Trying to Leave Uganda

We are on the plane.  And when the plane lands, it will be in America.  That is the only thing that is actually important, and it almost didn't happen.


We were supposed to leave the apartment at ten o'clock, for a 3:50 flight an hour's drive away.  Now, I admit that we probably wouldn't have actually driven out the gate at exactly ten, but I had built natural tardiness (even Ugandan-style tardiness) into my calculations.  I was putting the last things that we needed to take into the carry-on by ten, so after a few goodbyes and a few last last trips around the house we would have been ready by 10:30, and someone needing to change their shirt and someone else needing to poop, we probably would have actually been driving away by 10:45.

Instead, as I was putting the last things in my bag, the apartment manager showed up and announced that she wasn't letting me leave.  This manager has shown minimal actual management, and responded to about one of my texts, ever, so she had kind of slipped my mind.  I had emailed with the owner of the apartment a few days before, told him the exact date of my departure, agreed to pay through the 31st because that is what I had guessed earlier, that I would have a friend clear out for me, and discussed utility bills and my husband wiring the money.  The last I heard from him was "okay, that sounds good too," so I assumed that was taken care of.  It turns out that the manager hadn't gotten the message that we were moving and she was all in a tizzy.  I tried to explain the email conversation, but she "wasn't listening" to that.  It took a long time to get the owner on the phone, and turned out that the money hadn't been wired yet, and he was no longer "okay" and said we couldn't leave until he had the money in hand.  The manager had driven her car in so it blocked our car, and kept following me around declaring shrilly that she wouldn't let me drive out, she wouldn't open the gate for me, her boss would kill her, and why on earth had I not told her I was leaving, and she had to check for damages and had I broken this and where were all the cups, she had to check that everything was here.  Repeat.

All this, starting five minutes after we were supposed to drive away.  To begin our trip home.  Which we have been waiting all these months for.  At first I thought she was just being a little unreasonable, but it soon became apparent that she was convinced I was trying to sneak out without paying and was going to go to all possible lengths to keep us blocked in the compound until she held the cash in her hot little hand.

It hadn't even occurred to me that my husband hadn't paid.  I had given them the other's email address, and assumed they had communicated directly.  I guess my husband was busy with a million little details to get us ready to come home, and didn't realize how very, very important this one was.

Before this, the owner had seemed very reasonable.  I will give him this much credit; I had forgotten how absolutely distrustful everyone is in Uganda, for the very good reason that almost everyone else is out to cheat, sneak, and steal as much as they can get away with.  I come from a land where signing a contract is a promise, and when you have someone's bank information and passport numbers, you figure that you have some leverage over them.  I have learned how to be distrustful: to smile but not say yes; to keep my hands on my documents.  I guess I haven't finished learning how to be distrusted.

The problem was, there was no way to solve this cash-in-hand issue.  Absolutely none.  I called my husband immediately, but he is on a business trip so he's not home, and his cell phone went straight to voicemail.  You can't even wake someone up by calling voicemail over and over!  Even if he was aware of what was happening, he couldn't have wired money in the middle of the night.  Although I do think that the owner might have taken him more seriously than he did for me, and he might have been able to make some other kind of assurance.  I can only take a limited amount out of my bank account per day, so if I took it all out it wouldn't be enough to pay the two weeks' rent, and I couldn't get more for 24 hours.  Which is after our plane left, obviously.  Not to mention, I needed money to get to the plane!  (A lot of money, it turned out.  The airport was a hotbed for sneaking your money away.)

Our amazing friend Derrick once again saved the day.  He had showed up to get my keys, because he was going to clean out the house for me.  This was already a mutual blessing that I appreciate; that would be way too much to ask a friend in America to do for you.  But I had offered his family and his school everything we had left over, and from his perspective THAT was an amazing blessing, so it was a symbiotic relationship!  He immediately managed to calm down the shrill and repetitive manager and at least figure out what was going on.  Eventually, he agreed to write them a post-dated check.  We would wire the money to him, and then the manager could cash the check and have the money.  If we were as untrustworthy as they supposed, then he would be responsible for the amount -- which he surely didn't have, so he said with a wry smile that he would go to jail instead.

They accepted the offer, but the whole process took negotiating and time.  Derrick had to go back to his house and bring his checkbook.  The landlord in Kenya needed to be consulted, and the cell reception kept going out.  (That house must be just on the wrong side of a hill, because it the cell phone reception goes in and out constantly.)

We left at noon.  Two full hours after I had planned, and still more than an hour after the things-always-go-slowly departure time.  I had scheduled in lots of extra time, in case we needed to do something on the way to the airport, and then extra time in the airport.  All of it was gone.

Thank heavens, the traffic to Entebbe was not too bad.  And I realized we did have to stop.  My husband had emailed me an official power of attorney or permission form to travel with all three children.  I had a general power of attorney for conducting the girls' adoption, which mentioned traveling with them in passing, but it wasn't as clear as it could be, and it didn't mention Emerson.  Apparently it's easy to assume that one parent is taking a child away from official custody when they are crossing borders with the child without official permission.... especially when the parent is also doing something highly suspicious like trying to travel with children who are a different color from themselves.

I tried to stop and print it out.  It didn't work.  I couldn't get into my email, which is the problem with having a computer that remembers all your passwords all the time.  I keep having this problem, and then keep having to change the password.  It's actually worked the last few times, but I guess with all the stress and panic I just couldn't get it right, so yahoo shut my email down.

We drove on without the permission form.

Then there was the security check outside the airport, which is always kind of incomprehensible and takes too long.  Then there was getting our bags from the car to the departure area.  There is a nice road to the departures on the upper airport level, just like every other normal airport.  However, the road is closed.  You have to just push the luggage carts up the road.  Our driver and a porter were each pushing a cart, and the luggage kept slipping off and falling on the ground.

Then there was getting inside the airport, which of course is complicated in an incomprehensible way that is nothing like other airports.  It was also an excellent example of people enjoying the power of their petty positions, and using it to make up all kinds of new rules which they could enforce in a draconian manner.  (Which has kind of been our problem with the adoption process all along!)

First of all, there was paying the porters.  The porter who pushed our luggage up the hill wasn't allowed to go in the airport.  The guy who showed up wanted "only 20 thousand shilling."  The sum I had in mind was a generous 5 thousand.  To give some context, if a maid or a houseboy or a driver works for you most or all of the day, they can expect to earn about 10 thousand shilling.  Five thousand for half an hour of work truly is generous for Uganda.  The 20-thousand guy wasn't even interesting in bargaining at my starting point.  He probably guessed by my facial expression and the definitive way that I pronounced my sum that I wasn't actually on vacation, but knew what I was talking about, and slipped off to find a more guillable muzungo.  Another lady showed up who would work for ten.  Twice a reasonable rate, in a closed market, I was willing to accept.  (In general, I am willing to accept paying a little more than Ugandans for the same service.  I do understand that I -- and every other American who could ever end up in Uganda -- have a lot more resources than they do.  However, they need to keep their up-pricing in a reasonable range.)

She brought our luggage over to have it weighed.  The luggage-weigh-er told me that I would have to have some of the bags "wrapped" in plastic, like super-saran-wrap.  At a cost of 25 thousand per bag.  Then we went through the x-ray machine and dealt with the power-monger at the other end.  He went through my backpack in great detail, carefully examining every article that was not obviously food.  Yes, we had twelve pieces of luggage, not included small backpacks or purses for everyone, and he opened one of them so we could have twelve conversations about the items inside.  So it could have been worse -- he could have gone through all twelve bags like that, I supposed.  Except then I think someone would come and fire him, because no one could ever enter the airport.

I had brought a pair of small kids' scissors for projects on the plane.  The kind with two-inch blades and rounded tips.  Oh no, I could not possibly bring those on; put them in the other luggage.  In the extra two hours of pacing around the house, I realized that I could bring a knife to spread butter and cheese and things on our bread and muffins.  I had brought the most delicate and unserrated butter knife.  That knife could possibly do some damage to, say, a baby rat, if you whacked it just right.  Or an adult.... um, mosquito, if you found a mosquito who wanted to wait around for you to to poke it with a small butter knife.  The security guard gave me the most condescending look to tell me what an idiot I was for thinking I could bring anything that was related, linguistically at least, to a tool of danger and destruction.  I must have seemed improperly awed and repentant, because at this point his colleague piped up about how lucky I was that they warned me about these transgressions now, or later I would have just had to throw the offending items away.

Then he got to my water purifier.  In case you don't regularly use one -- which you should because they are very handy -- this is an object slightly wider than a pen, half of which is a plastic handle, and half of which is a long lightbulb that emits the right kind of UV rays to kill the bacteria and stuff in your water bottle.  All of which apparently makes it look like a weapon of mass destruction to busy-body security staff.

He spent a long time examining it, apparently looking for the part he could point to in order to make fun of me for trying to bring it on board.  Eventually he asked what it was.  I told him a water purifier and flashlight, because it is also a flashlight, and I figured that was a little more understandable.  He immediately started saying "oh, no, no."  It took a while to figure out what was so awful about a flashlight, and he eventually explained that starting fires is very bad.  Starting fires.  Luckily, it took me only a moment to realize that he didn't know the word "purifier," so was extracting the dangerous syllables.  I explained purification in a little more detail, but not a great deal of patience. He either realized what I meant, thought that his fire explanation wouldn't hold water (haha), or started to realize that it was pretty hard to argue that a glass pen was particularly dangerous, because he moved onto a new tack.

"Does it have batteries?" he demanded.  "It is electronic, it has batteries, and batteries are not allowed on the plane.  No batteries.  See, look here, it must be a battery here, to make go.  No batteries allowed.  Put in the checked bag."

See what I mean about making up your own rules?  The last thing I read was that battery items are not allowed in CHECKED luggage, which was part of why I was bothering to argue about it, because I didn't want it thrown away in the checked bag.  (Also, because it is useful.  Also, because the whole thing was just so stupid that he was making me stubborn.)  Think about what you bring on a plane: laptops, cameras, i-things.  Things with batteries.

So that argument was pretty fruitless for the guy, and besides, there was another bag with interesting things beckoning him from the other side.  He pulled out a black stick with buttons on it, and asked the (young, hip, jewellry-laden, black t-shirt, Ugandan) owner suspiciously "now what is THIS?" and the man replied with obvious frustration in his voice "it's just a (something) and a flashlight."  The two security checkers cut their eyes and me and said "this one is a brother to that mama there."

We moved our procession on.  Past the plastic-wrap machine, which actually cost 18 thousand (ridiculously high, but mysteriously 7 thousand less than what I had been told), because you have to check your bags before you can wrap them.  Then checking in, which was slow but relatively normal.  Then back to the plastic wrap machine.

And then the argument about the carseats.  I had carseats for both Emerson and Buttercup, and was told that I could not possibly take them on a plane, which was the entire point.  I have read this airline's car seat policy, admittedly not the last few days, but nothing jumped out at me that I couldn't bring a seat for a child.  I always have small children ride in a car seat on a plane, just like the FAA recommends.  Almost no one actually does it, though, and the airline personnel always seem a little annoyed that I actually follow through with their official recommendations.  Emerson arrived in Entebbe in a car sea, via the same airline.  I admit, I hadn't thought about how although he was the same exact size, he is technically a year older, and maybe 5-year-olds aren't allowed to ride in car seats.  So I would have given in gracefully for Emerson's seat, but the thought of trying to manage OVER TWENTY HOURS of airplane time with an illogical toddler who officially believes that it is her job to bounce all over unless she physically can't manage it, made me stick to my guns.

Of course, if they had told me, "stand here for 15 minutes or half an hour or so, while we wander away and find someone else who won't help you," I might have worried about getting through the rest of the airport.  But they kept acting like help was right around the corner.  And then "help" would arrive, with again such ridiculous arguments about made-up-on-the-spot policies, that I just couldn't go along with them.  That, and the 22 airplane hours ahead of me.  For instance, that only babies under two were allowed to use car seats on the plane; that is what carseats are for.  Dude.  Hello.  Babies under two DO NOT BUY seats on a plane; they sit on laps.  That is the distinction for babies under two.

After way too many ridiculous conversations, they let me take Buttercup's seat, but we had to go plastic wrap Emerson's.  I told them that they had better not charge me for checking it, and they agreed as a special favor since I was traveling with children to not charge me.  I am almost positive they were planning on charging me money up until that moment.  I promise, I used to have a very mild and friendly personality, but in Africa I have learned my "don't mess with me" voice.

Speaking of carseats, I had to use that voice to get it on this plane, too.  In the middle of the long and confusing boarding process, some flight attendants offered to take the seat for me.  Since they checked my boarding pass, I assumed they were putting it on the plane for me.  Several minutes later, an attendant returned and cheerfully told me I could get it in Seattle.  I told him that I had brought that seat in order to USE it, and he had sure as heck better get it back to me RIGHT NOW.      (Okay, I didn't use those words, but I did use that tone!)  He brought the car seat back.

However, I did not use that tone with the customs officer.  We finally managed to get all our luggage going in the correct direction and our hand items loaded on a cart, and went around the corner to customs.  Let me clarify, there is not the slightest reason for customs to be difficult for us.  We all have all the visas and documents that we need for our departure and destination countries, and aren't carrying anything we shouldn't, which I believe is more or less the job of the customs officials.  It would make sense that they would question why I have the girls with me, since our names don't match and our documents don't mention each other, so I wouldn't be at all insulted to be asked to produce the paperwork showing that I am their legal guardian.

But Ugandan customs officials seem to think that their job is to re-adjudicate our entire legal case.  I handed him out guardianship order (which states clearly that we are their only legal guardians), the judge's ruling (which explains the entire case in detail), and he read over both of them.  Very.  Carefully.  I also gave him a copy of Mark's passport and his power of attorney allowing me to travel with the girls.  Then he called someone else, and then asked me for more paperwork.  He needed copies of our passports, and visa photos of the girls, and half a dozen other things, mostly about my husband and I.  I had wondered if I needed anything else from our dossier -- which had just disappeared into the luggage hold a few minutes before -- but it hadn't ever occurred to anyone whom I had talked with that we would need visa photos.  I told him respectfully but firmly that we had not been told to bring those things.  He read a few more pages of our documents, and finally said that I just had to bring copies of our passports.  Despite holding the actual passport in his hand, of course.  So we went back into the luggage area, found someone from our airline, and asked her to make a copy.  She disappeared  cheerfully, and to my relief she actually did it.

By then there was a line at the customs counter.  When we saw our official again, this time he asked for the girls' birth certificates.  (Which are not relevant, because they had passports, which proves they had birth certificates that were already approved.)  But I had them, and handed a copy over.  He read them carefully, and asked some questions about their birth family situation.  Then he asked for releases from the birth parents.  (Which are not his business, since the judge has already rescinded their rights and given them to us.  Not to mention, she has looked for releases from the birth parents.  Which were also needed to get the visa, which was also right in front of him.)  But I handed him copies of those, too.  He read for a while longer.  Then he said that he needed to take a picture of me with Buttercup, so to take her out of the wrap.  After a long time more, I held up Hibiscus so he could take a picture of our faces together -- and of course at that moment, someone else came by with a question, which he answered with way too much back-and-forth for holding my big girl up at face level the whole time!

I am glad that he didn't give us any more of a hard time about leaving the country, since I know some families have problems with these self-appointed judge-and-juries.  But I really longed for that missing hour or two we had spent arguing with the apartment manager.  While we were standing there, we heard the warning for boarding for our flight, and then the boarding announcement.  Then we heard the final call.

And what were the children doing this whole time?  They could have been worse, but they could have been better.  There was a little too much wandering around an looking at things while I waited and argued in the luggage area, and then everyone got hungry.  By the time we got to customs, the older two were mostly quibbling with each other and complaining at me to make the other one stop doing things.  Buttercup watched quietly from the wrap for a while, but by customs she was ready to lean her way out and run away, but she knows that she can't actually escape the wrap and stays pretty calm.  Thank heavens for toddler-wearing!  I doubt my ability to hold a sane conversation with an arrogant and illogical customs official, while also trying to hold on to a toddler who is bent on running somewhere.  And I am not sure that the customs official would think that I had the best interests of the children in mind if I was clutching a child who was screaming to get away from me!

Luckily, the Entebbe airport only has about four gates, so we were able to speed-walk through it quickly.  Also, the children found speed-walking much more interesting than anything else so far, so they walked right along with me (except for Buttercup, who was wrapped up tight).  And also luckily, no one desperately had to pee.  When we got to our gate, the flight attendent said that actually boarding was closed, but it's okay, we can get on.  So we went through security and x-rays at the gate, and kept on going to our plane.  I hadn't even had a chance to tell the children about the seating arrangements, which was that we were sitting in two pairs, one behind the other, and I would be sitting with Buttercup.  So both of the older children had to throw a small fit about not getting to sit next to me, although the fit would have been much bigger if either of them had to deal with Buttercup's incessant demands and fussiness!

Once we were seated, we heard an announcement about a technical issue, that probably had delayed the plane long enough for us to get on, and then a little longer.  And then the plane started to move, and the children were all very excited.  And then we taxied faster and faster, until the plane took off.

And I looked my last looks, as Buttercup blithely chirped "bye-bye, Uganda! bye-bye, Uganda!"  We will be back, but it will never be the same.  The girls won't be Ugandan any more.  We will be travelers, not residents.  It will all be so different.

And frankly, on days like this, that sounds pretty good!

January to January

It is the middle of January.  Exactly one year ago, I was in the throes of frustration, trying to pack for a trip to Uganda.  Today, I am in the throes of frustration, trying to pack to go back to America.  One entire year.  One way or another, Uganda has an entire year of my life.   There were a couple months there that weren't exactly in Uganda itself, when our match fell through the day we were supposed to leave, and we didn't leave yet.  But, the entire month of January I dedicated to Uganda, figuring out exactly what we would need, collecting portable toys and every kind of medicine.  At the end of the month I quit my job, closed up everything; closed that chapter of my life.  Even when we didn't get on the plane, the bags stayed packed, the job stayed quit, everything seemed foggy and temporary.  Now it is January, and I am packing again.

We have plane tickets for the 27th, which is next Monday.  Hold up your fingers: Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday; a whole hand, five more days, as Emerson counted this morning.  So after months of uncertainty, I am suddenly busy making the actual plans to go home.  I'm contacting our Ugandan friends and the people who have helped us, to say goodbye.  I'm emailing people at home and confirming doctor's appointments and plane seating arrangements.  I'm going through a list of people who were in some state of "we'll do X when I get home," to let them know that I actually have a date to get home and to plan a time for X.  I'm hoping to answer questions and complete connections for other adoptive parents who can't be in Uganda yet.  I'm trying to wrap up all the details that might not wait another two weeks, once the real chaos begins.  I'm probably forgetting some important ones.  I'm trying to sort things into "Take Home" and "Maybe" and "Leave Here."

I'm trying to arrange the house.  I once wrote about how overwhelming it was for me to arrange packing for this trip to Uganda; now it's equally overwhelming to try and un-arrange it.  I have realized the problem is that I'm good at big-picture dreaming, and I'm a perfectionist about all the little details, but the medium-sized problems overwhelm me with where to start.  I can either make lists all day, or I can sit and sort out one thing perfectly, but deciding how to deconstruct an entire house -- and entire life -- makes me feel like I'm staring at a huge brick wall.

And it's an entire life.  The power is out right now, and the candle burned down until the candle holder lit on fire (because all the candle holders are unfinished wood), and I went to get a new candle. The new one was the second-to-last one in the box, and there was a whole new box of candles sitting underneath it, so we wouldn't run out.  There's extras of everything we use in the big cupboards, from powdered sugar (not so frequently) to oatmeal (we go through it fast).  My mother grew up in a small town in Vermont, and they only went shopping once or twice a month, so she knew how to keep a well-stocked pantry, and that's still the way I live today.  It's pretty frustrating to run out of candles during a power outage, or some irreplaceable food when you have three kids and no car, so I keep extras.  Because this is our house, and our pantry.  And our life.

It was never meant to be forever, but as the months went by, it turned into good enough.  This is our days, our food, our routine.  We wake up in the morning, can grab the toothbrushes on the sink by feel, get our clothes from our wardrobes where they are every day.  I make eggs or toast on school mornings with Buttercup on my back, and Emerson staggers around slowly and Hibiscus darts around randomly, but between the three of us we get their backpacks filled with snack, juice, and homework.  They go to school, and bring home stories about new teachers and favorite games and funny things.  Buttercup and I eat our breakfast after they leave, perhaps on the patio.  She plays around me while I work or socialize on the ipad, and meanwhile we sing little songs and name colors and have laughs and snuggles in between our independent work.  When we go out, we shop at the Cinderella market in Bbunga when we're on our way home, which we used to walk to, and I can always remember exactly what I will find on the shelves.  Or we get bread and cash and go to Uchimi supermarket in Kabalagala, which is in the same mall with the shoe store (children need a lot of shoes), and there's a bunch of used clothing shops nearby, as well as most other little things that we might need.  When we go into town, we get our groceries at Garden City mall, which starts with a koi pond that the kids always run over to, and one time had trombonists playing Christmas carols on plastic instruments in the entryway.  That's also where the big bookstore is, and the food-court overlooking the golf course, and the colorful playground on an upper story balcony, which by definition doesn't have any grass and way too much sun on hot days, but is the only free playground in our regular routine.  Now that we usually do our errands by car, we stop there fairly often.  And I can visualize the streets curving around that area, the side heading into the suburbs with some nice restaurants on grassy compounds, or heading out to Ntinda where we see the dancing, or becoming angular in the other direction as it heads into downtown Kampala.  I know all those streets too.

In other words, this is normal.  This is just how we live.  

I never imagined that more than a year would pass between packing and the final unpacking, which is still ahead of me.  I never imagined eight entire months in Kampala.  I trusted that this was where God wanted me, and although I have often felt crazy, I have never felt any question that I was doing the right thing.  It just turned out to be a very large right thing!

Larger in terms of time and effort, but larger in terms of meaning in our lives, as well.  When we were talking about adoption, people warned us that it wouldn't be easy; when we mentioned older-child adoption, they said it really wouldn't be easy.  And I thought, the things that are easy aren't the ones that are most worthwhile. Not to mention, anyone making a choice to be a parent because they think it's going to be easy should think about their choices a little bit harder!  We went through all those thoughts about adoption itself, but I didn't know I would go through them with my children's country.  This year hasn't been easy -- it is probably the hardest thing I have ever done.  But in the end, we have gained so much from Uganda.

I have hated it here sometimes.  I have hated my situation, I have hated the culture, I have hated the entire country.  And I think that's fair; I think you don't truly make something yours when you idealize it or insist on focusing on the positive (or just the negative, for that matter).  But I have also found things that touch my heart and my mind.  I have made friendships that will change my life.  I have had conversations that never would have been possible if I weren't living this life.  I have seen beneath the surface and felt things in my heart.

But what is probably stronger than all that, is that I have hated it, and I have kept on.  I have come to define myself as living in Uganda.  My frustration has changed from something that is directed outward, towards an "other," to being at something that I know that I am part of.  Maybe I have a terrible day with some things that are so Ugandan going wrong -- miscommunication, being cheated, cars breaking down, coughing from the dusty roads.  But I go back in my own home, I make what I like for dinner, I gather my children around me in bed and smell their clean hair as I read bedtime stories, and we relax and think about the stories (and our Bedtime Reading Rules; we always need reminders about those), and our bodies melt into each other and I know that we love each other and that even though things are going wrong, I am filling their emotional cups with love and contentment.  And that's Uganda too.  We're not retreating from the Uganda-ness, we're going to our own special corner of it.

And we've become a Ugandan-American family.  My blond son says "even me" instead of "me too," and a hundred other phrases without thinking about them.  When he does think about it, he can slip entirely into African English, and asks me to "you pooot me he-ah" to refill his cup ("you put me here," like "put it here for me").  When he doesn't think at all, he can follow basic conversation in Luganda.  The girls speak English with an African accent, but Buttercup's is mild, and their vocabulary is filled with American words, and sometimes they forget the Luganda ones.  The phrases even slip off my tongue, and we all can say or understand "sorry for paining you" as easily as "I'm sorry I hurt you."  Everyone talks about whether we need to go sou-sou, and wanting the omunyo to sprinkle on our food.  We dress in clothes that are like what Africans wear, but what Americans would buy.  We eat mangoes and matoke, yogurt and honey, roasted maize and bananas, chocolate chip cookies and cheese.  The girls like nutritional yeast on their rice as much as "soup," and Emerson eats "food and soup" at school as long they cut the tomatoes into very small pieces.  I walk more slowly and my conversation has more pauses than it used to.  The kids are learning two sets of manners, which does not confuse them at all, although using any manners whatsoever can be difficult.  And most of all, we all share dozens and hundred of memories of our world.  Our mutual world, that we all know.  We describe this person that we talked to, or the store we mean is the one near where all the goats are, or the time when Cinderella market had a Santa Claus outside and Hibiscus thought it was real.  And the girls even remind us of American memories, like that Emerson rode a horse on Uncle Mike's farm, and tell again about the time that Mama thought Bubba was going to eat her food and she put it in her mouth all at once.  All of it is swirled up together in what is our own family story.  Our family, that is now and always will be both Ugandan and American.

I have said that I want to go back home, and I do, and now I actually have plans to do it.  I look around myself, and first of all I can't imagine that I'll be leaving this; my cozy living room and the rocky red dirt roads and the smell of fires.  I'll be glad to be getting back to my husband and my dogs and my normal life, but it's going to be hard to leave.  How hard, I don't even know yet; I think it usually hits about two weeks after it's gone!  But I think Uganda and I have turned a corner; have made peace with each other; have become something together.

As I wrote that it seemed self-indulgent to imply that in any way I have changed a country, but as I think about it, I have.  Miss B said that I was the most patient family she had ever worked with, in an admiring superlative.  I was introducing myself to some other adoptive parent the other day, and when I mentioned how long I've been here she replied, "oh, you're the one who's been here for eight months; you've become an urban legend around here!"  I'm sure in all my conversation and support and suggestions I have somehow influenced the course of my children's small school.  Some of the conversations I have sought to learn more about Uganda have probably given someone a different insight.  And then the tiny things: I've lived in an area where there aren't many white people, there aren't many transracial families, there aren't many women on their own.  All these hundred of people who have stared at me, or laughed at me, or bargained with me, or gotten to know what kind of fruit I like to buy, or complimented or scolded the way I wrap my child; all these people have changed their perspectives in some small way.

As for me, the transformation came in the last few weeks.  Around Christmas I was feeling worn down to the bone, and I didn't know if I could make it any farther.  But I did, and I kept going, and I found things to smile about.  And then finally, the children got on the school bus and waved and drove away.  Buttercup and I ate breakfast on the patio, and the sun was a nice gentle golden color and everything was green.  And life seemed so normal, and content, and manageable.  I realized in that instant that I didn't actually hate Uganda, I hated having to run errands with three bored children on an interminable break from school.  As soon as our routine was back in place, we all became ourselves again, and settled into our normal life.

And now it's time to pack the suitcases, give the pantry away.  Decide what we care about and what we leave behind.  Another January, another getting ready to fly away from another chapter in my life.

It hasn't been an easy year.  There has been suffering over administrative difficulties of adoption; there has been suffering over becoming a family through adoption; there has been suffering about doing all that as a solo parent.  There has also been struggling with Uganda itself, and I have gone through periods of excitement, and frustration, and appreciation, and anger, and acceptance, and weariness, and jadedness.  And not thinking about it, just living my life.

Because this is our life that we are leaving.  We haven't been on hold for the last year, we have been living.  And these three children and I, we have made a life, we have made a family here in the hills above Lake Victoria.

We have made ourselves a home here in Uganda.  We started out by leasing an apartment, and noticing all the smells, and being charmed by the outdoor markets, and struggling with understanding the accent.  But the months have gone by, and the tears and the anger and the friendships.  All those details have faded into something normal, something that is part of ourselves.

We have earned ourselves a home.

Return Trip

It was the water bottle that did me in.  You know how, in modern airports, you can't bring your water through security, you have to pour it all out and get new water in the terminal to bring on the plane?  Well, it's like in Africa, they have to be as modern as other airports, but they have to twist things around to make themselves unique, and in the process they defeat the entire point but they are still stubborn and bureaucratic about it, and just stand there staring at your repeating their stupid rules.  In this case, no one cared about water going into the airport, at either the preliminary security station nor the main security check where you would expect a security check.  But at the last minute, when you are walking into the pre-boarding area at the gate, there is an extra security gate, with no signs or information or anything, but they tell you to throw away your water.  Which means no water whatsoever in the plane.  As though the water they are selling in the terminal is loaded with whatever bombs people can make out of water, or for that matter, that they want people wandering around with those water-bombs in the airport terminal at all.  I protested, and the guy brought over his superior, who repeated the same words mildly and stared vaguely behind my ear, which is the African way of having a passive argument.  I said "what am I supposed to do?" which is the African arguing way of not letting them be passive any more, but they didn't take the bait and just kept staring.  They brought over a third person to be unhelpful, though.  After a while, one of them said that if the water had a seal, it would be okay, which as far as I could tell he made up on the spot to appear agreeable, although of course it could be airport policy -- who knows, as the airport policy is not posted any where.  The water bottle in question had about four sips taken out of it and had cost me 160 Kenyan shillings, and of course we wouldn't have taken four sips if we had known about this so-called airport policy.  I pointed out that other airports all over the world do not randomly take your water away when you are boarding the plane.  One of the guards said calmly that they were not any other airport, and they did not follow any other policy, they were Boma Jaipa airport (or whatever the name is) and that is their policy.  Obviously, duh!  (Those last were not technically words, but very clear.)

I am generally an incredibly non-confrontational person.  As in, if I even think about saying something rude, I start to cry and have to go away in private and think about it the rest of the afternoon.  I'm losing it in Africa, I really am -- my sanity or my Type 9-ness, I'm not sure which.  Although less healthy Type 9's are known for being passive aggressive, and maybe that includes violently throwing your water bottle at the trash can as you walk away.  I didn't actually throw it at a human being, which would be more on the aggressive side.  Actually, come to think of it, it probably IS passive aggressive, because that is what they are experts at around here, and they all expertly ignored me.


The trip back to Uganda technically went smoothly.  There were no lines to check in or go through security, we found our gate, the flight was on time and the bathrooms functioning, I got American dollars for the Ugandan visas, I found a toy that I had promised Emerson for good-shopping-behavior in the terminal, I even had time to get a couple Kenyan souvenirs.  (It takes some searching to find Kenyan souvenirs that are not exactly the same things as Ugandan souvenirs, except maybe there is a different country name painted on it.  In fact, the terminal was full of general east-African souvenirs with every possible East African country name painted on it, just in case you wanted to feel specific to a whole bunch of places.)  Most importantly, the Ugandan customs official laughed and joked with Emerson, and didn't make any kind of fuss about putting the new stamps in our passports.  This was quite a concern, because not only have I heard a lot of airport-official horror stories by this point, the customs official on the way out did not like all my visa extensions, and delayed me for quite some time even thought I was just trying to LEAVE the country.  It is quite certain that she would not have let me back in.  So the trip went smoothly.

But I was so tired.  I actually got more sleep in Kenya than I usually do at home, so there was no physical reason to feel so exhausted, but it was one of those days when I felt like everything was through a fog and my limbs were moving in syrup.  I think it was the fact of returning to Uganda.  The closer we got, the more tired I became, just in anticipation.


The few days in Kenya were such a treat.  Of course it was nice to not have to worry about fixing meals or doing laundry or worrying about paperwork, but the vacation-y-ness wasn't the main thing.  It was so rejuvenating to see something new and think about something new and do something new!  With three children in the suburbs, I am so confined.  I am either at home, doing the same-ol' at home things, or I am doing necessary errands... and with all the children out of school, those errands are gut-wrenchingly tiring and stressful.  It was so nice mentally to think about different shaped buildings, and how the history of the two countries had created such different realities in such geographical proximity, and listen to cheesy stories about elephants, knowing that I had absolutely no connection to the elephants and I wasn't going to come back again or show it to someone else or where I would stand next time, and basically just have NOTHING TO DO with the stupid elephants except to stand there and watch them.  That was refreshing.

And it was refreshing to be a one-child mama again.  It's more than just the number of children, it's that Emerson and I have a rhythm, we understand each other.  There is no question that I have spent more time alone with Emerson than anyone else in the world, since I was his age and spending that much time with my own mother.  (Three weeks older than he is now, my sister was born and that intimacy changed into something new, too.)  Going around Nairobi together was familiar like going around Kampala was a few months ago, a routine that we knew, the excitement and exploration that we remembered, and that we both enjoy.  But there are years of memories like that; Emerson and I have done a lot of traveling alone together.  So it was like settling in with an old friend, to be with my son the way I remembered being with my son.  It was a treat.  But more than that, it was fine; it was normal; it was enough.


The pilot forgot to ask my opinion, but as far as I was concerned, that plane could have kept on flying.  We could have gone right over east Africa and headed back home.  There was nothing I needed to stop for in Uganda; nothing that was so important that I wanted to head down into this morass again.

Almost as often as people try and convince me that the baby I'm carrying isn't actually my baby, they tell me what a saint I am for helping out other people's babies.  That's not true either; people adopt for selfish reasons: they want to dress a girl in pretty clothes or play baseball with a boy or show that they are a unique and open-minded family, whatever it is.  I feel like my decision to adopt has some selfless and loving reasons in it, but it certainly has a lot of selfishness too.


Going back to Kampala this December was not selfish.  I sat there, content with my son and the special bond we shared, and I thought that there wasn't anything in Uganda that would make me, personally, more happy than NOT being in Uganda any more.


And of course, the plane went on, and we got off, and we're back in our apartment in Konge, and I know that's the right decision to make and I wouldn't make a different one.  That was the feeling of a moment, not of a lifetime.  So we went back home, and the girls didn't want to look at me, and our routine was all broken up, and we were all tired, so it was a really exhausting afternoon and evening and they were all crazy difficult, and I yelled at them, more than once.  I never used to yell, never ever.  It wasn't self control, I never felt like yelling.  I felt like walking away when things (and children) got too frustrating -- and I still do, for that matter, but apparently months of not being able to walk away for even a moment has uncovered the yelling-part of me.  My toolbox of parenting ideas has apparently tipped over and everything has fallen out... and don't you dare give me suggestions, or I'll probably end up yelling at you, too!  The only thing left seems to be to imagine the plane flying off, off and away over Africa, leaving it behind.... But no matter how I felt, I have made too many promises to the girls to even acutualy consider not fulfilling my promises to them, and coming back as soon as possible.   I wouldn't really leave.
         

But I want to stop feeling so angry.  And I really want to get out of here.
 

Car Troubles

I had a blog post in mind.  I was going to start with a picture somewhat like this:

and the dramatic announcement that it was kind of ours, and at least that I was driving it.  Which would mean that anyone who has visited a country like Uganda would think I am absolutely insane to drive, like my husband does.  But I've been here for a while now, and once you kind of understand it the traffic isn't really that bad.  Everyone goes slowly, anyways.

Our American neighbor recommended hiring a car to me, and the company that she uses.  She had been very helpful by driving us around to places, and she said it wasn't really that bad and she wouldn't recommend anything that wasn't safe.  I was planning mostly on driving around our area of town, so I could do things like get groceries, and take the kids to the pool or playground, and visit friends.

It seems like every place we have moved to has gotten more isolated, which isn't a coincidence.  The only towns that are actully on our end of Ggaba Road are Ggaba itself, and Bbunga, both of which we need to avoid.  Because we apparently got tangled up with some crazy crime ring in Ggaba (I'm exaggerating; I don't know that it's a ring, but I don't know that it isn't), and the girls' birth family is around Bbunga.  I have nothing whatsoever against seeing their birth family, but it gets a little awkward bumping into them whenever we go out the door; I would rather have the chance to mentally prepare myself.  And Bbunga is not nearly far enough away if it is a crime ring. So by now we're way up in the hills on the upscale side of Ggaba road, and a car would be increasingly less inconvienant.

We had "hired" the car about five days ago.  But it took the entire first day for it just to show up (at about 11 at night), and then the next day it went out for a check-up and oil change, which took two days to reappear.  When it came back, I asked the driver to come too because we had a lot of errands, and he drove us around for the day.  I was going to go grocery shopping the next day, but we were tired and didn't leave the house.  I had driven a couple of short distances, like moving from one house to the other, and back from Ggaba Road where the driver left me, but yesterday was the first day I properly drove for an entire outing.

And.... disaster.  The driving wasn't actually that difficult, even though I ended up going downtown, I had a good navigator.  The traffic was manageable, and it does pretty much make sense, in a kind of free-flowing way.

But when we came out of the show, the car was missing.  What happened to it?  I can give you a short story here, but it took hours to figure out.  Some company that repossess cars, or something like that, towed it away.  Maybe the owner had fines on it, or maybe a previous renter had gotten tickets, but somehow the car was in this data-base of cars that could be taken away, and it got impounded.  We are still very unclear on why.  Supposedly they are only supposed to take cars with millions of shillings owed on them, and also they should have informed the church it was parked near that they were taking it (so their security team doesn't spend hours looking for criminal evidence), so possibly it was a way over-enthusiastic towtruck guy.  The owner of the car showed up after a while, apparently yelled at everyone (I was out looking for the car with the security guys), and eventually reported that she owed 18,000 shillings on the car but they company wanted 60,000 (which is about $8 vs $30, so not a huge amount of money).  Monica said later that she was lying, and the company wouldn't take the car unless it had millions of shillings owed.  Unless, of course, the car repossessing company was cheating, which is perfectly likely.  There also could be a yet unknown entity that was cheating both the other parties.  A literal interpretation of truth is not exactly a big cultural value around here.  And once money gets involved, there is no reason to trust anything that you hear.

As far as I'm concerned, luckily I only paid for two days upfront for the car, and I would kind of like my carseat, books, and sweaters back, but other than that I don't mind just plain walking away from the problem.  They said that they would un-im-pound the car and get it back to me on Monday, but we'll see about that.  Sometimes the best option is to say "hmm"  and just get home.  And after a great deal of fussing about, the owner and driver did go and find a "special hire" for us and pay him to drive us home.  (Which, by the way, was even more people -- since we had the driver too -- and in a significantly smaller car.  There was one mom and six children in the small back seat!)

So, will I accept the car again on Monday?  Or look for a different company or a different car?

On the one hand is the instinct I wrote about last night: that we should just hide under the bed until someone offers us visas, or at least until school starts up again.  That it seems like everything that could go wrong, promptly is doing just that, and we should just plain avoid everything.

But on the other hand, what is the point of spending our opportunity to live in a foreign country hiding in fear?  I've been feeling really grumpy, but maybe it would be possible to eke out a few more wonderful memories out of our unexpected extra time here, instead of sitting around sulking for the next few weeks.  And that was part of the point of the car: that with a car and school vacation, we could actually do a few little fun outings.

Not to mention, grocery shopping.  It makes the project so much easier to just drive, especially with all three kids.  My husband keeps mentioning that I could just hire the car and driver, which I could, but that just takes more planning, and I feel a little stupid having a driver along for simple outings; I guess I'm just used to taking care of myself!  I don't feel weird when we have a bunch of errands to do, and especially downtown it feels safer to leave someone with the car and the things.  But just to go to the grocery store?  That's a lot of planning for one little trip.  Or at day at the pool?  It just feels silly to pay someone to sit around all day while we swim.  And I can't help adding the cost of the car and the driver to the day's expense, and quickly it becomes too expensive to do much of anything.  Like driving to a playground across town, which would be maybe 10 or 20 thousand shillings per child plus lunches.  Add 100 thousand for the driver and eh?, why go?  ($4-8 dollars for the entrance fee, $40 to drive over.)  And then I combine errands and don't get a car very often, and we sit around and stagnate most of the time, and then do these crazy long errand days which leave everyone grumpy.

Actually, the best solution is to JUST GO HOME, where we have a very nice car just sitting in the driveway (costing us money), and not only that, we have PLACES WORTH GOING TO.  Like playgrounds that aren't $24 to just walk in the door.


Now with that little rant over, I need to decide what to do tomorrow morning, which is almost Christmas Eve and no one is going to feel like handing us a visa or two even if I grump about it.  It could be that the repossessing company was trying to get a little extra money out of a fairly honest owner, in which case I might as well take the car back.  In their favor, they handled most of the other details well and courteously towards me.  Or, this car owner lady could be a total scammer, and it could be a stolen car that she was renting to me or something dramatic like that, and I shouldn't go near her with a ten-foot pole.  In which case, I could ask another friend for a recommendation of a more honest car to hire.  Or I could assume that other random things will continue to go wrong, and just hole up at home and forget the car idea.

I am trying to come up with a nice concluding statement for this story, but nothing is coming to mind.  Kind of like everything else in my life.

Random Thoughts About Another Month or So

It is those miserable aunties, and the unspeakably miserable thief who drove us out of our home.  We could have made it home with normal administrative tangles, if we didn't have meanness tangles getting in our way.

Our original court date was the day after the main judge, who seems to be hearing almost all of the cases, came back from her leave.  At that point, her paperwork wouldn't have been backed up yet and she probably would have gotten the ruling out close to the original estimate of a week.  By the time our court finished up almost two weeks later, her estimation was a written ruling 2-3 weeks out.  Someone had their court date this morning, and their ruling was estimated for January 20th -- almost six weeks out.  I think it would have been under two weeks if we had been earlier.

Because there hadn't been any judges hearing cases in early November, the Embassy wouldn't have been backed up.  They said that 90% of families complete their paperwork with them within a week, but December and summer are the worst times for waiting.

We just need photo ID's for the girls to get the medical appointments.  The Embassy lady said that in 99% of the cases this meant the passports, but since we were foster parents we might have some other sort of ID which would work just as well.  Then we could do the passports and the IOM paperwork concurrently, both of take about a week.  Our Local Council in Ggaba was really into issuing ID's, and when we first talked with them about a letter of recommendation they needed to make ID's for Emerson and I before anything else.  I am just kicking myself that I never went back and asked them to make ID's for the girls, which they suggested but I didn't have foster care at the time.  And I had never heard about photo ID's for the medical appointment before this.  I can go work on getting ID's through our new district, but it will be more complicated than just getting them from the same place where we got ours.  (On a side note, my photo ID for my Ggaba residence has come in handy many times.  Emerson's, not as much, but it's cute.)

So basically, if our court date had finished when it started instead of being interrupted by crazy aunties, and I still lived where I knew people and was connected to the important people, it sounds like it actually was a very realistic estimate for getting home.

That's what really bugs me.  I get that the judges have a huge case load and are doing their best.  I get that the Embassy people have to jump through a lot of hoops.  I think that, really, most of the officials whom we have met so far have been doing their best under non-ideal circumstances.  But I am really peeved that we are held up by a few random people being just plain malicious.


So, now here is my to-do list.  I have to find a new place to live.  It looks like it will be a month or so, thus looking into another apartment and not just hotel or something.  I think we have to move out Monday or Tuesday or something (it's Tuesday night now).  I also have to figure out about getting the girls some photo ID, either by finding the LC officials for this district, or by going to the LC for their original district (the one who testified at court for us) and ask for his advice.  Of course, if I meet with the LC's of this district, then that will mean I need to find another apartment in the same district.  I want to be in the same area, but the LC districts are quite small.

I need to plan a trip out of the country so that Emerson and I can get new Ugandan visas.  They last till the end of the month, but it might make sense to plan something immediately.  Another adoptive father whom I have been in touch with offered to stay with the girls so I could make a quick trip with Emerson.  Emotionally, it will be awful for the girls for me to leave them.  But logistically, traveling to a DIFFERENT African country with three small children is....  It is insane.  It really is.  I have been known to do things that are insane before (like this entire thing!) but I do try and err on the side of when the benefits outweigh the potential disasters.  Leaving the girls with an experienced American parent seems like a pretty reasonable thing to do, and thus means that I need to get my trip figured out and completed before he has to go home for Christmas.  Because he actually has plans to leave, unlike some (insane) people that we could mention.

And as for Christmas?  Everyone keeps asking about Christmas or wanting to get home for Christmas or something.  I love the Christmas season, but this is not it.  I have kind of gotten over Christmas for this year.  Maybe this goes back to the Enneagram... we 9's like smooth sailing.  I like fun things too, but our ship has been flying under a hard wind and all that matters to me is keeping on an even tack.  I am not concerned about a holiday detour.  I think some people would prefer the distraction and something to look forward to, but to me it is really not worth the energy I would have to put out.

The kids probably do not feel exactly as I do.  They are having a big-deal Christmas production at school, and they've been rehearsing dances and songs and poems and a pageant and everything. The performance is Sunday.  That can be their big Christmas contemplation.  I think I can probably manage a coffeecake on Christmas morning or something, and probably someone will send us a gift.  Beyond that, we'll see.  Luckily, the girls don't know what to expect anyways, and I think the tropical weather has distracted Emerson as much as it has for me, and he hasn't even mentioned a tree or anything.  Hopefully all our other traditions can float by just as easily.  The one thing Emerson IS actually focused on is his birthday, although he seems to have forgotten that we usually celebrate it in January.  I can make a cake, and work on sweet-talking my way out of a Ugandan kid-party.  Probably two cakes will do it.

Unfortunately, the school calendar is not going to forget about the holiday, and the kids have two weeks off.  That's the one hassle that seems overwhelming right now.  I could keep on keeping on, but my two lively, wild, and now bored kids might sink the boat.  Well, we won't sink, but we could get pretty soggy and have to turn on the big water pump, which probably is angry-mama-voice.  We will have to figure out something to do over the break, which is hard because not only is there not much to do, it is crazy to just leave the house with all three children unless I can contain them in a car.  And we are NOT hiring the car every day.  There's not enough places to go in the car, anyways.  Mostly shopping, which is also a nightmare with all three kids.

Speaking of which, I should find a babysitter, so I can go out and procure food.  That would help my sanity, although the kids are so terrified of being left, I might decide that my sanity is better off finding someone to send grocery shopping.

Anyways, one thing at a time.  This morning I thought I got a lot done, but clearly it was somewhere between treading water and just swimming down the wrong stream.  Also, my laundry is piling up, although some of it is actually clean and dry.  And I gave the girls luke-warm cocoa in their sippy cups this morning, although I let Emerson have it straight up.

So basically, I could make it another month.  It's been many months; what's one more?  And I am not upset about missing a proper Christmas... at least not nearly as upset about other things.  Like my dogs.  I could really use some dogs tonight.  I am upset about:
- a trip to Kenya or Rwanda or some crazy place like that
- moving
- school vacation
- looking for a new apartment
- having to move into that new apartment

Which is what I have to start tomorrow.

An Inauspicious Sunday

Not an auspicious start to the day: Sunday, December 1st.  There's no Daddy.  No internet.  No power.  And not nearly enough sleep.

My iPad tells me that it is December, and the last time I saw Facebook there were incongruous things like families cutting down evergreen trees while wearing puffy jackets.  I kind of recall writing something several rounds of delays ago, about resigning myself to November but that I was going to put up a fuss about spending December in Uganda.  But it doesn't feel like December anyways; it's hot and sunny out and mangos are in season.  So I think it is more reasonable to assume that it is not December at all, and that I will be able to go home and have my own, pleasant, NORMAL December.  So that date on the iPad is highly unsettling.


As for the internet, this is a morning I would really like to sit down and half-veg-out with looking at different things that friends and family had written, and look at pictures and write little notes that someone might eventually read and say something to me.  I turned the router off and on again a dozen times, hoping that something would finally improve, but it didn't.  Finally I called the internet provider (which is complicated by itself) and they told me there was a fiber optic cable broken, and it was a "known problem" and they had a "team working on it," but no scheduled time it would be fixed.  Meanwhile, our whole side of the city has no internet.

I have read several books and editorials about the future of Africa.  Apparently there was a famous speech that said something like "while the world walks, Africa must run" so it can catch up and participate in the global world.  Whoever is referring to this speech, then they talk about frustrations that keep Africa from running: corruption, poor government, diaspora, etc.  But I see the problem in things much smaller than that.  Like the internet.  By having internet in my own home, and not connected through fallible wires, I have about the best set-up that anyone can buy.  Financially, it is obviously out of reach of most people, but not beyond what the middle class could afford -- but most people DON'T afford it.  Generally, they don't seem to know the options that exist, and work with the very limited Internet cafes or ten-years'-old dial-up.  But even with this "best" internet, there's a significant percentage of the time that it barely works or doesn't work at all.

How can anyone run to catch up with the world like that?  Like it or not, it's an internet world.  And from my understanding, it is open-serve software and personal internet connections that break down a lot of doors between rich and poor, which everyone agrees is essential for Africa.  But how can you reach across continents and break down doors when your tools are like this?  If a Ugandan did manage to have a great idea and create a great business or a great network, how would he work with people in New York or Tokyo or London?  Would they just accept, "oh, I didn't hear back from you for three days because a fiber optic cable broke and there was no internet any more"?  Even a few hours' delay is becoming unacceptable outside of Africa.



As for the power, that is more a frustration than a real challenge.  I appreciate that some lights work in this house, and even more that I can find some outlet somewhere that has power, so I don't have to worry about keeping all my devices' batteries charged all the time, just in case the power goes out.  But I can't use the washing machine and our clothes run out fast.  And I can't use the stove, I have to use the stupid propane tanks with burners on the top.  Which are at knee level, which is uncomfortable for me to stoop over, but just perfect for a child to go careening into an open flame with a giant pot of almost-boiling water balanced on top of it.


And there's no Daddy.  We dropped him off at the airport last night.  We warned the children what would happen in the morning, because I don't want them feeling like he disappears randomly.  They had a chaotic but cheerful morning around the house while Daddy and I packed suitcases.  He came straight from a trade show with only a carry-on, but agreed to take back two suitcases full of things in order to lessen our chances of having to leave things behind when we pack.  (I thought that with eight checked-bag limit, that wouldn't be a problem.  But that was two or three months ago!)  So I spent a while fussing around the house, trying to find the mediumly-necessary things.  Things that weren't so necessary that we would actively miss them if we were here another month or so, but not things so unnecessary that it wouldn't hurt to just give them away if we ran out of suitcase space.

With a departure as delayed and irritated as a three-kid, two-trip departure is bound to be, we finally piled into the car and drove to the zoo.  We managed to have a nice time there.  As I have said before, it is well laid out, with lots of open space for running around, and a restaurant overlooking Lake Victoria.  We have usually tried to get there first thing in the morning, when the zoo is fairly empty and the animals are still active in the morning's cool.  This time we were there at the opposite time, and indeed, we saw some animals moving around in the dusky evening light.  Most amazing, we got to watch the lions running around and playing.  There are some mostly-grown cubs, and one of them kept trying to get his mother to play, and they would suddenly chase each other and then collapse on the grass and wrestle, and then pretend to go to sleep for a while.  I have never seen lions that active!  Even so, they make kitty cats look like hyper over-acheivers; the percentage of pretend-sleeping to running-playing was quite striking!

Then we found a Chinese restaurant for dinner.  That was exciting variety for me!  It was kind of Ugandan-style Chinese, but at least there weren't actual plates of matoke on the table.  (I like matoke just fine, it just doesn't strike me as fitting in with a Chinese buffet!)  The tables were set under awnings outside, and after dinner we let the children run around on the lawn.  They were over-tired and over-excited, and there was a corresponding amount of bumping into things and falling down and disobeying the rules and having to Sit, but they were happy nonetheless.  I got to sit next to my husband, and we ALMOST had something resembling a conversation between all the owie kissing and rule enforcing and pants wetting.

Once again, I was thinking how much more fun this life is for Emerson.  Sometimes his sisters (especially one of them!) can be pretty overwhelming, and I think he misses the way that toys stayed in his hands and on his shelves.  But now, every pause and wait time can turn into a lively play time, and play is always more fun when someone else is adding in new ideas and following you down your motorcycle track.  I think he's enjoying this new life.

Eventually, we had to go to the airport, which is in the same city as the zoo.  We did pajamas and brushing teeth in the restaurant bathroom -- ooo, isn't it nice to have another set of hands to help me with confusing things like that!  Then we got in the car, and the girls got all upset because they didn't want to fall asleep and wake up with Daddy gone, but it wasn't that long of a drive and we stayed awake.  Then came the hard part.

Hibiscus declared she was going to "help Daddy" with his suitcases, because she didn't understand she wasn't going anywhere.  Emerson started getting agitated and needing "one more" hug and kiss.  Hibiscus started complaining about this and worrying about that, and giving preparatory little sobs.  Buttercup, who all week has been most worried about Daddy leaving, sat very quietly in her carseat and watched and didn't say anything at all.  Daddy and I made sure all the right things were in the right bags (and forgot to switch something over, of course!).  We put up the back seat and put in the second car seat, so the kids could sleep on the way home.  The kids got more nervous.  They needed one more hug and kiss.  Then they needed one more.  Daddy told them to think about how they would be getting on a plane and coming to America very soon.  They could only think about this moment.  Hibiscus was going with him.  No she wasn't.  Emerson needed ONE MORE hug and kiss.  I reminded Daddy to wave to Buttercup in her seat as he passed, so he wasn't sneaking away from her.  The driver, Yassim, picked up the missing-wheel bag to help him into the terminal.  Hibiscus started to cry for real.  Emerson was going to die without one more hug and kiss.  Daddy got sunscreen in his eye (or was that a tear?) and was trying to not rub it and not look pained as he smiled and waved at the kids and told them he loved them as he walked past.  Hibiscus started to jump up and down, flap her arms, and wail.  I picked up no-more-hugs Emerson and put him in his car seat.  Suddenly the whole situation hit him and he burst out in genuine screams of sadness and terror, which set Hibiscus totally off, and they both were completely hysterical.  Buttercup watched them carefully, debating whether she should start crying too.  Eventually she decided that she felt far too worried and sad to indulge in tears, and just sat quietly, watching and feeling.  We had to wait until Yassim came back again, to drive us away from Daddy.

So he could fly away and our family would once again be separated by most of the world.

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."

It Did Not Go As Planned

Random aunties.  That was the problem, and it's a big problem, although hopefully not an unsurmountable one.

We waited for our court time in the morning.  After a long wait, the judge said she was going to attend a funeral and to come back in the afternoon, but then she agreed to take the testimony of a couple of people who couldn't wait until afternoon.  She was blunt and asked hard questions, but she seemed to be fair and want what was best for the children.

We took the kids to a mall for lunch and some play time, and finally had to drag them away to return to court, which wasn't anybody's idea of a good time.  But it turned out to be worse.  When we got back to the waiting-hallway (not even really a waiting room), a couple of extra aunties had arrived.  And they "did not feel good about" the children going to America.  They were arguing with the two jiajias (grandmother-ish people; I think these were technically great-aunts) and the aunties; they were practically fighting with the father, they were fussing at the lawyer, and then they came over and lectured at Diane and I.  The other jiajias and aunties have actually been working to support the children, first of all when they were with their birth family, then they took them into their own homes, and when they couldn't care for them they found a babies' home to take over their care; and now they are delighted that the children will be cared for properly in a new family.  These aunties just showed up and declared how much they loved the children and they would miss them too much if they went to America.

So when we went back into court, the judge wanted to hear about the new people.  She took testimony from various relatives, starting with the father, who despite his illness and weakness stood up strong and tall to explain that he was here in court to allow his children to have a better life, and he absolutely stood by his decision to support having them adopted into our family.

In the end, the judge didn't seem to buy into their story, but she did give them some extra time.  The first set of aunties and jiajias continued to support the adoption, and this new set didn't, and there are a few more that continue to be missing in action, so she gave them a week to get together and work it out.  Court will reconvene in a week.

She asked the aunties questions like whether they were willing to take the girls into their home (no) or whether they would keep paying their school fees at their current school (no) or what exactly specifically they would do.  They said they were not rich, but they would do what they could.  She asked Hibiscus to identify all the people in the room she knew, which made her feel scared, but finally she managed to walk around the room and touch them if I followed and held her hand.  She identified her father accurately and without hesitation.  She found one jiajia and one auntie, when pressed, very hesitantly.  And then the judge asked where her teacher was, and she dived right over to him, with almost a smile.  Finally, when it seemed like we were leaving, I specifically asked to speak to the judge, as she had not spoken to me at all.

I said that from my perspective, it wasn't about money.  I would not have come to Uganda to adopt a child from a happy, loving family that just didn't have enough money; I would have worked to find them social services instead.  I said what I observed was that the children had not been taken care of.  They were uneducated and unmanageable and behind.  It was about taking care of the children.

The children's teacher had come as a witness for our family, to talk about how well Hibiscus was doing in school or something like that, but in the new situation he changed tacks.  He talked about the importance of education, that Hibiscus had been far behind, and that what the children needed wasn't a few thousand shillings for school fees and someone to pay for a maid, they needed love and they needed attention and they needed someone to care for them one-on-one.  And they needed love.  He spoke very clearly and strongly and eloquently.

Miss B, the orphanage director, surprised me by also speaking passionately and clearly, since she is often quiet and passive.  Not only did she describe investigating the girls' home situation (twice) and not hearing from these aunties, she gave voice to silent concerns about their current veracity.  She pointed out that they had to ask the girls' names when they came over to talk to them earlier, and that they said they visited their brother (the father) every week, and yet they didn't know how sick his partner was or that the girls were in an orphanage or under foster care, so she doubted that their story was true.

The judge reiterated several times that we needed to find the best solution for the children, and that they need to be given proper care.  She didn't want the family fighting, so she told them to speak amongst themselves, have a family meeting, and they had a week to work out a solution, or she would make a decision on behalf of the children.



And as for me, and as for now.... I haven't yet stepped into my "parent coming to adopt" shoes, or maybe I walked past them months ago now.  I suppose I should be freaking out about logistics or what is going to happen next, or sad that we didn't just have the court case finished in the morning at the proper time before these troublemakers showed up, or upset about our coming-home time frame being all ruined.

But the shoes I'm in are just my plain old "mom" shoes.  Because I'm the only mom these girls know right now.  (At another moment this morning during the birth mother's testimony, the judge asked Hibiscus to point to her mother.  She leaned on my lap a long time, confused about what to do, while the judge encouraged her to point to whoever she called "mama" and I finally whispered it was okay to point to me, and she did.  Then the judge asked if she had another mama, and she was overcome by shyness but pointed to the birth mother, whom she recognizes.  The judge asked her name.  She didn't know and couldn't remember.  The judge asked her my name, and she said it right away.)  They came home with me tonight, and they snuggle their faces into my arm for comfort after a long and difficult day, and they ask me questions and they trust the answers.  And as a mom, I'm just affronted that these ladies came along to express all this concern and "love" for these girls, that gets in the way of us being a family and actually loving each other.

So where were you when Hibiscus screamed every night until she threw up?

So where were you when Buttercup developed her terror of anyone holding a stick?

So where were you when Hibiscus threw a fit in the middle of downtown and was laying in the street... or the other time she did that, or the next one?

So where were you when Buttercup was waking up several times a night, every night, just needing to be held and comforted... because she had never had a chance to be comforted as a baby?

So where were you when Hibiscus was supposedly learning her manners and cultural mores, so that as a child of six she managed to insult and affront every single Ugandan adult within moments of meeting them?

So where were you when Buttercup was dramatically underweight and showing all the obvious signs of malnutrition?

So whereare you when Hibiscus is sobbing her guts out with sadness and fear, or when Buttercup's eyes go bleary and blank with the memories she can't bear to face?


Because I can tell you where I was.  I was right there with my girls.

Home

I want to go home.

As in, right now, I want to go home.  There is too much going wrong around me, and I feel too small and too worn out.  More things went wrong yesterday while the kids were at school, and as I was walking to get them, I was so glad to be able to look forward to holding their little hands in mine.  And I couldn't help planning more.

I'm going to walk in the hot sun on the dusty roads to the little school, and know that they are safe and we're all together.  One lean, strong, little hand on one side; one softer, square, little hand on the other, and a little body solid on my back.

We'll go home.  I'll get out some snacks.  I'll take the suitcases from under the bed, where I use them to organize and store things.  I'll just dump a couple of them out in a pile, maybe on the girls' bed.  I'll put them, open and empty, on my bed.  Then I'll go around the apartment and take what is important; I think I can take the time to fold it properly.  When I've got everything I care about, I'll just leave the rest.  They won't fit in their shorts and playdresses next summer, anyways.  I will pack our paperwork carefully.  I'll take a little more care with our small suitcases, activities and change of clothes and toothbrushes, so we have enough to make it through the long trip.  I'll let the older kids go to work, and if they think something is important, they can put it in.  I don't care if we take colored paper and leave behind the expensive toys.  I'll probably need to wear Buttercup, though.

I'll call our driver, and make a quick supper.  Probably noodles.  Everyone likes noodles, and they only need to boil for 12 minutes.

I'll tell the driver to go the airport.  I will just leave the keys on the counter.  We can stop at the ATM on the way.

There has to be a plane going somewhere, some time.  And all the connection hub cities have connections to everywhere.  I'll let the kids play ipad in the airport waiting room.  We can wait.

And at some point, when we have to go through some gate, and we only have two passports for four people?  Maybe I can keep Buttercup on my back, and put paper bags on her feet and a giant puppet on her head; or I can cut out the part of the backpack that is next to my back and put the rest over her -- I bet she can tuck her feet in.  Hibiscus is kind of long but folds up really small; she climbs in suitcases all the time.  I'm sure she can fit; it's only for a few minutes.

Or, maybe I will just take that customs official by the shoulders, and look into his eyes, and say They are my babies, and we are going HOME, and don't you dare stop us.  And I will just take those warm little hands and we will all keep walking.

Betrayal

Someone has been stealing from me.  The house has not been broken into, so it is someone that I have trusted.  I don't know who it is, and I have hesitated to write about this lest I cast suspicion on someone who is not the thief.  So, I will clarify that there are a lot of possibilities, and I am not going to add any more details.  I have been doing a lot of work to figure out how it is happening, and I can't figure anything out, so I am left with a vague feeling of distrusting everyone.

Someone is stealing money.  A lot of money.  This is a cash-only society, and the nearest ATM is still a long way away, so I get out a bunch of cash about once a week, although I sometimes go more often and store it when I know a certain expense is coming up.  It has happened several times, and the first couple incidents I wasn't sure if it was my own mis-remembering, but then a couple more incidents have involved a very large amount of money.  Very large even by American standards, let along Ugandan ones.  I thought I had figured out what was going on and accounted for it, but then it just happened again.

As I said, I'm not going to go into any more details about what is happening, but I am going to try and talk about how I personally have been doing.  I feel like I need to write about this, because it has colored so much of my feelings and actions over the last few weeks.  A little while ago, I wrote about how owning the strengths of my personality helped me get through the rough times, but part of exploring ourselves is also owning the dark sides.  I admit that a tragedy like this has brought out my dark sides.

(And for the word "tragedy," I don't think that simply having money taken is a tragedy; we can still eat at the end of the day.  But I do think that having my trust shaken in just about everyone around me, in a country which I am trying to adapt to and at a time when I am already struggling to focus on the positive, is not an exaggeration of "tragedy".)

I'm going to talk about this in terms of my Enneagram type, because that's what I've been thinking about lately, but not to imply that other types would not mind being robbed!

I think part of the problem is that we 9's are unsuspicious.  Someone else might have been paranoid about money from the beginning, and other more worried personalities would probably have figured it out earlier than I did.  I know I'm bad a worrying about logical things, so at home I make rules for myself like "always lock the car door when I get out," even if I'm in the middle of an empty field and not going out of sight of the car.  I'm afraid that if I start to decide that I don't need to lock the car, I'll decide that too often. And 9's like to float through life, and we tend to be detail-oriented about things we care about and let go of details we don't care about, so I kept my money out of sight but didn't make a big deal about securing it or keeping track of exactly how much there was.

9's seek internal and external peace, and we tend to want to find that at least partially by creating a peaceful oasis in our home.  In this chaotic and extroverted African society, my own calm home has been a vital element of maintaining my sanity.  To have the sanctity of my home violated is a really big deal.  Just a really really big deal.

And I've probably dealt with it in the negative 9 way.  I've started getting worried, and going around and around the same thoughts helplessly.  So to escape that cycle, I just bury myself in something else, anything else... except it's pretty much bound to be something unproductive!  It's already been hard for me to be productive around here, with all the practical limitations on me, so with some internal blocks as well I really do make it all the way over to "lazy."  But I just don't have enough energy to get up and do anything else!  My house is an absolute mess right now, for several different reasons (which include but are not actually limited to three small being who inhabit it), and I have just let it be messy around me all day long -- actually, it's probably been several days now.  I know that the messy house is making things worse, but that is somehow not helping me actually do anything about it.

And I also don't have any energy left to to deal with the kids with their internal and external kid-chaos getting home at the end of the day.  I find myself getting frustrated way too quickly when Buttercup pees herself and doesn't tell me, or Emerson starts screaming possessively about his precious stuff, and Hibiscus -- oh my goodness, Hibiscus is just a giant bundle of chaos.  Swinging heavy objects violently and randomly, strange precarious acts on stairs, putting bizarre and delicate objects on her head, and everything at high speed and high volume.  Ideally, my peaceful 9-ness would help balance her out, and she would naturally gravitate a little more towards the middle.  Instead, it has been feeling like she just shatters through whatever was left of my internal peace, leaving behind great gaping holes of non-mother-li-ness.

Why don't I have any energy left?

We read a new little book the other night, about a girl who is excused from doing all the family chores but no one does work for her, either.  I had a strong suspicion from just the first page that it would contain a useful moral for my children!  (We have a Little Miss "Dat not my mess, I no for clean dat one!" at family chore time.)  But not only did the girl in the book decide that it was no fun to have to do all her own jobs, and it makes a family to do chores together, but she also got bored with nothing to do.  Her mother told her that "doing nothing makes you feel like doing nothing."  That could be part of my problem.

But it feels like it's more than that.  This morning, I didn't clean the house, but I did count money and decide where to put my lockbox and my keys and so on and so forth.  I really think that felt like several hours of hard labor, except I didn't have anything to show for it at the end.  On the days when I spent time with my parents, or even our American visitor "Mr Slinky," I didn't feel this leaden exhaustion at night; even on the long days I went to bed more calm instead of drained.  If having conversation and friendly human interaction is in some way fulfilling and energizing, it's just absolutely the opposite to have to look at the people around me and feel defensive and boxed in.  I don't have "best friends" here, but I have people around me with whom I have pleasant interactions and smiles; now everyone in my compound is a potential sneak and thief.

I don't have natural internal walls.  I don't dislike people; I don't distrust people.  Unlike many other types, 9's don't define themselves as strongly by the company they keep; they keep all sorts of company, and see the value in all sorts of people.

But I am one step past being able to forgive, forget, and move on.  I did that once, and then I got robbed again.  (And possibly one more time, although I'm hoping that was just an accounting error... although how I could possibly miscount my money is a little beyond me at this point; la la la la la.....)  Or maybe I'm one step before being able to forgive, forget and move on... I need to be out of here.  The vague feelings of un-safety that have been hovering at the edges of my mental vision have come swooping into center ground: I am not safe.  Someone I thought I knew has been betraying me, repeatedly.  Stealing money is far from the worst thing that could happen to me, I know very well.  But if someone can do that, what else bad could happen?  All the warnings I have gotten from so many directions -- other travelers, locals, friends, random people on the street, ex-pats living here, gossips and worrywarts -- suddenly loom large and real.

Very large.  I am a woman alone in a faraway country where I don't know the language, the customs; where I am spectacularly conspicuous.  I constantly have children with me who are not biologically my own, in a culture which doesn't understand adoption but is full of stories about stealing children for witchcraft.  Ugh.  I just can't write any more about it.

And I don't even have my dogs.  Beloved and territory-defending dogs are a good talisman against feeling afraid in your home!  Or, lacking that, an off-kiilter 9 can curl up with them at night, and feel their silky ears and hear their soft sighs of sleepy contentment, and feel a little bit of centered-ness returning to her.  Those happy-dog sighs!  I forgot how rejuvinating it was to feel like I am making another being so happy.  Even when I'm a terrible mother, my dogs are quick to forgive any sin for a nice good cuddle.

So, that is my emotional story of the last couple of weeks.  I can see the problem, but I don't see a solution that can restore my lost sense of safety.  I can see my own weakness, but I can't figure out the way back on to the road to strength.