Reflections on India, One Year Later, Friday

I hear you quietly opening your door. You may be ready to be done napping; but I am not. I hear you tromp down the stairs, and I pretend to still be asleep on the couch because I know what you will do next if you think I’m asleep. I feel your nose pressed against my face as you whisper “cuddle with you now Mommy?” I look sideways at you through barely open eyes, and I see you smiling expectant face. I scoot over, pat the side of the couch with my hand and open my arm for you to climb in. You lay your head on my chest and wrap your fingers tightly around one of mine. I can feel your steady breathing as I hold your tiny body. And I begin to remember.

I remember when Father Francis said “Oh….Ovi is coming now.” We had been talking about the election in the United States, how hopeful he was that our new president would do more in regards to the nuclear issue between India and Pakistan. He stopped very abruptly, because he heard you coming ceremoniously down the stairs.

I caught my breath. My tears started. I had waited so long to meet you. I had been “talking to you” for 18 months now—even before I knew your name or how old you were—and finally, finally you would hear my voice, and I would hear yours.

You came into that small office with your own little entourage. You were so beautiful. You were wearing the green dress I had sent you as soon as I was allowed to send presents. You had a bindi on your forehead in honor of the special occasion. You had little blue corduroy shoes on. You were carrying the photo album I had sent you, and a little orange ball—presumably a favorite toy you were taking with you from the orphanage—something for you to retain from the early part of your life.

I could see you were scared. Father Francis told you to come and see your parents. You threw the ball and the photo album and ran crying into a corner. Jen—our wonderful social worker—had told us to expect this. I was prepared for it. And I understood it. So many times I had imagined how different this all was from your perspective than it was from mine. For you, we were ripping you away from everything you’d ever known; for me, I was birthing a new daughter in my heart.

Your caretakers went quickly to you and spoke softly to you, wiping your tears away. Father Francis told us it was best to just take you and go—the faster the separation, the better. Minal handed you to your new daddy. Someone handed me your ball and your photo album. The women cried and kissed you, then clasped my hands and told me that you ate bananas with a spoon. That you didn’t like milk. That you were a good sleeper. That you liked your hair in pigtails. That you were used to having a nap around 10:30 in the morning. That you were a sweet girl. I thanked them for loving you and taking care of you. They thanked me for loving you and coming to get you.

I was surprised by how quickly you settled down in the car. Less than five minutes and you had stopped crying. Daddy played a “hide the ball” game with you. You even almost smiled once. I saw it starting to form on your lips, and I saw you quickly pull it back. It would be a couple days still before you allowed yourself to smile with us.

As we walked through the streets—a beautiful part of India—making photocopies, getting your visa picture taken, buying groceries, you sat still and quiet in Daddy’s arms. I remember the brave look on your face. I remember how wobbly you seemed; like you didn’t know how to lean in to him and be held. I carried you for awhile on those streets. You weighed next to nothing. And as I had observed, you did not know how to lean in and be held—not like now.

Now, you are cuddled up on the couch in my arms, holding on tight with both of your still tiny hands as you smile and hum softly. And I begin to remember.

Reflections on India, One Year Later, Wednesday and the Thursday that Wasn't

Travelling for 27 hours really sucks. I do not recommend it.

Reflections on India, One Year Later, Tuesday

The first blog entry I ever wrote was posted on a family website on the first Tuesday of November 2008:

After 18 months of waiting and planning, we are 9 hours away
It's hard to believe, and still feels surreal. After 18 months of waiting and dreaming, we finally get on a plane and go to India in the morning. We will be picking Ovi up in about 48 hours! Obviously, since I'm posting at 1:00 am, I am too excited and wound up to sleep. I keep imagining what it will be like to meet her and get to know her. I've imagined that moment 1000 times, and soon it will be real.

Josh, Chris, and Laura--we love you and will miss you. Have fun and take care of each other! Check back soon to see some pictures.

As I think back on that Tuesday in November 2008, I remember very little about a day in which I did so much. I know I woke up around 6:00 am and didn’t go to sleep until around 2:00 am.

I must have taught an online chat at 1:00 in the afternoon, because that’s what I’ve done every Tuesday for more semesters than I can count.

I know I voted Democrat in a Republican state; and I remember that my polling location was screwed up, and I was mad because I didn’t have time to drive somewhere else, but did it anyway. I remember watching election news starting around 10:00 pm.

I’m certain that I must have checked and rechecked the carry-on devoted entirely to 10 lbs of paperwork. I’m also certain that I must have checked and rechecked the passports, the India hotel addresses and contact phone numbers.

Surely I read and reread the pages of notes for the other 3 kids’ schedules. Surely I called the three different people taking care of our kids and went over everything one last time. Surely I made sure the insurance card and medical treatment consent letter were in a place everyone could find should someone need to go to the doctor or hospital while we’re gone.

Likely I packed my own suitcase, a suitcase for Ovi, and suitcases for all 3 other kids on that day. I don’t remember doing that, but I know myself, and I know I never pack until the very last minute.

I know I took the time to have a nice family dinner and also to tuck each of the other 3 in and spend some time talking with them and hugging them.

I know I never sat down, never took a breath, never made it through the whole to-do list.

I really have very little sequential memory of that day, and yet the day is one of the most memorable of my life. It is images, feelings, essences I remember. I still feel the weight and the magnitude of that day. It was the pivot between so many endings and so many beginnings. I can feel it in my heart and on my shoulders today as acutely as I did a year ago. I had then and have still a sort of hyper awareness of something tangibly transcendent. Something I can hear and see and feel and even taste, but cannot give form to. Cannot give shape to. Cannot give voice to.
I was gravid with it. And I remember every detail.

Among the Labels and Comments that Really Annoy Me

We say: working mother
We do not say: working father

We say: stay at home mom
We do not stay: stay at home dad

We say: housewife
We do not say: househusband

We say: tomboy
We do not say: tomgirl? tinagirl? ???

They say to her: Do you work outside the home?
They do not say to him: Do you work outside the home?

They say to her: I don't know how you do it--having all those kids AND a job.
They do not say to him: I don't know how you do it--having all those kids AND a job.

They say to her: How do you keep up with the house and the kids and your work?
They do not say to him: How do you keep up with the house and the kid and your work?

They say to her: Your house is a mess. Maybe you should re-evaluate your priorities.
They do not say to him: Your house is a mess. Maybe you should re-evaluate your priorities.

They say to her: You could always put your career on hold until the kids grow up. Work will always be there; your children won't.
They do not say to him: You could always put your career on hold until the kids grow up. Work will always be there; your children won't.

They say to him: How wonderful that you do some of the housework!
They do not say to her: How wonderful that you do some of the housework!

They say to him: That is so great that you help your wife with the cooking.
They do not say to her: That is so great that you help your husband with the cooking.

They say to him: It's so great that you spend so much time with your kids.
They do not say to her: It's so great that you spend so much time with your kids.

They say to him: Your wife is going out of town? You're going to need some help. You can't be expected to take care of everything at home all alone when you're so busy with work.
They do not say to her: Your husband is going out of town? You're going to need some help. You can't be expected to take care of everything at home all alone when you're so busy with work.

She says: Mom, I'm tired of everyone thinking I'm a boy because I'm wearing an army costume.
She says: Girls are in the army too honey; people just forget that.

She says: I don't want to be called a tomboy anymore. I'm a girl.
She says: I know honey. You are a girl, not a tomboy.

She says: Why does everyone call me a tomboy just cuz I like playing outside and playing wild and stuff?
She says: They just don't know what they're talking about. Girls can like playing outside and being wild and stuff.

She says: Why did they give me this stupid little teddy bear in my happy meal instead of a bakugan like they gave the boys?
She says: We can trade it. You can have the toy that you want.

She says: Why can't girls do all the things that boys do and still be called girls?
She says: They can. You do what you want. You be what you want. Don't listen to what anyone says about you, except YOU.

She says: But that's really hard sometimes mom. Sometimes everyone hurts my feelings about it and makes me feel bad about myself.
She says: I know, honey. I know.