Catch-up

I have many beautiful thoughts and ideas that have been mulling around in my head to share with you, but today, I'm going to write a very different post.  I have tried to write this blog envisioning that each post could stand as its own story or chapter in a book, but today I'm going to write some catch-up and descriptions of some changes, so the readers who have been keeping up with me can follow some things.



First of all, names and pictures.  When I started writing I used the names of our family members, and the day I went to the orphanage I knew I needed to protect the identity of the children, so I used what were obvious pseudonyms, as flower names.  However, as I continue to write, it seems odd that I am calling one of my children by his given name and the other children by a flower name.  I kind of like the image of my children as my garden of flowers, so I am switching all to flower names, and they also like the idea of having their own flower names.  So from here on out, I'm calling Emerson "Sunflower."

When the girls were partly or officially wards of the Ugandan state, sharing their pictures was prohibited.  Now that they are our daughters, I am not so worried about privacy and I do share pictures in some places on the internet.  However, I think that mostly stories in words fits the intended purpose of this blog, which is sharing ideas, stories and experiences of parenting, especially as it applies to adoption.  So there may be the occasional picture, but this will not turn into a picture-based blog.



There have been some significant logistical events this summer.  The biggest one: our paperwork has gone through the American courts, and my husband and I have officially adopted Hibiscus and Buttercup, granting us all the privileges of parenthood and the girls all the privileges of American citizenship.  This is both exciting and anti-climactic; we just got a letter in the mail with some judicial stamps on it.  After all the drama for every single little bit of official-ness we had to fight for in Uganda, it is either refreshing or astoundingly disappointing that it's so easy in this country!

The paperwork also confirms Buttercup's birthday: August 10th, 2010.  Her original Ugandan paperwork, which was filled out when we began the adoption process, had put a random birthday, and since clearly the parents had just filled out Hibiscus's paperwork, they just repeated the same date a few years later.  We felt strongly that she was older than that date, and after observing her progress and her development for a while, we asked for her birthday to be changed about six months earlier.  I feel this is the absolute youngest that she could be, and based on how several of her developmental categories are still above this age, it's quite likely that she is actually several months older.  However, we didn't want her to be bumped up a grade in school, so we aimed for summer.  We chose August 10th because that is the first day that the girls started to live with us.  I figured that if Buttercup would one day have to face the sad reality that no one had cared enough about her to even remember when she was born, and thus her "birth" day was in some ways meaningless, at least the memory could be paired with the date being a special and meaningful one, and a time when people did care about every aspect of her being.

So, Buttercup just turned four years old.  She will have three years of mixed-age kindergarten, and enter first grade right after she turns seven.  We are in the middle of switching stair steps in my two-years-apart stair-step children: Sunflower will be six in December, and is in his final and "real" kindergarten year,  and Hibiscus is still solidly seven, with her birthday in the middle of winter, and starting second grade.  They are each two years apart in school, and a little less than two years apart in birthdays.



In related news, do you want to know how big they are?  I don't know exactly how big they were when we got them, but Hibiscus was slightly taller and definitely lighter than Sunflower when we first met, which would have put her around 35 pounds.  Just over a year later, she weighs 58 pounds!  Buttercup gained a pound a month for a while, but just when I worried that at this rate she was going to be bigger than I was, she started eating like a toddler and is hanging out around 32 pounds.... almost double what I imagine was around 17 when we got her.  But that was a total guess; the local scales started at 10 kilos (22 pounds), so the doctors just wrote that on her cards, because it was the closest number to the barely-moving little red line.  I guess there are a lot of 10-kilo toddlers in Uganda!



Sadly, this spring the girls' biological mother passed away.  This was not unexpected, and she was so ill she was probably relieved to go.  She also had not been active or present in the girls' lives for several years, and I didn't see either of them choosing to interact with her during the times that we saw her.  I am very sad for the girls, insofar that one day when they might want to understand what happened that led to their adoption, or understand the complexities of their birth family, they will not be able to reconnect with their birth mother and learn her story.



Everything that I write about the girls, I did it with the consciousness of what they would be willing to share or have known about them.  One of the parts of their story that I carefully omitted is that they have an older sister, whom the parents did not place for adoption.  Her name is Patricia, she is only a little bit older than Hibiscus, and the father wanted to keep one child near him, although we believe that she lives most of the time with an auntie.  I chose to not write about her in the blog, because I knew this was precious information to Hibiscus (and Buttercup, although she was not so cognizant about it), and I wanted to follow her lead.  Well, by this point she has made very clear that she wants to talk about Patricia.  So I am choosing to put her name here, so that all of you can remember Patricia and pray for her if it moves your heart.

And I hope this also clarifies the tragedy that is adoption, which is part of which I want to help people understand.  It is so easy to see that our girls have gained so much when gaining a family by adoption, but we never forget they have also lost a family by adoption.  And the birth parents' difficult decision to send two of their children to "a better life," and keep one of them close, in the misery and squalor of their current existence, also highlights some of the pain and difficult decisions that the entire family suffered through.

On a practical note, we are still in touch with people in Kampala who are in touch with the birth family, but that's as far as it goes.  The birth family is too poor (and too sick) to have the links of communication that we take for granted, such as being able to receive a cell phone call or access email.  So at this point I have confidence that if anything major happens to the birth family, we will hear about it.  And we can send pictures or news bits through the people that we know.  But sadly, there is no practical way for Patricia to have any kind of back-and-forth with her sisters at this point.


And now, on to some interesting stories!

Happy Birthday, to Hibiscus

Happy seventh birthday to my wonderful, beautiful daughter.

The sun is fading.  My birthday girl and her busy brother and outside, and the littlest one is in the most snug and cozy nap on my back (in Pavo Hearts, for those who are curious!).  It has been a full and wonderful day.  Hibiscus has the last of the kids' birthdays-in-a-row, and we only made it to America in time for this one.  It's the first birthday in her little life that she's actually gotten to celebrate, or that anyone has cared about at all.  Maybe she's an unusual child who will get to remember her first birthday party!

I hope it was a special day for her.  She and I went out to breakfast this morning, which was actually her very first chance at alone time with mama.  In Uganda, Buttercup had time with me while the big kids were in school, and Emerson got some occasional alone time when the girls had to be somewhere, but there was no logistical way to have Hibiscus with me when the other children were somewhere else.  Today, we selected a cake together, had waffles, and went to the grocery store to get ice cream and juice for the party.  We played Jenga while we waited for our food, and she quickly figured out how to test the blocks to see if they were loose, and control her extra movements to not knock the tower over, as well as waiting for her turn patiently, and discerning the pattern to which blocks could be safely moved.  After two rounds, she said "let's try something else" as she started to make shapes with the blocks.  She said she was making a fence for a horse, and I built a horse out of Jenga blocks inside her fence, which impressed her.  Then we built other kinds of towers.

We ate our waffles and ended up talking about school.  She described how one of the staff at her Ugandan school had pinched her and called her a "villager" because she was eating her eggs in the car, and we talked about how that made her feel.  Well, I talked about that, because she still doesn't really have feelings words yet.  Then I asked what happens at Waldorf school in America, and she described -- her tone is still reverent and shocked -- how when she can't do something at Waldorf school, the teachers HELP her figure it out.  I asked her which way works better, being made fun of or being helped, and she said it works much better when the teachers help her out.  I told her that it made me feel really good that I could send her to school at a place where I knew she was safe from being made fun of, and the teachers help her out, and I'm sorry that that happened to her before, but that was the best that anyone was able to do.


And that pretty much sums up my feelings about Hibiscus's birthday.  I am so intensely joyful for her presence in our family and in my life, and so intensely sorrowful about what I haven't been able to shield her from.  About the things that meant she was on the road to become part of our family.

Last night I went into a Hallmark store to pick out a card for her.  I wanted something sappy and sweet and beautiful, and I thought about the things I wanted to write inside.  I thought about some words that I would say to her, to give her some little message to hold onto about how precious she is to me.  So much of our relationship, so much of our lives, is full of frustration and trying to guide her into place, into control.  Self-control, hopefully; eventually.  I know this time is hard on her, but I have deep faith that eventually she will settle into something much stronger and more positive than if I just let her be crazy and do whatever she wanted to.  But these months have been so hard on me, too, and I have sometimes lost my own self-control.  If I can't model patience and fortitude, at least I try to model handling my anger in a non-destructive manner, and owning my mistakes and apologizing.  But I'm not a very demonstrative person, so I fear that the occasional outburst of anger overpowers my gentle demonstrations of love.  In her birthday card, I didn't want to bring up the difficult parts, but I wanted to tell her about how much I love her despite them.

I stood in front of the rack of "daughter" cards and actually started to cry, although it probably wasn't visible to an outside observer.  (I mentioned that I'm not demonstrative!)  I was so proud and happy to have a daughter, and have a daughter whom I could give a card to and was old enough to understand and care.  It was one of those moments when you can stop and think about your life, and I remembered that it wasn't very long ago that I didn't have any daughter at all, and now I have this amazing and lively girl who is turning seven, and that I'm the one who can teach her about love, and safety, and faith, and beauty, and being a woman.  That whole display of sweet pictures couldn't sum up how proud and happy I am to be a mother of a daughter, of my own daughter, my very special girl.

Then I opened up cards and started to read them, to pick one out.  First of all, it seemed like most of them were written to be given to an adult daughter, so some of them I had to put down because they described "now you've grown into," as though growing into being yourself is a process that is ever finished.  I kept skimming and reading.

They were all filled with phrases like "through the years," and "on the day of your birth," and "your birth made me a mother," and "I remember all your birthdays," and "every year since your birth," and so on and so forth.

And I still felt teary, but now they were suddenly angry tears, and I left the store without buying anything, and I didn't manage to give Hibiscus any kind of card at all.  Writing about love is probably more my way of showing affection than her way of receiving it anyways.


I wasn't there when she was born.  I didn't know I was a mother then, and in fact, I wasn't, because it wasn't my job to protect her and teach her about love, and safety, and everything else.  But then no one else did it either, and I wasn't there to step in and protect her, and make her world better.  I was far away and I didn't know anything about her, while she was learning about loneliness, and hunger, and that when the getting gets tough, no one is going to help you out.  And I haven't been with her through the years, and I haven't seen her change and grow through her birthdays.  A few days ago she was telling us about some scary things that happened in her old life, and then contemplating how she never had "a happy birthday" before, and she wonders why I didn't stop the bad stuff and help the happy stuff along.  And I say "I wish I could have been there, and I would have made the bad boys stop teasing you," and "I wish I could have been there, and I would have baked you a cake."  Solving the problems in fantasy helps her a little bit, and her sad face turns into a little smile, as she imagines me chasing those bad boys away.

My own heart pains with the desperation of that wish.  I know that it makes no logical sense, but how deeply and passionately I wish that I had been able to be there from the beginning.  That I could have put myself between her little baby self and the cruel world that assaulted her without cease.  That I could have picked her up every time she cried so she learned that trust is real.  That I could have fed her, and made silly faces with her, and taught her feelings words when she was a toddler.  I have some misty vision of myself, perhaps time-travelling, in her parents' shack when she was a newborn.  I would say something like, "she's going to be my daughter anyways, so why don't we just start right now," as I picked her up, and they already knew things were bad and had been in the middle of an argument about how they were going to take care of an extra person, a helpless girl, so they would have been just as relieved as they were almost seven years later in real life.  And it wouldn't have saved her all the pain of losing the family you are born to, but it would have saved her six and half years of pain.

But I can't give her that.  I can't give her all those cakes that she missed, getting to take the first bite, the chance to be the most important person of the day six more times.


So we did what we could for number seven.  She picked out a chocolate cake in the shape of a heart from the bakery, which also makes me a little sad, because I always make birthday cakes but I wasn't able to manage it in time for the party.  She did not get a balloon or a box of chocolate or a carton of orange juice in the store, because of course she suddenly wanted everything, but I was determined to keep the excitement of this day within the realm of what she could handle.  But she had some time when a mother paid attention just to her, and acted like she was valuable and reasonable.  And she had a party filled with people who love her, which was ourselves and two other families.  When we sang our blessing and I added a prayer of thanks, for her seventh year, and being finally back in America so we could celebrate it all together, the whole table resonated with agreement and thanks for being together.

And new clothes.  And a dollhouse.  I could give her all those things.

Some times all that seems so joyful.  And other times, it seems so paltry.


So today, very happy birthday to my daughter, my special daughter, the daughter who fills my house with laughter and with energy, my very own daughter.  This year, I will try and teach you about love, about safety, about faith, about beauty, about being a woman.  I will try and do the best I can, and I'm sorry that it's not enough; that I'm six years too late.  We will start with this day, and do what we can with tomorrow.  I love you so much.

Visa Appointment

The United States consul has declared that Buttercup and Hibiscus were deserted by their mother and abandoned by their father, and that therefore they have no parents and meet the official definition of orphans.  Thus, they will be able to immigrate to America with orphan relative visas.  We can pick up the visas and travel documents on Friday.


I should be jumping up and down for joy or wanting to go out and celebrate, but I'm just absolutely exhausted. I guess after all the thinking about it and worrying about it, and a very long afternoon with some very wild children and plenty of confusion, it's just over and I'm feeling leftover. I was debating whether to do something to celebrate for dinner, but I couldn't deal with the thought of taking the children anywhere else. But I didn't want to cook either. So I picked up roadside food: chapatis, roasted maize, and samosas, and we ate on the porch. And I keep thinking, now I can start planning on how I'm going to pack and what else we need to do before we leave.... I start to think and my brain just fuzzles out.  It's either too many details or too unreal.  After all these months and all these complications and all this waiting, I can't believe that it's over.  The paperwork, the time in Uganda, any of it.


Since the appointment wasn't until mid-afternoon, Buttercup and I had a calm morning at home, which was much appreciated.  The driver showed up around noon, and I tried to get dressed and make us all look pretty -- I even put on makeup and wore nice earrings!  I didn't know how formal we were supposed to be, but I always figure that it is better to err on the side of being a little bit too nice.  Besides, I figured that for once I was seeing another white person, and she would recognize white-person clean hair or white-person put-together face!

Then we picked the children up from school, which of course had all sorts of drama.  Emerson didn't want to go change his clothes by himself.  He didn't want to go with a teacher, he wanted to go with me, but I needed to talk with someone.  They hadn't had lunch yet; Hibiscus wanted some before we left.  I told her to eat quickly, and she inhaled an entire plateful before Emerson even made it to the changing room.  Buttercup wanted out of the car, and I told her she could go if she didn't get dirty; I turned around and she was crawling around in the dust, and then she wouldn't get back in the car when it was time to go.  And in the middle she threw a fit because I wouldn't let her eat lunch at school, since we had just left the lunch table at home, and she had eaten until she was ready to pop.  Once we were in the car, I had brought a snack for the kids, and while I wasn't looking Hibiscus (who just ate an entire lunch) gobbled up most of it while Emerson (who had eaten nothing) was barely munching his first one.  This came to my attention because Hibiscus started whining that her stomach hurt.  Which is what happens when you eat an entire plate of rich food, four hot dogs, and a banana in about ten minutes flat, and I told her I had no sympathy whatsoever, especially since Emerson was still hungry but all the food was in Hibiscus's bloated belly.  And so on and so forth: all the little dramas of having three children, and taking them out of their routine to do way too many boring errands.  But they were required to be at this one, so I stuffed them in pretty clothes and dragged them along.

Their teacher, Derrick, also came along, because I had asked if he knew someone who could come with us to help with the kids.  He was a lifesaver!  The children continued to be wild and crazy the entire time.  Not only did they not want to sit still (which I admit is not very fascinating), they were directly disobedient and defiant, like repeatedly running out of the area where we were allowed to wait, with the armed guard telling them to stay in the gate.  At some point, they have had capacity to allow themselves to be entertained with something non-ideal but fairly interesting, because they know that it is important.  Like driving in the car to safari or during the court date.  I am starting to think that all their positive social skills have disappeared during this month of school break-cum-paperwork errands.  They have all been especially scattered and difficult lately.


It was a bad place to not care about rules, because the US Embassy has enough rules and regulations to sink a small ship, or probably even a medium-large tanker.  Just walking through the gate to go into the compound is somewhere between annoying and impossible, depending on what documents you have in hand.  I suppose it is just as well that they do a security check fourteen different times (what could I manage to hide in my coin purse, really?), but what drives me crazy is the list of things that you're not allowed to bring inside.  I don't mind that some things are disallowed, but it is the list itself that bothers me.  It is about a page and a half, single spaced, with all these little things like "phone, ipod, laptop computer, cables, powder, cosmetics, nail clippers" and so on and so forth, for two pages.  So the first time I went through I carefully checked all the items on my list with the guard, who put them in a little box and gave me the key.  And then I went through the next security checkpoint, and they took all these other things out of my bag and told me to give them back.  Because, you see, an e-reader is not on the list, but what the list is ACTUALLY trying to say is "all types of electronics," so a Nook is not allowed.  We could skip about a page of listing and a great deal of confusion if they wrote that.  They also returned my small sunscreen bottle as "cosmetics," which it isn't, but I suppose the category they want is "liquids and creams," like the airlines.  So I think the list should be improved to describe categories instead of trying to name all the specific things that might fit into the categories!

One category they do list is all food and drink, so we had to leave our water bottles at the gate.  Last time I was there they had one of those office-style water-tanks, but this time the water had run out and the person who was supposed to bring a new tank naturally hadn't brought one, because this is Uganda and Ugandans do not hurry to get their work done.  Between the heat, the waiting, nerves, and talking, I wanted a drink of water so badly!  It is often those little things that color a whole experience, and I think whenever I remember our visa appointment I will immediately be thirsty.

As I wrote last night, we had this vague "all the families show up and we will try and get through the appointments," which didn't make much sense.  We got through the security complications somewhere around two o'clock, when we were supposed to show up.  I saw four or five families waiting in the outside waiting area of the immigration visa area as we arrived, but then several of them left.  I don't know why.  I don't know if they didn't have their paperwork, or were told to come back at a specific time, or what on earth happened.  I recognized several of them from other points on this long journey, including one mother who has been waiting at the same time as us ever since the passport office.  I hope they all are okay.

We were advised to go inside, and I think only one other family went before us, but they were the only ones still waiting.  I sat around and tried to help the kids do activities for a while, but then I didn't understand why the birth parents weren't there.  I had texted Miss B on the way over, and she had replied that everything was fine and they were coming.  She is usually very prompt for important dates, so by 2:30 I was worried.  After some discussion with the man at the desk (receptionist? guard? greeter?), it turned out that they were stuck waiting on the benches outside the Embassy gates.  So I went down to "confirm their identity" and bring them back with me, which involved leaving my visitor's badge as I left the immigration area, and then going through the entire process of entering the compound all over again.  But much more slowly, with two sick adults instead of three lively children (and someone from the orphanage helping liase for them).  I tried to enjoy my very slow walk up the sidewalk, and appreciate that I wasn't stuck in a room being nervous and trying to control three uncontrollable children.  But it's hard for me to walk slowly when I'm tense.

By the time I got back to the correct area, it was about our turn to go in.  I was told to come in with the children.  I had expected some kind of room where we would all sit down and perhaps be asked questions, but this was like going to a bank teller, but private.  I went in the little door marked "3" and stood at a counter, and the consul official sat behind the counter which was a desk for her, and there was a glass wall between us, and a slot underneath to pass papers back and forth.  The children came in with me, but immediately went insane and couldn't stop climbing on things (there was absolutely nothing to climb on but the trash basket and straight up the walls, so up they went), and complaining loudly and repeatedly that they couldn't see, and mama MAma MAMAAAA did you know my toe hurts? and so on.  The official said that if they would be more comfortable outside they could sit in the waiting area, and then they refused to leave, and Hibiscus and Emerson started crying that they didn't want to be away from me, while Buttercup entertained herself by opening and closing the door, and sometimes putting herself on opposite sides of it.  I was about ready to take them by their ears and deposit them anywhere far enough away that I could hear her voice on the other side of the glass, but luckily something happened, and Derrick grabbed their attention, and finally they left and stayed gone.  Things went much more smoothly then.

The goal of this interview is to confirm that the children meet the international definition of "orphan," which is complicated.  There are eight different ways that a child can be classified as an orphan, and it is possible to adopt a child in-country, that the country qualifies as needing adoption but the US does not qualify as being an orphan, and then they don't issue a visa.  (However, hopefully an honest lawyer would point out the problems at the beginning!)  I had no idea what the appointment would be like, but it went along well.  The official went over the paperwork with me and asked some little questions.  During the intake appointment, the intake person had told me to change a couple of things that didn't make sense to me, and the consul official told me to change them back.  I had to sign that I would get the girls fully vaccinated within 30 days of arriving in the U.S.  Interestingly enough, the consul official seemed to really respect that I had been here so long and knew the girls and their situation so well.  I was prepared for her to be very picky and very detail-oriented, which she was, but she seemed to acknowledge and respect that I knew the details, instead of doubting me.  She asked a couple of general questions, such as having me describe the girls' family situation, and she asked what I honestly thought of the orphanage, and what my impressions of the birth family was and why I thought they had relinquished the children.  The only hitch was that she wanted to see the original relinquishment forms that the parents had signed when the children came to Abato.  There have been about four more, more official forms that the parents have since signed, so the lawyer hadn't included those.  She said that I might have to make another appointment so she could see them.

Then I was excused, and found everyone waiting in the outside waiting area, which allowed the children to be even more chaotic than before.  After a few minutes, each of the birth parents was called in, and probably each spent ten minutes being interviewed (with an interpreter).  Then there was another pause and I was invited back in again.

The consul official explained what I wrote in the first sentence, about the official status of the parents, and why the girls are considered official orphans.  She said the parents had had a better than average understanding of what adoption means, and that the father was very clear and articulate about when and how and why he relinquished the children to Abato, so she wasn't worried about seeing the documents.  She gave me back all my paperwork except for the girls' passports, because they will put the visas in them.  Our "travel packet" will be ready at noon on Friday.

And that was it.  So, unless our luck holds and they manage to have a fire in the records room between now and Friday, or something like that, we will be completely done in 38 hours.  This is the last piece of paper between our family, and our home in Oregon.


As I have said, I just don't believe it yet.  I want to just go back into our regular routine, and I think about the things that need to get done tomorrow and how I'm going to manage them.  I suppose I will also start making lists of things that we need to do in Uganda, and figure out how I'm going to plan our time.  It will probably take about another two weeks to get everything ready, and also wait for airline tickets at a reasonable price.  Perhaps it will be difficult, still being here when I know that we have the documents to go.  But I think, as sick of living in Uganda as I am right now, I still will need some time to decompress and transition away.  It has been a long time.  For every little thing that I think about and irritates me, there are probably twenty little things that I take for granted and take care of calmly.

But that's all tomorrow.  Tonight, I'm exhausted.  And I'm hoping it's real.

Progress, the Next Day

Very Early Morning: There was a huge thunderclap in the night, and when the girls woke up it was still so dim out I told them to go back to sleep. Then I looked at the clock and it was well after 7 and time to get up. This morning, it is just plain raining -- usually it drizzles or it pours cats and dogs and then stops, but it has been raining for hours. At least I brought most of my laundry inside last night!  And at some point the kitten must have decided he missed his mother and gone back through the fence.  This will slow down our morning plans. Even if I am ambitious and get out in the rain, the people I need to find probably won't be.

Unfortunately, the only person who was NOT late this morning was the bus driver.  He is late whenever anything happens, such as a leaf dropping off a tree as he passes by, and has never yet been on time when it has been raining.  (Which provides a significant body of evidence.)  So for what I think is the very first time, me and my kids were not actually ready for the bus.  Hibiscus didn't get her juice, and for various reasons was crying.  She is frequently crying about something, so the exact reasoning escapes my mind by now.  Emerson was crying because he left his shoes out in the rain, and didn't want to wear wet shoes.  In this household, when you leave your shoes out in the rain, you wear them and hopefully remember to put them in the next time.  Besides, in this household, each person only has one pair of shoes that can possibly fit each purpose.  Emerson said I ought to buy him a second pair.  So Hibiscus stopped crying, because Emerson was throwing an even bigger fit and I was threatening to carry him down to the bus if he didn't put his shoes on (which I would, so he did).  And it always feels good to be the virtuous one who is doing what Mama asks. Personally, I would be willing to have two virtuous children at the same time...



Household chores, mid-morning: I have a very large pile of laundry that has made it in off the line and needs to be folded, and another very large pile of laundry that has made it through the washer but needs to go on the line, if and when it stops raining.

And I realized why laundry suddenly seems so much more difficult: at the previous apartment, we rigged a clothesline on the covered porch for rainy days. At this place, the porch is much nicer, but not at all clothesline shaped.



Lunchtime: Today I needed to start finding a new apartment and getting ID cards, which I have been diligently doing by sitting around responding to American correspondence and writing blog posts all morning. The apartment manager just dropped by, as I requested by text, thought about it, and realized he knew of a place around the corner we could move to.  He's meeting his cousin later, will speak to the other apartment manager, and drive us over this afternoon or tomorrow, and if that doesn't work out he'll speak to someone else.  Also, he will send the LC official to drop by, who would love to make us all ID cards, and he was obviously very pleased with me for wanting to register properly in the district.

The secret to getting things done in Uganda isn't industriousness, it's knowing the right people and waiting patiently.



Mid-afternoon:  I called the lawyer.  She reports that she had just contacted someone in the judge's office, and the judge was proofreading our guardianship order.  As in, it has already been written.  Hopefully the lawyer will be able to pick it up tomorrow, and with that in hand we can start the next thing!  However, the lawyer doesn't think that the LC officials will make ID cards for children.

Also, I put Buttercup up for a wrap-nap.  She managed to stay lively for a while, but then she faded on my back.  It has been cool all day, even though the rain has faded.  We wore our snuggly kapok wrap and put it in a snuggly carry, and it felt like a lovely snuggle in a lovely blanket with a lovely person.  While making phone calls and folding laundry.  Just one of those moments that is both quotidian, and then you realize how special the quotidian is.


Later in the mid-afternoon: The kids got home, and immediately opened negotiations with the children through the fence, which sounded something like "give us our cat back!"  They did.

The kids are chasing the kitten around, wanting it to climb in boxes, eat something, play with a ball, play with a clothespin, play with a string, come over to them, run behind, and on and on and one. Whenever the kitten does something (or doesn't do something) they jump and squeal and yell. I feel like all this energy would be much better suited to a canine companion.

We happen to have some canine companions with way too much energy, in fact, but they are not available to absorb the kid energy.  Which is really too bad, because they are getting into all kinds of trouble at home.  As in, the home back in Oregon.  Someone at the meeting yesterday asked, half-jokingly, if I was about ready to claim Uganda when people ask where I live.  I think it's about getting to that point, and I'm starting to think of it as "Oregon home" and not just plain old "home."


Dinner time: I am cooking tuna noodle casserole for six; another adopting father and his brother-in-law are coming to join us for dinner.  The children are practically upsidedown with excitement, except for Hibiscus, who actually is upsidedown.

Then our landlord comes back with the LC1 Chairman, who is very pleased to meet me and know that I want to register in the village.  I fill out paperwork for our family, and he shows me the ID cards that he will official-ize for us.  For all of us?  Yes, indeed, for everyone.  I write and occupations on the cards, and the older children hover around and then sign theirs.  I debated what to put for the girls' names, since I know everything has to match and have their Ugandan names.  But neither of them want to be called by their Ugandan names, and Hibiscus hates hers with a passion that would threaten to combust the ID card with the force of her gaze.  I put their American names in front of the Ugandan ones, and that is what Hibiscus signs.  She has completely forgotten how to write her Ugandan name, which I feel like is not a coincidence or a sign of not being able to hold things in her mind.  Now we just have to have ID photos taken, and bring some to the council official tomorrow, along with a fee for the paperwork filing.  I have a feeling that he loves putting the seal on and laminating the cards so they will not get spoiled by the rain, as he carefully describes every step, and how quickly he will get them to me.  That's okay; I'm pretty excited about ID cards too.  Especially with a nice official seal on them.

And the landlord will drive me over to the other place in the morning.



We eat dinner.  It is yummy.  I manage to keep Hibiscus from talking the entire time, and confidentially advise her that when adults are around, the children don't get to talk as much as usual.  Because "usual" means just one of me, and I am not nearly as garrulous as my children.  Either that, or I am more tired.  Anyway, tonight we have an actual conversation.

Also, my husband has worried whether I am sharing too much about the girls' life in these blogs, and that one day they would not want this information bandied about.  I am very cautious about what I write, but apparently I'm the only one.  Hibiscus says something about her birth family, notices that people are listening to her, and barrels like a freight train into all the most dramatic stories she can think of.  Luckily, the conversation moved on before she got too far, but I sense that if her future self wants any information withheld, it had better commune with her present self pretty much immediately.


After dinner Emerson and Hibiscus demonstrated for us the song, poem, and dances that they are practicing at school for their performance on Sunday.  As a performing arts teacher, I thoroughly condone having lots of mini-performances, so I allowed their little dramatic hearts to take center stage.  I am really impressed by how much they know, and that they are clearly being coached very carefully and specifically.  However, I think I will encourage Hibiscus to practice her poem every night from now on!

Then there was some general chaos, and I could speak quietly with the other dad for a few minutes.  Dinner with the rabble had not made him faint of heart, and he still is willing to stay with the girls while Emerson and I leave the country to get new visas.  So we solidified that into something a little bit closer to a plan, although we are both still waiting on all this nebulous paperwork, so the plan will stay vague until we know more.  The only clear plan I have at this point is the kids' school performance on Sunday.  It seems to me that they have been working a lot harder on that, than anything else has been working at all!


And I think the kitten went back home again.

Further Thoughts on Courtroom Drama

I meant to unpack the house this morning and write this post in the afternoon, but it's so difficult to do, that somehow I have been writing other things all afternoon instead.  I hope that my readers aren't trying to learn a lot about the process of adoption in Uganda, because although I think about the things that are going wrong all day long, I find it hard to face them front-on enough to write about them.  This time around, every time I lay down to sleep or am waiting for something or do mindless chores, my mind goes straight back to what I want to say to the judges and the disapproving aunties.  I get no rest from it, yet it's strangely hard to actually stop and talk about it.

I wrote about what happened at court on that evening, but here are some more thoughts that have developed with time, both from myself and other people's perspectives.

People keep telling me not to worry, and that the aunties were too late and too insincere and too obviously lying, and that they won't get their way.  Miss B, the orphanage director, says she thinks the judge already has her mind made up.  (She also says she has never yet seen relatives come in to block a case at the eleventh hour like this!)  Diane tells me that anyone in their right mind knows what is best for the girls, and obviously the judge is sensible, so we're going to be okay.  The lawyer, Rebecca, keeps telling me that everything will be all right and not to be worried.  She said it on her own behalf, and said she talked with the jiajia and the auntie who have been supportive all along, and says that they say not to worry as well.

But I can't help but worry.  I see the logic in what they say, and agree that the crazy aunties have a slim chance.  But even a slim chance is too much for my babies.  They came from a house of pain -- of neglect and abuse and fear and hunger and selfishness and uncertainty.  I have held them as the walls of pain start to crack and shudder, and seen the eyes of two little children looking out of their two little prisons, fearful but hopeful of joining the real world.  What if the crazy aunties convince some of the supportive relatives?  What if they manage to come up with a plan that sounds reasonable on the outside?  What if the judge decides that the family's right to the children is stronger than their own childish choice?  What if the judge decides to let them try it out?  What if.... and I can't even write what would happen next.  I can't do it.


If the judge knows what is right for the children and assesses that the aunties are crazy, why would she even give them a week's chance to work out a solution?  Rebecca's theory is that they will make even more trouble another way, which is why she didn't prevent them from coming into court.  I suppose the reasoning, is that if the judge granted the adoption and then the aunties took their version of events to the street or to the press, it could look really bad: "We live in the village, so far away!  We love our nieces so much!  We never knew they were in an orphanage!  We heard they had a sponsor, but we never dreamed they would leave Uganda!  We rushed to the courtroom to save them, and bloodied our poor hands beating down the door, but they wouldn't hear us!  Now the poor girls will never know their culture or their family!  Adoption is evil!"  So instead, the theory goes, the judge gave them enough rope to hang themselves.  She asked the pointed questions -- "how much money did you give the family? how often? would you let them live in your house? then where would they live? would you pay for the school fees?" -- and then told them to go make peace in their family and find a solution.  The theory is that they won't be able to find a solution, and in fact they have very little interest in actually finding a solution, and their argument will deflate.

(Other notes: It seems like they are lying in other ways as well.  In the pre-court hallway-arguments, the aunties told Diane and I that they lived so far away they had no idea what was happening, but they told the judge they lived nearby.  They said they are the girls' father's sisters (i.e. biological aunts), but it seems likely that they are actually more distantly related.  They said they visit their brother every week, which doesn't jive with either the part about being so far away nor the part about having no idea what is going on with the children.  One of them also makes a big deal about being a pastor's wife and thus also a good Christian, which is perhaps more a matter of opinion than an absolute lie...)

African families have never-ending amounts of relatives, but in this case, very few of them have actually been involved in the girls' lives.  Even some of the relatives who have taken an interest in the family and done something on their behalf, the girls don't actually know in person.  All of the relatives whom they have managed to find in three family searches have been very positive about the girls being adopted, and several of them have just-so-happened to bump into us on the streets of Bbunga and thank me passionately.  The relatives have said over and over, in many different ways, in their comments when we meet, in the affidavits the lawyers helped them prepare, in their testimony in court: "we have tried and we have failed.  We have failed the girls utterly.  But we want them to have a good life!"

But what if their resolve is worn down from a week of arguing?  What if the aunties find more uninvolved relatives and dribble poisonous untruths in their ears?  What if they come up with a new plan that sounds reasonable on the surface?

I want to clarify that I absolutely support the rights of the birth family to their children.  The relatives also wanted the child back with our previous match with Rehema, and although we worried that the mother was being pressured, we wouldn't have dreamed of trying to convince her to change her mind.  What is so galling in this case is that the aunties have never taken any interest in the children and don't seem to be planning on taking much interest in them.  Even their logic sounds so selfish!  They say "they will be taken away from Uganda for eighteen years and they won't remember their culture or me."  Remember you?  Seriously?  First of all, they don't have any idea who you are right now, because you have never paid any attention or visited them.  Secondly, how can you possibly imagine that not being remembered is worth taking away everything that they are being offered in a new family?

And what are we offering?  Obviously, on the surface it is a much better life, with plenty of toys and clothes and space in a big van.  In fact, that's kind of ridiculously better, and I kind of cringe at how children are taken so far out of the world they know when they are adopted.  But we offer something much, much more: we have a loving and stable home for them.  Because the way they are now, the girls will never be able to succeed at any type of life -- even just living in the slums of Kampala -- without someone who is willing to spend a lot of time and energy to help them out of the emotional prisons they are in.


The best case scenario would be that the aunties just slink away with their tails between their legs and don't even show up to court next week.  The next best case might be that they are still raving, but everyone else is calm and firm.  But what if there is no "best" at all?  What if they have a plan that sounds reasonable?  I guess I will just have to be ready to argue that the family is in such bad shape there is no way to salvage it, at least in time for these childhoods.  I need to argue it until the judge can't ignore it any longer.  I need to write down all the stories that Hibiscus has told me about the abuse and accidents and pain.  I need to write down all the ways the children were socially incompetent when they arrived here, and how much work is left to do.  Because social incompetence closes all the doors, absolutely all of the last ones that might have had a crack left after the limited education and general poverty have done their share.  So I need to write it all out, because after what I have seen and heard and held in my arms in these last months, I honestly believe to the bottom of my soul there is no way these children can be in this family and be safe or healthy.  So far, people in the courtroom have alluded to the problems, but I have to be ready to face it head-on, and define exactly how ugly it is.  And hopefully not in front of the children themselves, but there might be no choice.

I can't stop planning it in my mind.  I keep running through the horrors Hibiscus has narrated, both dramatically and off-hand, so I don't forget to include anything.  I keep running through what I might need to say, and having to imagine talking about the abuse in front of the abuser and the abused -- and all the people who ignored it.

But so far, I can't bring myself to write it.  But I tell those girls I love them every day.  And for their part, when they see me in pictures or the mirror, they say calmly and confidently "dis one, dis my Mama."