to explain why substance abuse creates an inability to care for others is really tough to do. It doesn't really help to heal them.

China is still a communist country. Oftentimes that is forgotten by the rest of the world, even by journalists. That means the individual has no rights all. The rights are in the hands of the state. The individual exists to serve the state. That philosophy even reaches into the very private decision of how many children to have.

I will be interested to see how the change in policy affects international adoption.

I hope and pray for all the children adopted from China who have suffered due to the one child policy. I pray for healing for all concerned who have suffered - the mothers who felt they had no choice but to abandon their children, and the children. I also pray that American parents seeking to adopt will be able to find the right children to complete their families, whether from China or somewhere else.

my children, 2007

Birth Stories

I read Pioneer Woman's latest birth story and frankly thought wow, glad I have kids and I never had to give birth. I would probably start screaming for an epidural right after conception; possibly even beforehand...

Then again, I had to have a tooth pulled about 6 months ago and when I found out that getting laughing gas would prolong the whole miserable experience and cost more I said FORGET IT. Give me a shot of Novocaine [or whatever] and yank that thing out -- while I squeeze the nurse's hand into a bloody pulp.

That's as close as I can get to a birth story.

No, wait - when I got my pacemaker it was an ordeal. I was in put into "twilight sleep" which was horrible. I wasn't asleep for most of it, just groggy and scared. I was aware of everything, including being strapped to the table and having my face covered. For someone who has occasional bouts of claustrophobia, it was a nightmare. I still don't like to even think about it.

So God knew what he was doing when we skipped the whole pregnancy and birth deal and opted for Plan B, adoption.

Adoptive parents are like veterans. We talk about being "paper pregnant" - which is a unique experience. Gathering up the 7,000 pieces of paper necessary for an international adoption is not easy. Everything is scrutinized - our physical health, mental health, financial records, family dynamics, marital history. (All the stuff which my mother would say is "nobody's business.")

Still, I suppose it's better than being in a room with feet in the stirrups, my hoo-ha exposed to everyone who walks by. Mother says nobody can be shy after going through THAT.

 

A few years back I was at our neighborhood pool chatting with a friend of mine and somehow, I soon found myself in a  circle of women. The birth stories started. This is not uncommon. Giving birth is probably one of the few really terrible and simultaneously wonderful things anyone can possibly do. Still, I felt left out. I told a story about adopting my daughter -- I don't remember what -- and everyone just stared at me like I was from Mars. There was a very awkward silence. Then they went right back to the birth stories. Followed by the nursing stories. Followed by the what-my-toddler-did stories.

I fervently wished for just one other adoptive parent to swim over and stand by my side in solidarity -- not anyone did though.

There are some things only other adoptive parents will possibly understand.

 

My daughter called the other day and asked me to send her birth certificate, Russian passport, and Certificate of Citizenship to her. She also wanted "the paper you said you'd show me when I was older." After I hung up, I felt really angry and sad and puzzled, and just upset, in general.

I don't begrudge my daughter any of it. She needs to see everything. She needs to process what happened to her in Russia. Being taken away from one's family and put into an orphanage is a terrible and life-changing thing, and she will deal with the after-effects for the rest of her life. Institutions are terrible places for children.

I sent her everything, including a copy of her parents' marriage certificate, and the transcript of the hearing where her birthmom had her parental rights terminated -- with English translations, of course.

I had very carefully gone over everything with Alesia when she was about 16 but she had no memory of that. None. Her brain dumps painful memories.

If I could talk to other adoptive parents right now, I would say this: don't hide anything. Don't sugar-coat anything. Whether you adopted a baby or a toddler or a teenager, it doesn't matter. The stories surrounding the birth family are critical to our kids. They have to process some very painful things, and there's not much we can do.

A lot of adoptive parents who adopt babies can say to them "Your birthmom simply couldn't parent you, and felt you would be better off in another family." In many cases, the birthmoms are teenagers, or very poor, or they simply aren't equipped for parenthood.

In the cases of my kids, though, who remember their birthmoms, they have to deal with the fact that they were with a birthmom for 6-8 years and the mom chose alcohol and partying instead of parenting. A judge had to remove my daughter from a cold, dirty home with no food, when she was so malnourished and sick she had to be hospitalized. A home where she was left alone for hours with no food, age 6 or younger. A home where neglect stunted her brain development. Michael's birthmom was the same story.

These are not pretty stories. They are tragic stories.

We were talking the other day, Michael and I, about a family he used to babysit for. The oldest child is now old enough to sit for her siblings. "In Georgia, the law is you have to be 12 to be left without supervision," I told him. "I was left alone when I was much younger than that and I was OK," he replied. "Yes, but you shouldn't have been left alone," I replied quietly.

 

So I don't feel bad about being kind of a coward about physical pain. I have shouldered emotional burdens most of the neighborhood ladies cannot fathom. I have had to deal with my own sadness and fear for my kids' mental and emotional health after being treated so badly by their birthmoms. Bandaging emotional boo-boos that result from severe neglect and abuse is very different from what a typical mom experiences. [I took both my kids to a therapist but with limited success..]

I have almost stopped reading accounts by other adoptive parents of teenagers who go off the rails despite all the love and care we give them. Sometimes love and good intentions simply cannot make up for the early trauma. Very often, even for kids adopted as babies, the teen years are anxiety-producing nightmares. Our kids have to figure out their identity in the context of abandonment, which is very difficult. As parents, there's little we can do.

Alesia has gone through a period of rebellion, and I hope and pray she is getting her life back on track.

Michael has had some ups and downs the past couple of years; it hasn't all been smooth sailing. He's going to start college classes in a few weeks, though, and he just got a new job as a Host at a local restaurant.

They are both finding their way.

I cannot eliminate the feelings of sadness and abandonment they will always grapple with, no matter how much I envelop them with love. It simply isn't possible. I cannot wave a magic wand and go back in time and give birth to them. I wish.

Truthfully, I've done about all I can do, in a physical sense. I wish I had done some things differently, but hindsight is 20/20, of course.

Here's how I stay sane.

I remember this: my kids have been given something most of their peers in the orphanage didn't get: a chance at a good life. They have a mom, Granny, and uncle who love them fiercely and devotedly. We don't have a lot of money or material riches but those things are ephemeral. My kids were born in far-away places to women they will likely never see again, but they were re-born here, with me as their Mom, and I will never stop loving them or fighting for them to have decent lives.

 

Images of Kazakhstan

When I started the adoption of my son back in 2006, I learned he was in Kazakhstan. I had barely ever heard of it, and knew absolutely nothing about it. I researched on the internet in vain, because there was so little. I couldn't find hardly any photos. I found a blog by another adoptive mom and that helped, a bit.

Another adoptive mom posted on Facebook last night that Andrew Zimmern's Travel Channel program Bizarre Foods was doing a program in Kazakhstan. I was thrilled. I have watched many episodes of Bizarre Foods, and although I can't always watched the gory parts, I am always fascinated.

In watching it, I was struck because so many memories of my time in that country came flooding back, and it was almost like time travel. I also love seeing the faces of Kazakh people because they remind me so much of Michael's face, even though he is about 97% Eastern European and about 3% Kazakh.

One interesting note: when I went to actually pick up my son and bring him to America, I landed in Astana and my driver met me and we went to Petropavlosk, about a 5 hour drive, but it turned into 8 because the roads were HORRIBLE, and my driver got lost. The flat nice roads you see in the program are an anomaly.

Later in the program he visits the Green Bazaar in Almaty, a place I've been also. I almost couldn't look around while I was there, because eating horsemeat is very common there and there were tables just piled high with meat of horses and other animals. I know it's unfair of me to be so squeamish, but I am, and I didn't handle it well. I found a little shop that sold chocolates and I waited there while Michael and the guide walked around the market. He had never seen such a huge place.

Kazakhs are meat eaters. It's part of the culture. Michael has eaten horse and consumed kumiss [fermented mare's milk] many times. Ironically, here in the USA he's not a big meat eater.

Warning: if you are at all squeamish, fast forward through the first few minutes, when a sheep is killed and eaten. It's enough to make me a vegetarian. I really have to fast forward through Zimmern's killing and eating animals.

 

One note: there is a commercial that keeps popping up in this video, which is so annoying. Sorry about that.

Proud of My Boy

This is Michael in Kazakhstan in 2007, studying. They use small notebooks, about the size of our blue books, and pens or pencils. He had never seen a binder until he came here. He had never done a project. He had only learned a few words of English.

However, despite having to repeat first grade [due to family issues] in second grade he was reading books in Russian on a 4th grade level. I spoke to several of his teachers in the orphanage and they all said what a smart guy he was. I already knew that, but it was nice to hear. They all were thrilled that he was being adopted. There was no future for him in Kazakhstan.

Below, Michael in his school uniform in Kazakhstan

Michael came here to America in early May 2007. He only knew a few words of English. He spent the first few weeks talking mostly just to his sister Alesia, in Russian, and to me with Alesia interpreting. Then in July she went to a church camp for a week, and he transitioned to English very easily -- which was fortunate since I was working full-time and he was with Granny all day. Granny speaks no Russian.

Michael started third grade in August 2007. Even though he was 11, I wanted him in that grade because he had only had two years of school in Kazakhstan and I knew putting him in the age-appropriate grade would defeat him. He would be too overwhelmed. We lucked out and he got a wonderful teacher in 3rd grade, Mrs. Moore.

He was so smart and knew so much English after only 3 months in America that he didn't have to go to the ESL intensive course every day for 6 hours, which Alesia had to do. It's a great thing, teaching kids with no English the basics, but he didn't need to know how to say "I need to go to the bathroom" or other useful phrases. He already knew them. Mrs. Moore didn't treat him any different than the other third graders but he wasn't expected to keep up with the kids who already spoke English. He observed and learned, but got X's on his report card instead of grades.

Of course, he owes a LOT of his academic success to his grandmother, who tutored him every day.

Above - Granny and Michael in Myrtle Beach in summer 2007

At the beginning of his 4th grade year he was tested out of 4th grade because he knew most of the material, and he was put in advanced 5th grade class. That teacher was a disaster and we had to go to the school a couple of times and argue but he finally got transferred out of her class and into a better 5th grade class, where he flourished.

In 6th grade he won the Outstanding ESL student award for all the Henderson Middle School 6th graders, and he tested out of ESL, after less than three years.

High School was not a happy time for Michael. He just was never happy with the long days, the kids who were disruptive, or the teachers who weren't great. He frankly had better teachers at the middle school. DeKalb County was struggling and there was a shortage of good teachers. The school was also in transition and didn't have its act together. There were a lot of fights, for instance.

The Gateway to College program seemed like a great solution to the problem of Michael being bored in high school, and annoyed by the kids who weren't interested in learning. The idea of him being able to finish high school while taking college level classes, with help, was awesome. He told me yesterday that in his last Lakeside History class, his sophomore year, the teacher couldn't control the kids and there was so much pandemonium Michael couldn't learn in that class. He likes History, too.

When we were told a few months ago that the Gateway program was ending, it was a shock and Michael and I were both upset. He began to not care about his schoolwork, and just sort of slid sideways in terms of motivation.

I was pulling my hair out trying to figure out what to do. There didn't seem to be any good options. Michael certainly didn't want to have to return to high school, after a year of taking classes on a college campus just a few hours a day.

One of Mike's friends just said offhandedly one evening "Michael can just get his GED. It's an easy test." I got so upset I told him to leave my house.

In my mind, the GED was not a good option. There was a stigma. However, Michael continued to spend more time on x-Box than on schoolwork and he was failing two classes. I couldn't reason with him. Finally, I told him in early April that he might as well withdraw from school rather than just fail.

I felt very dejected by saying that. I have a master's degree. My parents both graduated from college and my dad had a master's degree. We are a family that values education. Let me tell you, there has been a lot of sadness and tension around here for the past few weeks. I HATED to see my incredibly smart son floundering and upset.

Finally, I spoke to Michael's Gateway counselor last week, an incredibly nice man who clearly cares about his students, and he agreed with Michael that he should just try the GED tests and see if he could pass without taking prep classes first.

Two days ago, Michael took the English and Social Studies portions of the test and passed. Yesterday, he had to take the Math and Science portions of the test. He was VERY nervous. He called right after the testing was over and said he thought he had failed. I waited a few minutes and checked the website.

HE PASSED!!!

I was so happy, I cried. I texted Michael and told him the happy news. I told Mother. Mother cried. Michael was elated when he got home a little while later.

I had thought the GED was a terrible idea, but now I see it's a blessing. Michael is done with high school and can now look ahead to college.

Michael went to see his Gateway counselor to tell him the happy news. He is going to help Michael register to take a class this summer at Georgia Perimeter College. Hopefully, I can find a way [grants or scholarships or loans] to help him go to GPC and take some classes in the next couple of years. GPC is merging with Georgia State, and I am even hopeful that Michael can get a degree from Georgia State one of these days.

Prayers are answered.

Michael is a changed guy. His whole personality and outlook have brightened 1000% in the past 24 hours.

Thanks be to God!

Flying Right

I hate flying. HATE IT. Last time I flew was in 2007 when I brought Michael home from Kazakhstan and I spent 3 miserable hours running all over the Frankfurt airport. (You can read about that adventure here if you're so inclined.)

I hope to never fly again. However, if I do find myself flying I would try to choose a new airline that flies across the South, Southern Airways Express. Thanks to The Bitter Southerner for this story about a new airline that is doing things differently.

When I was adopting Michael, the flight a few days before the hellish flight to America was actually a great experience. I had to fly from Petropavlovsk to Almaty to complete the adoption process and get Michael cleared by the American embassy to come here to America.

The flight was canceled on Thursday -- after we had gotten to the airport and were sitting in the terminal waiting to board. The airline didn't offer to put us up in a hotel or help us do anything. Such is life in a former Soviet Union country. We went back to the hotel and spent another night. The next day, the flight actually took off. Hallelujah, I thought, until I saw the plane.

The plane was small. I think there were about 20 or 30 seats, tops. We were sitting in the very back, near the lavatories. I dreaded the flight, at first. It reminded me of my last flight on a small plane, which had been bumpy and miserable.

It was early May, but the temperature was somewhere in the 50's. I had not even taken a coat. I had on a heavy fleece pullover I had thrown in the suitcase at the last minute.

Michael was very excited because he had never flown before.

Despite my misgivings, my dread ebbed away as I began to realize this small plane experience would not be miserable.

The first thing the attendant did was bring us a heavy, soft blanket. The back door was open and it was freezing. I was so grateful for a clean soft blanket -- better than any I'd seen on a major carrier, for sure.

The flight took off, and we spent about 4-5 hours in the air. I was amazed that the seats were comfortable, they served some fairly decent food, and the whole experience was pleasant.

Michael kept looking out the window. I remember thinking how happy I was that we were flying low, so he could see Kazakhstan, the country of his birth, very well. It's the 9th largest country in the world but very sparsely populated. For a long time we flew over a large body of water that looked like an ocean. It was mostly the flat steppe, though. There was snow on the ground in places.

There was an older couple sitting opposite us in the back and they chatted with Michael in Russian throughout the flight. They invited him to come over to their side of the plane. They pointed out things on the ground. They could not have been nicer. I don't think they spoke any English, but I told them "Thank you very much!" several times, in Russian.

I dozed off for part of the flight. Michael just looked out the window and chatted.

When we got to Almaty my camera didn't work, so there are no photos of the 4 days we spent there, but so be it. I put photos below from his last day or two in Petropavlovsk.

I started writing about Southern Airways Express and my point is simply this: small planes can be delightful. Part of the reason I hate flying is I hate the crowds and the hassle of the whole experience. I'm not afraid. If airlines could make the experience less stressful I would likely feel differently.

Mike underneath a map of his country, in a museum in Petropavlovsk

Mike in the hotel, sitting on his makeshift "bed"

 

Eight Years Ago

It seems unreal that exactly 8 years ago at this time I was in Petropavlovsk, Kazakhstan adopting my son Michael. The time has flown by.

I wrote about this anniversary last year and included a lot of photos.

I remember being so startled by the weather in Petropavlovsk. It was freezing cold and snowy. The buildings, like buildings in Russia, were warm or even hot. Outside was yucko. Every time I left the hotel I wore my Crocs rain boots. Lots of snow, frozen slush, mud, etc.

By contrast, the high today in Atlanta is 52. The high Sunday is supposed to be 75. That's the March weather I am used to experiencing.

In the fall of 2005 I had seen Michael's photo on the Adoption Ark website, and I knew immediately he was my son. He was born the same month my father died, July of 1996. In fact, Michael was born one week after Dad died. Included in the information was this sentence, which tore at my heart: "Everyone that knows Igor is desperate to find him a family because he is such a special boy."

After much prayer, scrambling to find the money for the adoption fees, and even the writing of my book Jack's New Family, to help him transition, I was ready to go to Kazakhstan.

For over a year, the good folks at the Antares Foundation had emailed me photos of "Igor" -- his birthname. Below, one of the photos. I studied each photo over and over.

I remember our first meeting like it was yesterday. We were in a small conference room in the orphanage, the translator, me, the assistant head of the orphanage. I had photo albums on the table. I had barely slept the night before.

In came one of the caretakers and a tiny boy with a burr haircut.

Michael was SO small -- not like the 10 year olds here. He was the size of an American first grader. Shy, too. Barely said a word during that meeting.His first question to me? "How OLD are you?!"

I told him that day that I had to have 2 hugs every day, and he hugged me without reservation. I visited him every day for the next three weeks, and on April 3, 2007 the judge said he was my son.

Happiest day of my life. [Equally as happy as the day in Russia when I became a mom for the first time.]

Happy anniversary, Michael. Here's to 8 more great years!