Giving Unexpected Thanks

There is so much that has been disappointing and horrible in the past year that I find it hard to focus on the good things that have happened. I have specifically been asked to write about the good things at our orphanage, so those I’ve been working with please take note: Not everything is always bad.

One of the first people I met when we first started this process absolutely terrified me. She is a force to reckon with at our orphanage and many know her as “the enforcer”. I’ve come to know and love this woman. I deeply respect her and admire her. However, when I first started visit the orphanage I didn’t know that her job and her responsibilities involve her using her scary façade to cut through the junk and deal with problems, prevent problems, and hold people accountable. What I didn’t know about her is that she fiercely loves and protects the kids. She is an awesome advocate and I am deeply appreciative for the work she does to support the orphanage and protect the children in this process.  I have a series of photos taken by a friend from the day we first met Djedly. I cherish them. In addition to loving that I have our first moments documented, I also love that this woman is in the background of these photos. And there is a progression of a visible look on her face that starts with a keen critical analysis of us and ends in a joyful smile of approval. I know that she loves my children. And I know that she loves their mother.

This same woman is one of the reasons V is alive. There are many people who have loved and do love V. And I’m so thankful for the love she has received because she is alive and thriving through love. V was brought to the orphanage when she was 4 days old. She was blind and deaf and hadn’t eaten. Her body was so frail and I was convinced she wouldn’t live. Her eyes were sealed shut and her skin was peeling off. She was totally creepy looking and the smell her little body had is nearly indescribable. She was rotting.  She was dying. Her mother passed away from complications related to pre-eclampsia. So, essentially, she tragically bled to death. This woman, “the enforcer” was one of the first people to help assess and care for our baby. As V continued to struggle long after she arrived at the orphanage, she needed to be hospitalized several times. This woman, being that she is an awesome woman, is also an awesome mother; and it was her son who allowed for V to be admitted at the hospital where she received the incredible care that saved her life twice.

In addition to this fiercely respected woman, there are so many other women who have loved and cared for V. The nannies and several missionaries have spent hundreds of hours nursing and caring for V. They have prayed over and for her, they have nourished her body and soul. They have loved her for me on the days that my love had to travel across oceans and deep into their hearts. And she is alive, and happy, and thriving because of the unfailing and unflinching love that she has received. She is alive because she was accepted and nourished. She could just as easily been turned away. And she would have died. She would have been another beautiful and forgotten lost baby in the cycle of gross poverty and neglect in Haiti. But she was saved because they took her and loved her. She will have a good life. A healthy life. A happy life. Because they took her. And they loved her.

The boys have been through so much in their short 7 and 13 years. And without being sustained by the nourishment, soul care, and love they have received at the orphanage, I’m not sure where they would be in life right now.  Their lives are headed in a different direction. They will have us. They will have our loving family. Though none of us are perfect, and we will all have to take things one day at a time, they will have us. And we will never give up on them. They will be educated. They will have proper healthcare. They will have opportunities. And they will have love. And that is all because they were sustained and loved and nourished by the orphanage.

There are children at our orphanage that may never be adopted. There are children with a wide range of needs. And there is a strong, and loving staff that dedicates their lives to ensuring that each child has clean clothing and meals to eat every day. They are the women who are there when our children scrape their knees or need to blow their noses. They are the ones who take care of them when they have the flu. They nursed them through the chicken pox. They are the ones who have sung the lullabies and taught our children how to rejoice and be thankful for what they have. There are men and women who spend their days ensuring that the common ailments that plague Haiti are prevented at the orphanage. Cholera, E-coli, Tuberculosis, Scabies, and more all happen in Haiti frequently. And the staff takes these issues seriously. When there are cases of these illnesses, they work to eradicate the issue.

Living in Haiti is a difficult life. Living in Haiti in a position of service is no easier. There is little time to be selfish when you run an orphanage. There are mouths to feed, people to pay, problems to solve, lawyers to keep accountable, agencies and parents who want answers and results, and a host of other responsibilities. It is no small task. And yet, our orphanage tackles these details daily. The doors stay open because they continue to keep their goals in mind and work to keep the children sustained. And I thank them for that.

There are so many things that I am thankful for in this process. Yes, it is really hard to think about them when I’m in the middle of the never-ending nightmare that is the state of our adoptions. But my children are alive. They are happy. And I have so many wonderful memories of the people I’ve met, respect, and have come to love in this process. I greet women at the orphanage with a smile, a “bonjou”, a kiss on the cheek, and I know that they love my children. I know that they know I love my children. And I respect the bond that we have because we know that our goal is the same: to give these children what they deserve in life. The nannies are keeping my children alive and preparing them for their lives with me. They celebrate when we have victories (like running around the entire orphanage to show everyone that the boys finally got passports), and they hug me through the tears and frustrations. They take my children from me during those dreaded “goodbye” times, and they hold them and love them, and tell them that I’m coming back. And that gives my shattered heart the adhesive it needs to keep going and not lie on the floor sobbing in ridiculous grief.

I am thankful for each and every person who has dedicated their time and their hearts to our orphanage. I’ve seen so many sad little faces turn to smiles. I’ve seen tears wiped away. I’ve seen bloody cuts mended. I’ve seen children on iv’s and feeding tubes who feel content because they have been reassured that it will be ok. I’ve seen the family that runs the orphanage sacrifice their freedoms to care for our children. Running the orphanage is their life. Their children make sacrifices for the better of all the children at the orphanage. They effectively share their parents with dozens of other children. It truly is an example of the adage “it takes a village to raise a child”. Our orphanage is it’s own small village. And the village is a large family.

Because our kids have all become family in this process, I’m also thankful that through this process I’ve met so many wonderful people who will be or are already raising my children’s friends. It is wonderful to know that we will be able to continue to keep our children in touch with one another and share our life experiences as they grow. I can’t imagine what this process would be like without those who have shared it with me. We all speak a common language. We have all held each other through the tears. We’ve toasted our cheers over rhum punch. We’ve greeted each other at the entrance of the process, and we’ve seen each other off at the end of the process. And I know years down the road, we will all continue to be thankful that we have been brought together by our orphanage.

This is a season in Hell, no doubt. But there are many miracles that have taken place. And I truly believe in my heart that every single person who I’ve mentioned is there with the right feelings in their hearts. They want the children to be happy. They want them to be safe. They want them to be loved. They want them to live a full and complete life.  It is not lost on me that we share the same values and goals. I just wish that there had been better oversight in our process so that the disintegration of the relationships I’ve spent two and a half years building didn’t’ have to happen. I hope that anyone who has been bitter or offended by my responses to our process issues understands that I am acting in what I believe is the best interest of my children and in no way, shape, or form intend for any of my actions to have a negative impact on the process of adoptions, the orphanage we are using, and especially not the children. My hope is that instead of feeling offended that I have found out inconsistencies, lies and falsifications; that our experiences will lend an opportunity for an overhaul of the process. Audits need to be done. Files need to be checked. People need to be fired. New and reliable people need to be hired. But we want the goal to remain what we know it to be – to find the children of our orphanage good families who will make the same commitment to the children that the orphanage has made – to become their family - to put everything in their lives on hold to love and protect their children.  I love that my children have been loved. And I’m doing everything in my power to give my children the life I promised to give them. I have put my life and the remainder of my family on hold. We have all made sacrifices. We are doing what those who run our orphanage have done and what they have asked us to do – we are loving our children way too much. And we won’t ever stop.

So thank you deeply for your years of service to our children. We are very happy that we have been given this opportunity, and we will take it from here.

MILK

My first three-hour tour of Port au Prince was something that has unexpectedly stayed with me. It likely will for a lifetime. We spent the first hour bumping around on our way to the downtown area. The streets were crowded and dusty. And I had a hard time deciphering whether or not what I was seeing was strictly related to the destruction of the massive earthquake of 2010; or if much of what we saw was potentially the result of a weak infrastructure to begin with. It is likely both. From growing up in Florida, I’m accustomed to seeing storms wipe out communities. Because of the propensity and probability of massive winds and rains eventually causing the condemnation of a structure, many buildings and houses in Florida are built quickly and cheaply with the understanding that they will likely be rebuilt. Is that what I was seeing here too? But within the destruction and the piles of rubble and trash, there was a patch work of Caribbean color that indicated that this island should have been given the chance to shine as beautifully as any other respected and desired get away. She was once the Pearl of the Antilles. But why is Haiti no longer revered? What makes Haiti so different? Why is Haiti always battered and worn and forgotten? The history here leaves so much for interpretation, but the fact remains that though Haiti was the “it” project for emergency relief in 2010, it has fallen back off the radar of many and remains in its troubled state.

An indication that things are fall from being fixed here would be the palace. In the midst of a large green grassy compound, we saw the very large and broken building that was once such a mark of pride for the government and the people of Haiti. As sad as it was to see the state it was in, it was comforting to see that in a country that is considered so corrupted, that the initial efforts weren’t spend to resuscitate this iconic building. It’s location is almost in the heart of the epicenter of the quake, and it would have been a slap to the community on its knees all around the grounds to have the efforts wasted to just fix this one building.

Our drive took us through areas of the outskirts of Cite Soleil, City of the Sun. It is the world’s largest ghetto.  The streets are like a series of back roads, and are sprinkled with red and white umbrellas. Underneath sits a small group of people who have goods to sell. Things like soap and batteries can be purchased from the vendors. All kinds of goods from shoes, clothing, and medications to avocados, apples, bananas, and other types of loose vegetables are carried in large baskets or buckets on the top of one’s head. They are poised and careful and yet while carrying a massive load of goods, they are capable of also holding a child and walking on roads that most Americans would likely twist their ankle, let alone effectively and skillfully carry the weight most Haitians balance in a daily task. There are broken down vehicles littered all along the sides of the roads. Some are former yellow school buses turned into “tap tap’s” or trucks that have been converted into a taxi of sorts with heavily adorned and colorful artwork blanketing them. Some of the cast- off vehicles are used as homes. And at first glance, one might think that a shed type structure and series of cloths and tarps would house a trash heap or possibly a place to store things…but upon further inspection, it becomes obvious that these too are homes.  It is immediately sobering to see hundreds of thousands of people living with so little. Living in such filth. Living in a way that I could never manage to survive in. And they do survive. They live. They live proudly. The live a hard life. But they live a good life. They live their good life. They work and they pray and they work some more and their hope is that the children they give everything to will one day not live the way they grew up. They keep their children safe and healthy and clean. Their children wear uniforms that are painstakingly cared for, pressed, and immaculate. Just like their children. Their hair is tied back with crisp and fresh, clean ribbons. They are proud. They don’t look at the home they live in and see shame, they look out of their doorways and send their children into the world with pride and hope that they are one day closer to a better life for themselves. I saw it over and over and over as we drove through the streets. It was the most impressive display of survival I’ve ever experienced.

Our tour continued and we found ourselves at the Cathedral. What remains of the Cathedral. The tall walls of the former incredible building tower and cast shade over the empty insides, that once contained a refuge for believers. Even now, the ground is so sacred, that those who live at the base of the walls are there to pray for God to grant them favor and help them continue to live. This stop on our tour was the first opportunity to get out of the van and meet people. A small group of Haitians who live at the site walked slowly toward us and the first woman I met eyes with was holding a small baby girl with red tips on her afro. The mother had sad eyes. She was tired. She was weak. I couldn’t imagine how hard her life must be. I couldn’t even start to comprehend what she has been through…and what her baby would hopefully survive through. We didn’t stay at the cathedral long. And while we were there I didn’t’ take photos. It didn’t seem right to photograph their home. I wouldn’t appreciate it if someone entered my home and gawked at me and started snapping photos. But the image of this mother and child will forever be seared in my mind. The brief few minutes that we stood at the base of the walls I feared might topple down on us with a soft wind granted me a wealth of understanding about the life in Haiti that many live. And as we walked back to the van the mother asked me to help her. I had been warned to give nothing because it will not help. But my heart wrenched as I walked back to the safety of our van. We had comfort and care taking. We knew we would have water. And food when we needed it. The ease of our lives brought thoughts of the extreme imbalance we have in this world. This woman deserved no less in life than I do. And she begged me as I walked away from her. And I understood what she was asking for and it tore at my heart that I had to act like I couldn’t help her. I could. And yet I couldn’t. But I knew that she was only asking me to help her get milk for her baby. That’s all she wanted. I have never worried about how I would feed my children. And as I stepped into the van and the door closed behind me, I turned and looked at her again in the eyes and she placed her hand on the window and said one last time with a horrifying look of disappointment in humanity, “lecht”.

Milk. She only wanted milk.

We slowly left the site of the Cathedral and I held Djedly in my arms and thought of the days that his mom would have worked and prayed and cried over his care. How did she keep my son alive here in this broken and forgotten place? He was now safe in my arms. In the comfort of my arms. And the unfairness of life resonated so deeply as we slowly drove away from the woman with the little baby with red hair who needed milk.

Our world is far from perfect.  And I hope that one day I don’t have to say no to the woman who just needs milk. These few hours I experienced that day have left a profound impact on me. I no longer find as much joy and comfort in frivolity as I once did. Yes, I know that it is ok to enjoy the life I have. But somewhere in my heart and in my mind most things I receive and experience in life come with a sense of guilt.  I can’t fix everything. But the hours I spend looking at what is all around me in Haiti, I can’t help but think to myself that we should do what we can.

About a year and a half after seeing this woman with the red headed baby, I was watching a CNN special filmed in Port au Prince. There were several scenes filmed at the Cathedral. And completely shockingly, I saw the mother. And on her lap was the little redhead. They were both older, but still just as tired and they looked just as hungry. I couldn’t believe that there I was sitting in the comfort of my home and there she was – right in front of me – reminding me that she still needed help. Reminding me that there are hundreds of thousands of people in Haiti who still need help.

I’ve had the opportunity to see this mother again in person. And I did help her. She likely has no idea that I’m the (potentially one of many) woman who closed the door and left her helplessly. But I know. And I felt some healing in being able to do so.

I’m still in awe  of what I’ve witnessed and how just a short few hours of my life have left me with the kind of information that will last me a lifetime.

Meeting Djedly

I always like sitting by the wing on the plane. When I was a kid I would watch it transform and as the flaps would raise and the plane would soar, and I could see it all happen. I’d think of all it must have taken to bring us safely to a stop on the ground.

This ground was different. The blue ocean with green and brown swirls underneath the metal bird…the mountains we just flew over amidst the waves below. Our landing in Port au Prince was unlike any other I’ve ever experienced. The anticipation was unparalleled. 24 hours earlier we gave two of our children hugs as we set off to spend our last night together before meeting our son. Our beautiful six year old tucked in the hills, back beyond the walls and the buildings and the rubble of the 2010 earthquake aftermath…that’s where our little guy would be waiting for us. And as the plane came to a stop everything inside of me leaped.  The long journey that brought us to this point…we made it. Our day had arrived. He was just a short drive from where we sat.

We deplaned and followed a long line of hot and weary passengers, all acclimating to the heat and the humidity. We followed the quiet line to a bus and loaded and overloaded the bus and drove a short distance down the tarmac to unload in a metal building that housed a make shift luggage area. More lines formed inside and we cluelessly stood in a line waiting to experience our formal entry via the customs officers. From there we started the hunt for our luggage. We watched as a group of men converged on each of the passengers asking if they could assist them in finding their luggage. We didn’t fully understand what they were asking and kept a dumb and thankful smile on our faces as we obliged and took their help. These men climbed over each other in their own organized pattern to search for the tiny print on each bag to identify and gather their customer’s belongings.  We then stood in another line and waited to be surveyed by the watchful eye of the last stage of the Haitian customs arrival process. This is the final stage and the last person who determines if your bags should be searched and scrutinized.  After we emerged from the building we found ourselves huddled into a group of passengers with a similar identifying method on their bags. We all had pink and yellow ribbons on our luggage. This is how we came to find and meet people just like us, other adoptive parents. We greeted, shook hands, hugged, smiled and exhaled in success that we had all finally made it to this step. We were in Haiti.

My thin cardigan was one very thick layer of way too much fabric for my liking in the 90+ Haitian heat. We stood for quite some time waiting for another family to join us…my patience growing very thin as I knew that my little boy was less than two miles from where I stood. Our time came. And our whole group moved together toward the parking lot to pile into a van together. I had experienced some interesting car rides, but nothing like loading as many people as possible into one van with no seatbelts and half of the cushion of the seat ripped out, coil exposed, to spend the ten minute bumpy ride to our hotel practicing a balancing act to keep our bodies stable as we rolled through each bomb crater like hole in the road on the way.

The dusty, seemingly hand-carved streets were full of pits and holes and bumps. The trash that litters the side of the alleyways we slowly moved through in our metal bubble of people astounded me. I’ve been to places where people have very little. And as much as I’d researched, watched videos and documentaries, read books, heard stories and imagined; I never could have been prepared for the widespread devastation that even just the few blocks of Port au Prince we experienced on our way to the hotel exposed us to. We saw rocks and piles of garbage burning, broken down trucks and animals waiting what would probably be just days before they would be caught and eaten. We saw remnants of what must have been donations. Broken chairs, one shoe, an old magazine. As we passed houses with walls around them we noticed that many of them were likely empty. The windows were broken and the only sign that anyone may have lived in them recently was the dry concrete slathered on the top of the walls with broken glass placed sharp side up to prevent looters from accessing the property. We saw tents tied to tents, tied to trees, tied to more tents. We saw people standing on the side of their tents, some washing their babies in a bucket. Some were combing their children’s hair. Some with a look on their face as if to say, “what are you looking at?” I have never been stared at outside of my home in a way that I was looking at these people, and it immediately made me feel like the horribly ignorant American that I am. That was a big lesson.

The gate to the hotel is built into a stone wall. A simple honk at the gate signals that we are today’s delivery. After a heavy unloading, we were greeted by the parrot and warned that he bites. He also pees and shrieks and hacks, but that is something that we all learned about eventually. Checking into our room and unpacking, my heart was pounding out of my chest. With my anxiety and my excitement at an all time high, we were practically ready to run to the orphanage to meet our sweet. So we loaded back into the van and bumped up and down the road a little further. We made our way through the back streets of the Delmas neighborhoods and through a market area, over a ravine filled with dirty water and trash…and pigs. Another honk at another gate and we were there. We were there! This is our son’s home! A small lurch forward up a driveway brought us to a rest in front of a small home, Maison. My first step onto the grounds my son calls home, I was greeted by the intensity of the sun once again. And I felt a sense of comfort. A sense of calm. I felt like I was home too.

We stepped up a short flight of stairs and went through an iron gate and found ourselves on the porch of the house. We were greeted and asked to wait patiently while our children were brought out to us. We had previously been warned that our children may not be ready immediately and that we should wait for the nannies to have our children adequately presentable. Another line. This was the longest wait of my lifetime. We watched as one child after another was led to the porch. We took photos of the other families greeting their children, holding them preciously close and basking in the joy of their new love. The minutes turned even longer and nearly a half an hour later with my foot bounding wildly, trying to contain my excitement, but with every ounce of anxiety exuding from my pores, one of the fellow fathers decided to go in search of our son himself. He discovered that there had been a miscommunication and that the staff was unaware that we were there. Our son was cleaned up and shortly thereafter he was led to the front porch. He walked out wearing a little red t-shirt tucked into a pair blue shorts. His hair was shaved very close and his little arms and legs, though long, were very small and thin. He looked at the two of us, and my husband and I immediately kneeled down in front of him with smiles that hopefully reflected every miracle and heartburst we were feeling inside. I reached out my hand to shake his hand and said, “Hi!” and he smiled back at both of us, looking at me and looking at J. As we smiled more, he smiled more as well.

We took him by the hand and led him to a bench to take a seat and try to calm our heartbeats. J and I looked at each other and smiled. I remember saying, “this is really real!” and he said, “yes. Yes it is really real.” At long last, a line we stood in brought us to the point we had hoped to reach. That day we had our sweet little boy in our arms and everything was perfect.

The beautiful women who take care of the children in our absence made a nice meal for us to enjoy on the porch. We shared Styrofoam boxes of rice and a Kreyol vegetable and meat sauce. We ate. He ate. We ate some more. And he ate more and more and more. When our plates were empty, J refilled one area of the plate with rice and brought it back for Djedly and I to share. Before beginning to eat, he carefully divided the rice and placed half of it in the other section of the plate, making sure that I had exactly half of what we were given. It was such a sweet and simple, tender moment…one that I will cherish for the rest of my life. Sometimes the smallest experiences speak the loudest words.

We spent several days at a hotel nearby getting to know each other. We learned that he loves superheroes. And cars. And he loves spaghetti. He was initially terrified of the pool, but later learned to absolutely love it. Within a day, he was jumping into J’s arms and having a wonderful time swimming. Watching him look at J and soak up the fact that for the first time in his life he had a dad was one of the most touching and beautiful things I’ve ever witnessed.  I watched him sleep. I didn’t want to miss a moment. He would curl his little fists up under his head and tuck his legs up and peacefully sleep. I could only imagine how many nights he missed his mom holding him and comforting him, but I didn’t want to force myself on him by wrapping my arms around him…though I so badly just wanted to cradle and love him. One night he fell off the bed and instinctively, I snapped awake and grabbed him…my heart pounding and as his sweet and quiet cry calmed, my tears flowed. I couldn’t help but think of the many nights he cried at the orphanage with no one to cradle him and calm him, hold his head and rub his back and dry his tears. No one was there to tell him that he was loved. And so for the rest of that night I laid next to him and just held him and silently cried. There were so many things I wanted to say to him. But only my embrace could talk at that moment. English, Kreyol…those languages would just speak words. I wanted him to feel the action of my love. I hope he did. I tried to take everything into my memory. I wanted to know the shape of his fingers, the shape of his toes, the length of his arms and legs, the swirl his hair pattern made. I wanted to know exactly how his eyes changed when he smiled, and what his little teeth looked like. I wanted to fill the gap five years presented.

Our days together were awesome and beautiful. It could only have been better if we were able to take him home. But sadly, after five days of falling in love deeper than we’d imagined, we had to bring him back to that same porch and cuddle him and love on him and then we had to leave him.

Knowing that we would be leaving, the well of emotions I felt was intolerable. There’s no way to describe the feelings you have when you know that you are walking away from your child. We would be leaving on a plane. We would cross over an ocean, and be miles and miles and miles away from our sweet little boy. He would be tucked away behind a wall amidst the broken buildings on the hillside up the windy and bumpy streets in a land that shakes and where wind howls and rain splashes and pools and rages. He would be there. Alone. And all we could do is tell him that we love him and that we will be back for him.

I didn't watch the wing when we left. I focused on where my son would be. As we climbed into the clouds I looked back at the hillside we had ascended. I traced the path of the roads we took to get to him and I wept knowing that with every second we were racing further and further away from him. Then the calm blue of the ocean broke through the bumpy crest of the mountains we crossed; and we disappeared into the clouds. 

Serving time in Haiti

I haven’t and never care to serve time in jail or prison. Especially here in Haiti. From what I hear I wouldn’t care for the cuisine, the lodging options, or the customer service. But my recent binge-watch of a certain made for Netflix show, Orange Is The New Black, written by the fantastic and amazing Jenji Kohan, has convinced me that we are imprisoned here in Haiti. And really, it makes total sense to draw this comparison.

Prisons hold you inside. Your freedom is withheld. You’re in a cell. You’re in a pod.  Behind chain link fences with barbed wire. And guards with guns. And gates with locks. And walls. Thick concrete walls. And it’s sterile and hollow. And lacking individual charm and comfort.  Your name might be changed, or shortened. And you will likely take on a new identity; foreign to that of the person you were outside of the facility.  Like Crazy Eyes. You go into a survival mode, and you re-design your personality to fit your surroundings. Your rights are restricted. You’re told what to do, how to do it, and when to do it. You’re issued clothing. It’s not your choice. It might not fit. You may not like the texture. It may make you look like an inmate. Oh wait, that’s the point. You’ll be lucky if the stripes face the right direction. You may be too hot. You may be too cold. But it’s not something you can change. You don’t have the choice. Why is someone incarcerated in a prison? Because of a choice or series of choices made by that person. It or they were the wrong ones. And now there is time to serve. The time that you would otherwise spend living your life is now being served. You are doing “time”. In the “Klink”. In the “slammer”.

Cellblock O, otherwise known as an orphanage is not much different. Except that the choice or choices which bring you to an orphanage are not your own. But still, you are in a small room. Behind a gate. Inside of walls with barbed wire and armed guards. It is sterile. It feels hollow. And aside from distressed remnants from mission groups, it is lacking individual charm and comforts of a home. Your freedom is withheld. Your name is usually changed or abbreviated.  You may now be called See-bee-doo, or Bee-doo for short. And in time, you are not the person who entered the orphanage. You assimilate to the surroundings and the other personalities. You realize who the top dog is. You realize who your friends are. And you hope they don’t turn on you. You are issued clothing that has been donated. It’s worn. And left over. And unwanted. And that is what becomes yours. It might fit. It might have holes in it. You don’t even notice the stripes, and could care less which direction they face. Your shoes may be three sizes too small. You may be wearing long sleeves in 100+ degree weather. You might be a boy in girls clothing. But you can’t change any of this.  You don’t have the choice. All choices are made for you. When you eat, what you eat…when you sleep, where you sleep…and you most certainly cannot choose when you will get to leave and who with.  You are serving time. You don’t have the one luxury an inmate in a prison might have, which is the knowledge of how much time you will be serving. Day’s turn into nights, turn into weeks, turn into months, turn into years. And you wait. And you wait some more. The days can be hot; the nights can be long and lonely. Will someone hear you if you cry at night? Do you dare try to go to the bathroom? Or will that huge rat that ran into the bathroom convince that you it’s better to pee in your bed and lie in it all night long? If you fall out of bed, will anyone know? Or will you finish the night sleeping on the concrete?

It’s no wonder that behaviors change when someone is institutionalized. It’s no wonder that growth and brain activity are stunted.  Imagine being kept in a cage for seven years. Closed off from the world, with the exception of what you’re allowed to view, learn, and hear. Ala my friend Kelly, we have come to the conclusion that M. Knight Shyamalan’s The Village is a perfect movie to put that thought into perspective. You don’t know what’s on the outside. You only know what you’re experiencing. And much Lord of the Flies, behaviors conquer emotions. You can block out emotions and let your behaviors run wild. Because then you’ll get attention. Good or bad. You’ll get it. Fortunately, the children are not like those in Flowers in the Attic. Although, a limited play space can eerily reminiscent of the small attic with limits and boundaries that cannot be crossed.

Mental hospitals, rehabilitation centers, half way houses…they’re all an extension of an institution intended to temporarily support someone in a process of recovery or correction. But where is this step in the process of adoption? It’s non-existent. A child is taken directly from the institution, at times by people they barely know who come and shower them with love once and then leave for months or years only to return joyfully to take the child out of what has become their home, their only comfort. And they have no idea how traumatic that experience can be for a child they would otherwise think they are rescuing.

When you strip someone of everything they have, their value system changes. When you have no personal space you learn to appreciate other things. Think of how wide open and free the sky must seem when you are in a small and crowded yard of children who scream and run around all day. The sky is calm. It is big. It is free. And for a moment a child can look up and perhaps see a passing plane and place a little wish on its wings that one day they will be on that plane, leaving all that surrounds them behind. But then that day comes. And it seems abrupt even though it has likely been in process for quite some time. Within days or hours, they are in fact on that plane. And once again, they have left everything behind.

My kids will again have to leave everything behind. Because I’ve come to take them home. I would have personally preferred the aforementioned whisking away of my child. I would have loved to hop off the plane, grab them and hop right back on. But that’s not how it’s happening. And obviously though I came for my kids, I’m meant to be here for a while. We had every reason to believe that we would have the boy’s home by the fall, so it seemed like a perfectly reasonable plan to move to Haiti for the duration of the adoptions of the boys. After all, they are legally our children, and I honestly couldn’t stomach the thought of them sitting in the orphanage all summer while I ran the other two kids around Pittsburgh trying to keep them entertained for the remainder of the summer. So I hatched a plan to do “Haiti summer camp” and on July 12, 2013, I put that plan into action. I spent the first month living in our apartment with four of my five kids. We went to the orphanage a few days a week to spend time with the baby, V. While we were there we watched as a small church was built on the property, and when the roof was put on, we sat on the porch of the orphanage each day and experienced a 2-hour prayer vigil that was designed (I think) to consecrate the new church. Pastors and nannies and all the children would flood the new building, and enjoy time in the open wall-less church and sing and raise their praises for several hours each day.  It was interesting to see more of the day to day that takes place at the orphanage. There were lots of people I had never seen who showed up to pray and sing. And eat lunch. And then they would all leave. And they’d come back the next day to do it again. I could see how the daily schedule repeated day after day after day. It was like watching paint dry. It was the proverbial groundhog day. But here and there we could take a day off from the orphanage and spend it swimming and playing games. Though we couldn’t have V with us, the older four needed this time away from the orphanage and to spend time together to bond. And fight. This is real life, right?

We effectively have been using our apartment as the half way house between the institution that is our orphanage, and our goal…our home. We are in a cell. Behind a gate. Hidden by walls with barbed wire and armed guards. We feel imprisoned and we don’t have a release date.  We only have AC from 6 pm – 6 am. I hope you shed a tear for me. This is HAITI, folks. It’s hot. We have limited supplies, and we have to be very creative in using what we have. Especially now that I am homeschooling, which seriously makes me want to put a gun in my mouth. MAD PROPS to those who stick it out. I’m afraid my children will drag my body off soon and dispose of me in the ocean. Oh…the ocean. I might be willing to let them drag me off and throw me in. Not once in 15 trips here have I had a chance to go to the ocean. But I digress. We have limited transportation, and very few freedoms. The scenery is always the same. And for someone as independent as I am, it is really strange to rely on other people to get us out of here. I am feeling trapped, but I chose to be here. And the boys have chosen to be here with me. I’m sure to them it feels like one huge step toward their better lives. They are out of the orphanage.  They are with me. But I can’t wait to improve their lives even more.

It’s not a bad start being here. The kids have beds. They have their own clothes. And they choose what they want to wear daily. They have their own space. Their own backpacks. Their own cups, and toothbrushes, and shoes. Their own toys. But this is not home. As much as I could do so, I’ve decorated it with our belongings and made it comfortable for our “short” duration. But this is not home.  It’s an in-between. It’s a springboard to the final plan. It is not meant to be home. And I hate that because our “short” stay has become what will be close to half a year living here, it has become home. I even find myself slipping and saying, “we will take this home with us”, and what I mean by that is that we will take it to the apartment. I hate that I’ve referred to this, our halfway house, our indoor tree house, as home. It is not home. Home and its comforts eagerly await us. J and the kids eagerly await us. Friends and family eagerly await us. My elliptical machine eagerly awaits me. Yeah…I miss all of it. Even my daily 8-mile torture that stands across from the TV in the laundry room. But I chose to be here. Because I believe that it is the better option for my children right now.  And I wish that I could do the same for V. I’ve seen how much she has grown in the time that I’ve spent here with her, and I crave to have her with me.

Despite my desire to take them home, we have been sentenced several more months here in Haiti due to the issues with Djedly’s documents. And knowing that we are itching to change the scenery, a friend of mine offered an opportunity to live with him in his house a in the mountains. He has a beautiful house. And though I’m so tempted to trade this small tree house for a REAL house with a REAL kitchen, I’m also afraid that my kids don’t know how to behave in a real house yet. This man has silk furniture.  It’s a rental. I doubt any single twenties or thirty something’s man would opt for refinishing antique furniture with silk on his own. And there’s a REAL Monet hanging on his wall. A real Monet in a rental…but let’s get back to why my kids aren’t ready for a real house. They PUT THEIR FEET ON THE WALL!!! Imagine me trying to explain why the Monet has footprints on it! I shudder at the thought. If there’s going to be inexplicable damage done to priceless items, they should at least be in my ownership, right? As much as the weather, the air, the house and the friendship that comes with it are appealing, my fear outweighs my interest…I think.

So maybe I should continue as is in our halfway house until we can spring the boys for good. We want to make parole so badly. And with fluctuating wifi, Netflix stopped working. Damn! Here goes any remaining sanity I have. Hopefully we will go home before our half-way-tree-house becomes a mental institution.

The New Law

Long awaiting change in this process has essentially backfired on me. We lost V’s referral in February because Haiti is implementing the Hague Treaty and is consequently changing the process of how a child is referred and matched with an adoptive family. Since our file was not submitted to the government prior to their closure prior to making these changes, our referral was negated. We have been waiting since February to hear any word on how the bill slowly followed the Haitian legal process. It had to be voted on in several courts, and then it had to be signed by the president and published before it would be considered legitimate.

We had heard several things about this law. The most encouraging elements that we looked forward to were that there would likely no longer be a requirement for presidential dispensation. It was also likely to lower the legal age for adoptions as well as allow for couples married for a shorter period of time, to start the process of adoptions from Haiti.

One way that this new law will essentially punish families like my own is that it requires that families no longer have any interaction with their children or the crèche they live in prior to the match. It is unclear at this point if families will be allowed interaction at all, even after the match has taken place.

As of yesterday, I was joyful with the news that the law has been published. This was good news initially, because we know that once our file receives approval and our expected re-match with V takes place, that we will likely emerge fairly soon from IBESR, instead of remaining in the system waiting for dispensation. Our hope was that our family and others would save time in this process and ultimately would be granted more time with their children.

As of this morning, the director of our orphanage met with me to explain that I will no longer be allowed at the orphanage.  I will not be able to spend any time with our daughter until at least our re-match takes place, and possibly even longer than that. I can’t say that I’m surprised. I just wish that I had known that the last time I spent time with her. I would have given her more love, more kisses, and more time. I would have worried less about the crafts I was making for other children and I would have focused more on the time I could spend with her. I’ve tried so hard for the couple of months that I’ve been here to spend time with her, but also try to keep her schedule balanced. But right now all I want is for her to be with me. And I’m feeling the gaping hole that has been in my heart since February grow even bigger and deeper.

All I can do now is hope that things will turn out ok. I will be even more impatient now knowing that I can’t even spend time with her. I’m comforted by knowing how loved she is. But I hate that I didn’t have the opportunity to let her know how much I love her before I had to leave her again.

so there was a pathetic facebook post from me related to this heartbreaking turn of events and it went something like this:

there is a new adoption law that has been passed in haiti. it was printed yesterday, which means that it is fully in effect.

while this law is hopefully going to help thousands of children who are stuck in the process of adoption, as well as aid thousands of families who are in process; it has caused yet another set back for our family.

by law i am no longer allowed at our orphanage. i can not see v for an unknown period of time.

if you are traveling to our orphanage, please give my sweet girl all my love and tell her that the minute the chains of this process unbind us, i will whisk her away before she can exhale.

(insert heart emoticon here).

Depravity: The cup of my adoptions runneth over

My facebook status’ have been a true reflection of the up’s and down’s in this process. Here’s an example of “down”:

It helped nothing but I told my agency for the boys' adoptions that they're worthless today. They are worthless. When I'm the one in Haiti informing them of the status of my pathetically dysfunctional adoptions after I've been legally required to hire them and pay them; that seems like the perfect definition of WORTHLESS.

The death certificate for their father who died in 2006, needs yet another certification. I'm so tired of thinking that we're almost "there" and finding out we're not!!

We are also still waiting on several documents that remain at Archives as well as possibly in the possession of the orphanage lawyer. I keep hoping that we will finally be submitted for their visas, but every time we get close we find out that something else hasn't been done or there's "one more signature" needed, or there's another document that we had previously been told is ready that is not.

To complicate matters, our third adoption counselor in two and a half years has left or was fired from the agency last week. I can't begin to describe how frustrating it is to be at the end stages of very complicated adoptions and find out that all of the information that one person contains on our process will effectively leave with her and all that will remain are some notes. Our agency for the boys has conducted themselves in the most unprofessional way through this whole process. They don't know what advocacy is, but they're really good at keying in the numbers for our credit card.

This failure to launch crap is nauseating enough to me. I'm sure it has caused all kids of confusion for those of you who read the posts and get excited with us and then don't see the follow up posts that explain that despite what we've been told, we are still not ready.

I have to come back to the states on November 26 for another Remicade infusion and Leo's birthday. At this point, I seriously doubt that the boys will be coming home with me. I will return to Haiti December 3. Unless the boys are submitted and approved by my return, it'll be looking bleak for Christmas as well. So please hold off on the questions about when they will be coming home. To say that I'm in a really bad place with all of this is a grand understatement. I just can't handle the questions. I understand them, but I can't handle them.

We have sought help. So please stop suggesting that we get help. We waited a very long time intentionally as to not cause problems for V's adoption. There is a wide network of families and staff and board members who read my posts, and we have tried to let the process evolve naturally. We can no longer let that be the case. Please don't share my status and ask lawyers to help us. I appreciate your thoughts but it doesn't help us. We are working with several people to get all the remaining documents and make sure that the documents will be accepted by the embassy and approved for visas.

This process is long and complicated and it has been made more so. Please don't assume that the problems we have had will automatically be the problems any of you currently adopting will face. We have had very unique and difficult problems at a late stage in the process because things were not handled properly in the beginning of our process. We have given feedback about all of this and it has been heard. We hope that changes in the process will come from our experiences.

In the mean time, we all continue to hope that we can work together to get the boys home as soon as possible and to facilitate V's adoption as fast as the new process will allow.

Today will be another day in the Haiti adoption trenches. All I can say is that I hope that I can very soon join the other families who have finished this process and who have their happy and healthy children home. I want to look back on this fondly and successfully. But I'm really far from that right now.

Here’s an example of an “up” that in retrospect makes me want to vomit:

We have a CERTIFIED DEATH CERTIFICATE EXTRACT!!!!!

Most seriously effed up statement ever.

And the following post is another “down”:

Sadness is waking up to a flight itinerary on hold for November 26 to fly home for a Remicade infusion and Leo's birthday and return to Haiti December 3. I can't stomach the thought of bringing Christmas back with me and having my family divided for it. That is an unacceptable thought. I'm missing so much of Britt's and Leo's lives. I am not ok with this not concluding by Thanksgiving so that we can all be together. It's even less acceptable for our family to not spend a fourth Christmas apart.

The boys' files remain incomplete as of the end of this week. There are several documents that are at the national archives office. Others are apparently in the possession of a lawyer for the orphanage. Why? Good question. This should have all been taken care of months ago. There is a certification needed on a document that is six months old. We have been told that the ministry of justice has flat out refused to sign it. There is something in the works to try to get it signed anyway. But without that signature, the boys don't leave this island. Every single time I think we have everything (because our agency has told us for months that all docs are ready to go and all we need is the passports), we find out that there is yet more to do. Their files are not ready to submit to the embassy. When they finally are ready, we are still looking at several weeks to get through that process. It would take several miracles for me to bring the boys home with me on that November 26 flight. I'm so fed up with this process failing my family. It is time for us to have our happy "gotcha day" and get the boys out of Haiti!

It's just time for the itinerary to contain three one way tickets. Enough already.

A post with a hope for an “up” kind of day:

Today is a good...no a GREAT day for miracles.

So bring 'em!!! Please!!! We are ready!!!

Later that day, the “down”:

Today delivered anything but miracles.

I was informed that Djedly's birth certificate extract is fake. Despite efforts to locate it, the original birth certificate is missing. No one knows where it is. To get another birth certificate, we (my lawyer) will have to go to St. Raphael where Djedly was born and apply for a new birth certificate. He will then have to register the birth certificate with archives and request a new extract and have that extract signed by three separate government offices. This will not be a quick fix.

My boys will not be coming home for at least several more months. I am now actively starting to look for a fostering option. They need to be in school and I want them in a safe and healthy home-like environment until I can take them home.

The man who is responsible for this apparently felt no need to come and deliver the remaining mess of my adoption documents as requested today because he decided to drive to the countryside this afternoon. He has in his possession the proof that my boys are adopted. The original documentation.

There are no words to describe how horrifying it was to sit down with my boys tonight and explain that I will not be taking them home for a long time. Every single day they ask me if I'm submitting their documents to the embassy. They want to go home.

They have watched 28 children who were referred after them leave to start the rest of their lives with their families. It is their turn. And yet once again, it is not.

This is a crime.

And because misery loves company, here's more “down”:

This is my son Parker. He is 13 years old. He watched his father die when he was 7 years old. And though his heart was breaking, he stood up and became a man and took care of his mom and his newborn little brother, Djedly.

We have been able to give Parker a fraction of his childhood back, but we've also watched him grow into the fine young man who will soon tower over me.  Since coming to Haiti in July, he has confided so many things in me. He is terrified about what life holds for him. But he is ready for the next step.

Tonight I had to tell him that because a man who has the most important job in our adoption process has failed, he will continue to wait to come home. He knows how close he has come to going home. We could have been celebrating Christmas together at home this year. But instead, because a man who doesn't care about my children is in control of their documents, they will have to continue to wait for someone to care enough to help us get them out of Haiti.

Absent from his face tonight is his beautiful smile and the confident and secure twinkle in his eye. Tonight he feels as broken as the process that is failing him.

Even more “down”:

This is my son Djedly. He was born in 2006, four months after his father died. He survived the earthquake and then malaria. He was placed in our orphanage when he was 3 years old. He was alone until we accepted our referral for him in May 2011 and reunited him with his older brother by starting a second adoption of Parker in September 2011.

Since I moved to Haiti in July 2013, we have been told that we were waiting for passports and that our files were "embassy ready" and we would be able to submit for their visas very soon. For several weeks I've been told that we would be able to submit for our visas within days.

Today the ground broke out from underneath us. We are devastated and beyond heartbroken that our boys will continue to live here in Haiti because of incompetence and apathy.

Children cannot come home with falsified documentation. A crime has been committed against my children and there is no justice that will be served. The sentence is more of their lives. They will continue to wait for someone to care enough about them to make this right and let us take them home.

This is Djedly. He matters. He is not just a number. He is not just a face. He is a little boy with an incredible smile. His favorite color is yellow. He loves cars and video games. He wants to be a gymnast. And we love him.

And in another attempt to be “up” and jump on the November “thankful for…” bandwagon, I started my day with this “up”:

I am thankful that my children can smile through all of this.

And then the day disintegrated into this “down”:

These boys just want to come home. But a broken system is robbing them of their childhoods.  Falsified documentation has robbed my family of the opportunity to submit for visas for our boys - who have been legally our children for almost a year - until documents are redone.

This is an absolute crime.

I am seriously ready for an “up” kinda post that won’t later have to be retracted because another document is missing or another signature is needed. We are long overdue for the “they’re coming home” post! My tea pot and my cup runneth over. I've had enough. I can't swallow anymore of this absolute and utter depravity.

Church...In a bar? YESSSSS!!!

Recently we had the opportunity to start attending church in a bar in Petionville. It’s called The Irish Embassy. Church in a bar is a fantastic idea.  For the first time in my life I can honestly say that I think I would like to continue to attend this gathering of educated and progressively minded group of people. I like that it is a non-conformist approach to dissecting the testament. I like that it is informal. And I totally dig and respect that it is in an Irish Pub. That kicks the awesome factor up significantly.

Most churches that I’ve attended throughout my life totally freak me out. There is such a wide variety of religion in my family, and most of my experience with religion has been one episode of, “they’re wrong, we’re right” after another. That’s simply just not my style. I will never be one to try to convince someone that what I feel is right and what they feel is wrong. I will never knock on your door and tell you that you should join me in my personal crusade to change how the world thinks about God. Those decisions are completely up to each and every one of us. I try to be a good person. I try to do what I’m set here to do – which in some ways I’m still trying to find out. But mostly, I know that I have plenty. And if someone needs something, and I have the ability to help them, then I should help them. I don’t care what nationality someone is. I don’t care what their shoe size is. I don’t care what they ate for breakfast. I just try to look for the good in humanity. And I try to be some of the good in the world.

There isn’t a huge selection of churches that are for English speakers here in Haiti. So we go where we can. We had previously attended a church at a school in Port au Prince. I liked the school church. Though I didn’t know anyone and wasn’t really familiar with the songs that are sung there, I had a profound experience one morning a few weeks ago. I found myself listening to the beautiful music being sung and let the words reverberate within my thoughts. And it brought me to tears. Some might say this was the holy spirit, the holy ghost, god talking to me, jesus answering questions…or that it was a kinesthetic response to hearing harmony and rhythm and the beautiful sound of collaborative voices pleading for answered prayers. I was completely unfamiliar with the music and composition, but the songs were about pain and feeling pain and living through pain. And it brought me to tears several times. I was rather uncomfortable emoting in a place filled with strangers who comfortably shared something so foreign to me, so I stifled several times. But I kept feeling the urge to lie down in the fetal position on the floor and cry out in pain.

I do feel pain. I feel emotional pain. I feel physical pain. I feel pain deeply in my soul. Is this why I’m here? To feel this? Here? I've been feeling a variety of pain for almost four years now. Most profoundly, the pain I've felt in the last few months has left me emotionally crippled at times. And I find that going through the motions of life here has brought me closer to that pain. It takes a lot of energy to live here. But I try to put a smile on my face and muster up the energy every day and do it. Even though I try to smile through it, this hurts. It is one of the hardest things I have ever done. I've also felt some of the most amazing and beautiful joy a person can through this process. The dichotomy is unparalleled.

But when will our time come? When will we feel the accomplishment and joy that we have watched so many feel? When will we be on that blissful other side? When will we be able to look back and say that we survived this? What will do it? How much is enough pain? How much is enough joy? How much more will we give? How much more will we pay? How much more will we need to do? How much more will we cry?

I'm not sure what the answer is. But under a little tin roof in a room full of strangers, I felt vulnerable. Out of place. And yet right at home. This isn't supposed to be home. It's time to go home. I want my cry to be with the man I love when I see him at the end of the long walk in the airport and I can fall into his arms and know that we did it. We made it through. I don’t want to find myself in a room full of strangers in a ball on the floor rocking myself to comfort the flowing tears.

There are so many more tears that come raging to the surface when I think about how after I accomplish the goal of getting the boys home, I will still only be 2/3 way to the finish line. We still have the whole process to follow with V.

Years from now I know I'll wish that I could do a lot of this all over again. But for now, I'm pretty much done and I want to go home.

I’m thankful for our new little church in a bar. I think it is the first perfect fit for my spiritual needs. The blend of critical analysis along with a methodology for pursuing a deeper meaning behind the words of the text, and in combination with an open platform for independent thought to be shared is a little slice of heaven in the midst of all this chaos. And I didn’t want to cry. Anything that makes me not want to cry right now is a big plus. I just wish that they hadn’t run out of Guiness. That was sadness. I hope the next Sunday I can find a ride to the church at the pub, that they will have a tall glass of Guiness for me.

Working with the kids

The kids here love to do crafts. When they behave, one of the treats that I can help give them while I’m here is a little creative craft escape. Early in the fall we did hand stamping projects. They were used for a fundraiser and food-packing event. The kids loved doing them, and I think they appreciated that they were able to participate in something that will help all the kids. They were eager to stamp their hands and fingertips to help create several vividly colorful pieces.

The next project we worked on was to make a pumpkin patch for the orphanage. I am greatly missing the seasonal changes that are absent in Haiti. Especially fall. So I drew about a hundred pumpkins on white paper and we had the kids color them, hand stamp them, and use cut pieces of tissue to glue on them to create their own custom masterpiece pumpkin patch. It turned out amazingly awesome and it gave all of us who are here and deeply craving the fall a little taste of what we’re missing.

We were asked to takeover the pre-school class one day and substitute for a teacher who was out. Knowing that this was huge task, as those kids are total bananas, we decided to work with them on learning to spell their names. We let them tear tissue paper (which they LOVED)!!! Then they traced each letter by gluing the ripped pieces of tissue paper over the letters. Their use of color was amazing!! Not one single child chose to only use one color. They balanced their use of shapes and colors rather impressively, and they all went to that happy “zen” place that I love so much when I’m in the creative process.  Once their awesome work was finished, we looked around at an utterly trashed classroom, and I decided that the best way to utilize the remaining pieces of ripped up paper was to have the kids glue them on balloon shape drawings. Once everything was assembled and dried, we cut out the balloon shapes and attached some curling ribbon to the bottom and stapled the days work up on the wall so that they will continue to enjoy and maintain the pride for their accomplished works. I drew a small man to attach to the ribbon. He looks like he is being pulled off the ground by the floating balloons. It was a good day in pre-school land.

Another day that we were asked to substitute, we did a lesson on landforms with the older kids, as well as a game of Bingo with the younger kids. That was a fun day.  The younger kids had never played Bingo before. It took a few minutes to bring them up to speed, but once they grasped the concept, they had a really good time playing! Each time a kid won their game, we let them choose from a prize bag of left over holiday candy. It was neat to see them respond so well to a new activity. The older kids got to create a book using a landforms print out. We used encyclopedias and talked extensively about the shape of the earth, climate differences, elevation, and how the world is different in all of its parts. The kids had previously learned that they live on an Island, but they got to explore deeper thought about how one can travel around the Earth and about how different it might be to live in different parts of our planet. It was a busy, but good day.

Now that we are nearing the next holiday, Thanksgiving, we have started working with small groups of kids on a Turkey project. We talked a little bit about what Thanksgiving means and why we celebrate it. We cited examples of what people eat to observe this holiday and we made a fun Turkey craft! The kids were so excited to jump right into this project that not a single one of them wanted to hear the directions on how to assemble their turkeys. The result is that we have an amazing variety of turkeys!!! I’m excited to continue to work in small groups to finish up this project and put the remainder of the turkeys on display before the holiday.

One of the things I’ve been working on here is to make a designated place for honorable mentions. I would like a prominently displayed area for the kids to be recognized. This can be for working hard in the classroom, coloring a really neat picture, or even making a small craft. I started by painting a small ledge and space in the wall outside of the office. Next I will decorate it and design an award that can be printed to give the kids. I would love to see this space utilized on at least a monthly rotation. I think the kids will really enjoy knowing that their hard work is being shared with all who come here.

Another way I’ve tried to help out while I’ve been here is to help stage some fun monthly photos for adoptive parents. We are always so thankful for any glimpse of our children. However, being here and having a little extra time on my hands, I decided to get a little creative. I found a felt beach scene that must have been left here by a vacation bible school group. I put Jesus and his gang aside and decided that this background would make a perfect match for a small blue inflatable kiddy pool that a mom left behind for my daughter to enjoy. We threw in a yellow striped beach bag, pulled a pair of small sunglasses out of a rabbit’s hat and voila! Our monthly photo updates were fantastic! People were asking if we were lucky enough to have a beach outing!

One month for our photo updates I made two faux wooden frames out of cardboard and painted them. The kids who like having their photos taken were very excited and knew in advance which frame they would use for their photo. The others gave the typical stink face that communicates how much this process sucks combined with the fact that they’re becoming the teens that will rage against our mini van machines for the next few years. Either way, the frames were awesome and it was well worth the numb thumb that I had for nearly four weeks after cutting the cardboard with safety scissors. It will make a great story one day. “Hi kids, you may not like me right now, but know that I was willing to live in Haiti, at one point in a tent, and cut cardboard with safety scissors for you!” They won’t care about what that all means for a long time. But maybe one day…maybe.

In addition to finding a creative outlet for the kids, we have also been working on ways to reward kids for good behavior. We’re hoping we can get the Lord of the Flies aspect of the O under control. Friday night movie night has been one of the ways that we can give the kids a little incentive to behave throughout the week. Between popcorn and a little juice, a small screen and a huge speaker, we’ve had about thirty kids packed into one of the classrooms to view movies. The LOVE it!!! It makes for a long day, but it is very much worth it!

The Baptist Mission in Fermathe, Haiti is also an opportunity we’ve taken advantage of. The kids absolutely love going there! There is a small zoo, a café, a shop, a bakery, a museum, and an awesome play area that has been built in the shape of Noah’s Arc. We took a group of kids up the mountain one day to treat them for their awesome behaviors that week. Not all the kids were able to go, which is hard, but it was a great example for them to see that their behaviors can be rewarded or punished. It was also a great way to change their environment and give them a break from the institutionalized lives they live. There were lots of smiling faces that day. They played for over an hour and then we took them for pizza and ice cream.  While we were at the Baptist Mission, I decided to buy a wooden trunk. I’ve had my eye on them for a while. So I decided that it was a “treat” kind of day and I bought one. The kids rode in the van, and I rode with Kelly up and down the mountain in a tap tap. We hoped the whole way back that the trunk would not go flying out the back. Luckily, it made it back to the apartment. Now I just hope that it will make it home by surviving the airplane. That would suck. It survived Haiti. Please let it survive American Airlines.

I love working with the kids. After spending my week teaching all ages in 2012, I have been very happy to have small creative chunks of time with them while I’ve been here. I’m working in a far less formal nature than I did before. We aren’t talking about balance and composition. We aren’t discussing the color wheel or Mozart. But we are having fun when we can.