Morning Bird: Song of my Heart

I have always loved music. I’m kinesthetic and my body physically responds to rhythm and my muscles want to move. I’ve always got a song in my head. Always. And I’m usually singing along to break the silence around me. Here in Haiti, there is rarely silence. But there is always music.

One of my favorite songs is Morning Bird, by Jasmine Commerce. Interestingly another song by Jasmine, Love Is The One Thing, could essentially be a Haiti theme song. But Morning Bird is a song that I sing a lot. It is the song my heart sings. I sang it to my grandmother on her deathbed. I sing it to V to calm her to sleep. I sing it to myself to calm my own fears about this process. I sing it in hopes that the beautiful energy it evokes will travel across ocean waves, and fly through spiraling winds and find itself planted in my children’s hearts back home.  And I lie in bed at night and silently sing it to myself when I can’t fall asleep.

Oddly though, of all the sounds I wake up to here in Haiti, I rarely wake up in the morning to the sounds of birds. There are many sounds that I wake up to on a regular basis. The confused roosters who think that midnight is the new dawn. The dogs on the street who fight and run in packs to raise havoc and find any left over morsels of trash that were not burned the night before. The clunk and whistle of the air conditioning as it turns on and off with power surges. The chime of my Haitian cel phone as it receives some random text in Kreyol sent to convince me to add more minutes, or upgrade my phone plan.  Lots of sounds. Even the nights are not calm.

But sometimes my mornings are quite placid. Those mornings I wake up to singing. A peaceful and melodic sound that comes from simple men and women gathering and raising their voices. It is a strong but elegant sound. One that causes you to stop what you’re doing and listen. It is a respectful sound. It reminds me of how so many people have lived here for so long – with nothing. They have far more than nothing. They have everything. Everything they need. They have their faith. And they have love for their Savior. They feel so deeply the love they express for God. They gather to humbly say thank you, and when they sing it flows like a tendril of harmony from the hillsides and down the alleys.

While I listen calmly, I can only be once again reminded that I have no strength like the strength I’ve seen here. I have no calm like the calm I’ve seen in the saddest and most beautiful eyes. Eyes that have watched births of beautiful children; the jewels of Haiti, who are destined to walk in the gutters of these streets. The same eyes that have watched in sorrow when there isn’t enough food to nourish these babies, and they become sick. Eyes that have cried tears of joy when cyclones leave a trail of damage but loved ones are not killed. Eyes that speak when there are no words to be spoken. Eyes that have seen death. Real death. Up close. Not in a newspaper or on television. They have seen death that most of us can’t fathom to think of. Long and drawn out death. Death that takes time. Time spent praying for death to come and take their loved one “home” to Jesus where the promise of Heaven awaits them.  My children have eyes that tell story after story. One day I will be granted the key to the door that leads to a cavern of their history. And I will know the depth I see only a sampling of as of now.

The balance of life here is profound. And with life comes death. When you look into the eyes of a smiling Haitian, you know that they have experienced a plethora of emotions and have more to tell you about their day, their week, their month than most of us can find to truly complain about in years of our own lives. None of us have perfect lives that are free of pain. But most of us have never held a child who is dying of an unknown but likely completely avoidable reason. They are simply dying because of the fate of the latitude and longitude of their births. There are few reliable health resources on this island. There are fewer concerns for people who can’t pay for those resources. And a person who has fallen ill may pass away from very treatable illnesses. Like anemia. Malaria. Tuberculosis. Ecoli. Cholera. Rot. Parasites. Malnourishment. And what can be done about all of this? Haitians pray. They sing. They lift their voices and know that God is listening.

I lay my head down at night with Morning Bird in my heart and my mind and hope that God is listening to me too. I hope that others are doing work that I cannot do to take my children home. I hope to wake and see the honest eyes of those who feel my heart for Haiti. The honest eyes of people who know how much I love my children. The eyes of those who toil daily and only rest after more work is done than most of us complete in a week. It is a different kind of work. It is the daily work that is required to survive. The eyes I look into are survivor’s eyes.  And these melodic tapestries I wake up to are the songs of historical survival. They are the songs of dignified lives lived fully.  With little to rely on, but with tender and honest thanks for what has been given. Look into Haiti’s eyes. Hear her song. Above the crow of the rooster. Beyond the dust. Behind the walls. Under the chaos. There is a still beauty. It is calm. It is Haiti.

The Sorority of Adoptive Mother's

We have a huge base of support from family and friends who supply us an unwavering championing and sideline rallying through this process. And we are very THANKFUL for all of you. We feel your love. We feel your support. We feel your encouragement. And we feel your tears when ours flow.

There’s another group of people we’ve come to know that are sharing this process with us as well. One of the unexpected perks to this process; is the relationships we’ve been able to develop with other adoptive moms and dads. Mostly moms. But a few dads here and there. However, I really like that the group of moms I regularly message have come to identify themselves as the Sorority of Adoptive Mother’s. I never joined a sorority. I never felt much like it was something that fit me. However, I’m pleasantly surprised and happy to have found the group of families that I lean on for the hard times and celebrate the successes with. This is the first sorority I’ve ever been a part of. We come from all different religions, political affiliations, states, and countries. We have a beautifully diverse set of experiences and personalities. We offer a huge array of thought and perspective on this process. And we use each other as a sounding board and a towline when the feelings we all naturally feel have pushed us over the edge.

There are so many people who have done such a beautiful job of supporting us through this process. Some know to just stop asking questions. Others hesitatantly, and with good hearts ask their questions delicately. Others rescue us by helping with odds and ends in the states. Some bring us gifts to Haiti. We truly have received the most amazing support. Sometimes it’s a couple packages of wipes (THANK YOU!!!). Sometimes it’s several bottles of bug spray so that I don’t become a “mosquito buffet” (THANK YOU!!!!). Sometimes it’s the box of wine that wasn’t consumed fully on the bonding trip (THANK YOU!!!!!). Sometimes it’s a bottle of bubbles that become a day’s worth of entertainment for my ridiculously bored children who take “cabin fever” to a whole new level (THANK YOU!!!!). Sometimes it’s a couple jars of peanut butter, some Pepto tablets, a blow up baby pool, and some band-aids (THANK YOU!!!!). Sometimes it’s an offer to send packages even though I have to unfortunately and regretfully decline as the postage is ridiculously expensive (Pony Express doesn’t swim) and well…customs has “sticky fingers”, but THANK YOU!!!!! Some have offered to visit (THANK YOU!!!).  Sometimes it’s a salad flown in from Miami with blue cheese dressing and a side of a hunk of cheddar cheese – because wonderful friendships, and sisterly love involve cheese and international efforts to accommodate salad urges (THANK YOU!!!!).  And sometimes it’s squeezing toothpaste into 3 oz. containers for special delivery of the only kind of toothpaste that I’m not allergic to (THANK YOU!!!!).

Despite all I’m thankful for, many times in this process I’ve thought, “ok this HAS to be rock bottom”…and then along comes another gust of feverishly horrific wind and I find that what I thought was the worst, the final fall that delivered me to the ultimate “rock bottom”, was just a ledge further down from the edge I spiraled off of long ago. And while I sit, huddled on this little ledge and wait for the sun to shine and the wind to stop blowing; I hear the kindness of others (THANK YOU!!!). I feel the kindness of others (THANK YOU!!!). And I have hope again (THANK YOU!!!). And when the wind knocks me off that ledge and I fall again, I feel the towline of a friend who knows better than anyone else that I need them (THANK YOU!!!). Sometimes it’s a morning call from a friend who is patient enough to talk to me while I’m doing an 8-mile workout. Because she gets that life requires multi-tasking (THANK YOU!!!). Sometimes it’s a text containing my sick kind of humor. Just what I need to put a smile on my face (THANK YOU!!!). Sometimes it’s an autographed book from one of my favorite authors (OMG THANK YOU!!!!).  Sometimes it’s an offer to comb through the details of our agency contract to help me hold them accountable (THANK YOU!!!). Sometimes it’s a message to me here in Haiti to let me know that you are thinking about me (THANK YOU!!!). And sometimes it’s a message containing all the $*&!#$%^$^&#@!!!!!’s that I can’t possibly even begin to try to explain, and that just tells me that you GET it. THANK YOU!!!

I can’t imagine what this process would be like without the hugs, and the tears, and the RHUM PUNCHES that I’ve shared with so many people. I can’t imagine not knowing all of you who’s children I’ve held, and loved, and photographed, and tickled, and sung songs with, and stamped hands of. Each of you is beautiful and I’m so happy to see how each of these adoptions is a perfect fit. You and your children are meant for each other. And witnessing that is healing for me.  I’ve welcomed people to Haiti to meet their children. And I’ve seen them go home with their children. And yes, I’m still here. But THANK YOU for showing me grace and understanding. And THANK YOU for championing me even when you know that it may take a while for me to see it because of the crappy wifi. And THANK YOU for thinking of me on the hard days. And THANK YOU for praying for the good days to come.

The good days are coming. They are.

Many of the moms I have shared this experience with have gone home. They tuck their little ones into bed at night and they finally have the episode of Haitian adoption behind them. But one mom lived this with me. She came to Haiti this past summer with me to work on the remainder of her adoption and take her children home. She is another ultra-crazy adoptive mom who went off the same deep end I did and adopted three children. We have known each other for two years, and just this year we found out that we adopted cousins. Our sons are cousins. Fantastic. What a huge surprise. Of course the boys somehow didn’t realize how amazing this news is, and didn’t really feel the need to tell us. But upon finding out that we too are now family, our bond strengthened even more. We are happy to not only have found new friends in this family, but we are ecstatic to now call them our family as well. It is very exciting to us to know that we can keep our children connected – as a family. And we intend to do yearly family reunions. They will be epic. And loud. Definitely loud. And we are so THANKFUL to have more family now. I am so THANKFUL for her.

When she left Haiti a few weeks back to take her kids home, we had tears and painful “see you soon’s”. We didn’t do the “goodbye”, because we know this was not “goodbye”, but rather a “see you later”, but hopefully “not too much later”, and there were notes of “oh dear god how do we do this without each other”. After four months of living in Haiti and depending on each other for companionship, good times, good laughs, lots of rhum, play dates, pizza parties, birthday parties, swim days, errands and grocery shopping, and all the discoveries along the way, it felt really weird to be separated from my “cousin”. We just “got” each other. In ways that words just can’t explain. We started to speak and understand Kreyol as one functioning person. She could understand better than I could, and I could speak better than she could. And we strongly considered tying ourselves together. Our kids were so natural together and it truly made our time here in Haiti so much better than it would have been had we both done this solo. I’m so thankful that her series of unfortunate events that led to her need to live here was similar to my series of unfortunate events that led to me living here. As much as I hate that either of us has had said series of unfortunate events, if there is anyone I would have liked to spend my time in purgatory with, it’s her. And I think that we both grew and have morsels of friendship and sisterhood from this experience that cannot be replaced with anything outside of the sphere of our captivity on this island. She doesn’t know how much she saved me here. There were so many tears. So many laughs. So many victories. So many failures. So many WTF moments. So many beautifully horrific things that we experienced together and I just can’t imagine what it would have been without her. I’m stronger now, here in Haiti, alone. I wouldn’t have been able to make it this far without her. And as much as it pained us both to give the teary hugs when she left, I know that she and her family are thriving and living and it gives me so much hope to know that the work we’ve done and the time I’ve spent here is making things better for the kids once I take them home.  THANK YOU hundreds of thousands of times over. You may never know how singing that stupid Kesha song in church that day was the only thing that kept me from falling into the fetal position on the floor to commence in an epic panic stricken, full-on hyperventilating cry. And you did it in the blink of an eye.

I know that there will be so many people who will celebrate with us when I can finally leave Haiti. I really truly appreciate that so many will take a huge sigh of relief. They will exhale. They will smile. They will praise. They will celebrate. And I know there is a core group of people who will be able to finally fully enjoy their own victories knowing that we have finally made it home. THANK YOU for feeling this with us. We can't wait to share the feeling of success.

THANK YOU!!! 

Glo

There are so few times that I’ve experienced Haiti at night outside of the walls of our compound. I’ve heard parties and other kinds of celebration in the distance so many times, but frankly have never had the ability to experience a lively nighttime atmosphere here. In many circumstances, there would be absolutely no way that I would leave our apartment and venture out in the dark. But on the rare occasion, we have a safe ride and an opportunity to enjoy ourselves, and we carefully proceed out for an evening.

One of my new favorite places is called Le Observetoire, or The Observatory.  It rests cantilevered off the hillside above the valley that is Port au Prince. You can see all of Port as well as the ocean from the patio of the restaurant. It’s a relatively small place, which is part of why it has such a unique charm. All the seats have a magnificent view of the city. The menu is relatively simple and short, but the food is good, and you can’t beat the view. I would love to be there for sunset one night. Our trip up the mountain to have dinner there was shortly after sunset; and even then with the still and dark night above us, and the sparse twinkle of light below, I was in awe of the scene. I can’t imagine the drama of a sunset in comparison. I would like to go back soon if possible. I highly recommend that anyone who comes to Port and has the means to travel toward the light beacons up on top of the mountain should do so. It is very much worth it.

Another experience we had driving at night was a stark contrast to the beauty that our first night out granted us. This time we were in the back of a tap tap in the rain. I saw a different kind of beauty that night, however. I watched as we rolled forward, with my view of everything behind us moving away from us as we went up and down the hills of Delmas. The streets were freshly wet from a short lasting rain, and they looked so fresh and clean. I could hardly believe this was one of the same streets I’d driven down hundreds of times. Many times I was on the same street prior to it being paved. Moving with ease, I was impressed as I thought about how much has changed in the past two and a half years since I started visiting Haiti. It seemed like no so long ago that we were barely able to inch along on this same road, as there were huge crater holes that allowed for only one car at a time to pass. And now, we were moving along at a rapid enough pace that I could feel the wind blowing my hair about in my face. What a difference. This night, the cool breeze felt so comforting. It was a different kind of night than I had experienced within our walls. The streets were calm. It was quiet. Quite a dichotomy. I don’t recall that street ever having been so calm. It was comforting to feel “at home” in such a foreign capacity. Night.

As we ventured out, it began to rain again. And where there is rain, there is most assuredly going to be an excess of water.  One of the things I fear the most here in Haiti is the water. Especially the water on the street. It is filled with toxins and scary things, and possibly the boogie man. Yes, definitely the boogie man.

We were unlucky enough to get caught in a deluge. We wound up having to walk through a flooding path of water at least six inches deep. What was in that water? Excrement. And other waste. Trash and debris from the vegetation. Tree branches and insects. One bit me. It must have found my foot and clung to me for dear life, sinking into me and then washing away.  That was the water I never wanted to make contact with, and I waded through it holding onto the hand of my extremely cautiously hesitant little boy. I felt everything inside of me flip and turn and well…totally freak out knowing that I was walking through THAT WATER. That water that I could have cried over splashing me.  We were in it. And as I stepped back into the safety and relative comfort of our tap tap, I recalled how many people around me spend their lives living in and around that water. They have experienced it rushing into their homes, their tents, and their schools. Daily.  How many times had THAT WATER washed away their belongings? How many times have people here clung to the few remaining things they have by holding them high above their heads as the water pouring from the sky carried the ground rushing in a current past them, carting way all that they couldn’t hold? It was no longer the calm night it began as.

Very quickly the streets were flooded. Like something after a tsunami. But this is the norm here. Trash floated down the streets in a river. It settled within minutes and filled the craters with puddles of left over wrappers, containers, and debris from the houses. Men swept the streets in their shorts with no shoes and no shirt. They used shovels and brooms and worked in the dark to clear a path for the vehicles that would come bumping along after the rain ceased. Even after spending several months here, I had no idea how much work even something like a regular heavy rain could cause. Most of us think little about a heavy rainstorm. We hear the crack of the thunder, see the sky light up with lightning, and occasionally we might lose power. But it likely will do very little to upset our evening. Most of the time, we might look out the window and take pause at how much rain we are getting. We might have a conversation about how badly the rain is needed. We might see bits of debris and small limbs and leaves on our grounds by morning. But here, rain can be catastrophic. People have to survive floods. They have to comfort their children and hold onto everything they value for dear life until the waters calm and retreat. And when the rain does stop, it becomes someone’s night job to clean up after a storm. Most people find themselves working out in the streets to clean up all the garbage that has floated from blocks away and has come to rest at their gate. They will not just be able to take a look out the window and assess the issue. They have to become part of the clean up and fix it crew. They will have to reassemble the tarps on their tents, and use shovels to clear a path. They will have to find a way to alleviate the flooded areas. By hand if necessary. And with small receptacles, like buckets and bowls.  Some storms must require that these hard working people continue their work all night long if necessary. And it will happen again just about as soon as they clean it up the first time.

Witnessing the efforts that go into daily life here always leaves me so appreciative of how easily I live life by comparison. I don’t usually worry too much about running errands in the U.S. I just get in my car and go. I don’t typically have to fret too much that an impending rainstorm will leave me trapped by currents that hold me hostage with little means to circumvent them. I have never worried that in leaving my home to run out for dinner that I will have to emulate a mass clean up crew just to be able to make it home should there by chance be some precipitation while I’m out. But here, this is the way of life. Haitians know that no one is coming to rescue them. They are their own help. If you want something done, you have to do it yourself.

As we continued through the streets that were chivalrously cleared by our total stranger friends, who looked briefly to acknowledge our attempts to pass, I realized that I very well may have been the only white person out on those streets. I likely looked like a glowing hi-lighter. The beams of light that came to rest on my face must have indicated the stark contrast of my skin tone from that of every other passenger in our vehicle.  I was safe though. I didn’t feel alarmed by being different. I felt that I was simply part of a communal effort to successfully “passé”. The folks who were working hard to clear the streets wanted nothing from me. They were performing the difficult task to ensure that I would be able to get home.

Each street we came to we saw a small crew of men working. And eventually the streets opened again. And as the calm returned in the night and we all let out our well earned yawns, we made it closer to “home”. Back to the walls of familiarity. Where the water didn’t pool. Where everything remained clean and kept. Where we were safe from the daily toils of what it is really like to live in Haiti. Back to our comfort. As we walked toward our apartment soaking wet,  Djedly turned to me, holding my hand, and said, “mom…we must shower.”

“Yes.” I said, and I thought of the next phase of Haitian water that awaited me.

“Ding!”

I am like Pavlov’s dog. Ever since this process began, I’ve jumped every time I hear the “ding” that indicates that my phone has received a new email. I’ve even made my agencies special by indicating that any message from them should immediately show up on my home screen so that I don’t miss even the most basic and redundant news on our adoptions. But really, it’s so that I don’t miss the epic moments that will otherwise cause me to stop dead in my tracks regardless of where I am and dance and rejoice with loud celebratory crying.  So much so am I addicted to my phone that several times daily I find myself trying to force refresh my email. It’s an OBSESSION. There must be something new, right? I checked at 12:20 and now it’s 2:46. That gives my agent time to eat lunch and send an update…yes…obsessed. I think we all are. But I’m just going to put it out there. I AM. After nearly four years in this process and over two and a half years out from receiving our sons referrals, the “ding” needs to start being a little less disappointing.

I think the “ding” has also caused me to become a complete “ding” bat. I feel like I’ve got pregnancy brain. And the more Kreyol I learn, the less English I’m capable of speaking without ridiculous confusion. I’ve forgotten words. Basic words. Seriously. Like cereal. Who forgets what the word for cereal is? What’s makes something like this so ridiculous is that I don’t even know what Kreyol for cereal is. And there’s little use in learning words like cereal now that my children refuse to eat what used to be one of their favorite foods, Corn Flakes. You don’t need to know the Kreyol for cereal, because the kids just call every kind of cereal Korn Flakes anyway. Thus, my total stupidity.

I’m not sure I can inject enough B12 to save my brain at this point. I’m pretty sure that it’s all down hill for me from here. I’m stupid now; but when I take them home I’ll likely become a certifiable moron. I’m guessing it’ll be like the stage right after you have a baby. You nurse, and you could swear that with every feeding your child is literally sucking your brain away. Yep. That’ll be me. Next I’ll forget the words for bread and milk. But luckily I know those in Kreyol. So when I show up at the grocery store feverishly frustrated that I can’t force re-load my email to deliver the almighty “ding” on any news for V, at least I’ll be able to ask the market staff for lecht and pen. Super. And when they cock their heads and wait for me to look up from my phone, hopefully they’ll recall that I’m that lady who has been waiting for four years to bring her kids home. Maybe they’ll forgive my stupidity and obsession with the “ding” when they see me chase V down the same cereal aisle I stood in when we got news that our file went into IBESR for her and I literally jumped up into the air and shouted in happiness – drawing all kinds of attention from people who likely still remember the crazy woman at the store who jettisoned from a normal leisurely stroll into full on break dance and party mojo in the otherwise fairly no frills organic cereal aisle. Yep. If you were there, that girl is me.

For those of you who are experiencing me in this epic disaster that is my adoptions, please know that one day I hope to retain a semblance of my life that doesn’t involve having half of my heart on the other side of an ocean. Hopefully one day I will be able to put the phone back in my purse instead of having it sit next to my plate at lunch with friends. Hopefully I will sit on the couch with all of my kids one day without having the potential news from Haiti in my pocket. Hopefully Monday, Wednesday, and Friday will become regular days of the week instead of the eagerly awaited and ultimately sorely disappointing days of the week. Hopefully there will one day be the final “ding” that indicates that V has received approval and it is time to book the flight to bring her home.

But until then, thank you for your continued patience. Love, the “ding” bat.

The TRUTH is the TRUTH is the TRUTH is the TRUTH

There are so many truths listed in this blog post. Please read it and know that I couldn’t have said this any better.

Though I love that my children have received attention and love for a micro-week at a time through the outreach of kind hearted people who travel to Haiti to work on mission trips, I agree that what Carla points out in her blog post. Our children are not members of a petting zoo. They are broken and fragmented little people who need to be loved. But they need consistent and reliable love. They don’t need to be the subject of a photo shoot that is shared with the world. Their lives, their stories, and their image are theirs. If I could tell the amazing people who have loved my children one thing before they visit and love on them for a week, it would be to please keep my children’s hearts in mind. Please understand that they are not fodder for your personal growth. They are in a place of abandonment and the more you love them and leave them, the more they build their emotional walls. Please love them. Please know that I love that you love them. But please remember that they have a family who is trying desperately to bring them home. They are not “orphans” any longer. They are someone’s child. They are someone’s sibling. And they mean the world to us. They are with us every second of the day. They are in every heartbeat. They are in every breath. So please, go and build, and paint, and pray and nourish. But remember to first do no harm.

I wish that I could say that none of these items applied to our crèche and our adoption process, but alas, I truly identify with every single point made.

http://carlaburlando.blogspot.com/2013/11/how-to-screw-up-orphan-care-in-name-of.html?m=1

We Are All SO Over this

To try to explain the massive gaping hole I have in my heart when I’m not with three members of my family would be like explaining how man made it to the moon. No matter where I am, I have three members of my family on the other side of an ocean. There is not a day that passes when I don’t yearn for everyone to be together. I can’t wait for the bickering and the extra clutter and the sticky light switches and the yelling and constant banter that will be the chaos of our lives once they are all home. Because there will also be the joy, the excitement, the happiness, the fulfillment of knowing that we actually succeeded in this disastrous process and our lives can return to their normal state of utter chaos.  My soul absolutely aches for my children to be home.

I am in the midst of a reversal of roles at the present time. For so long, I’ve left the boys and V in Haiti to come back home to the states and live the remnants of my life that are non-adoption related. But now that I’m living in Haiti, I’m doing the opposite. I’ve been visiting the states for a week or so and then leaving Britt and Leo and J in the emotional puddles that I’ve left the other three in for so long. And it’s a horrible exchange, but for now it has been necessary.

I am coping. We are all coping. But there are the days and nights that are absolutely unbearable. And I find myself in the fetal position at 3 am crying silently and wishing I were lying next to Leo. I feel like my kids think I’ve chosen to abandon them in search of an answer to get their siblings home. And none of it is fair to anyone. I miss all of my kids so much that it hurts. I feel physical pain. And I can’t wait for the day that my body can rest. Really rest. And wake and it’ll all be behind us. My dreams will return instead of the horrid nightmares that consume my attempt at sleep now. I want to be able to breathe again. I want to be able to live again. Truly live. Not in a daily – let’s try to get through this - kind of way. A real way that involves appointments and homework and dinner and chasing the dogs to get underwear off their heads. I want to find myself in that tizzy every mom finds herself in because her children are running amuck and haven’t done their homework because they’re off having too much fun. I’m not sure my kids know what having too much fun means anymore. I’m not sure the boys have ever experienced too much fun to begin with.

The current status we’re all trying to function through SUCKS. Britt feels like I’ve died. Leo calls me Dad. We’re missing life together. And did I mention that it SUCKS?!!! In February, we bought tickets to the traveling Broadway show Lion King. We thought that surely the boys would finally be home in time for the September run in Pittsburgh. And we knew that the boys’ obsession with all things Lion King would be a perfect way to introduce them to Broadway “light” so to speak. As the months crept by, I started to get nervous that we wouldn’t be home for the show. So we moved the date. Twice. We exchanged our amazing tickets for seats that were less than amazing and opted for nosebleed seats in the very last possible show of the run…hoping that we would be able to bring them home just in time for the curtain to rise and all the magnificence of the Lion King to emerge and blow their minds. I wanted so badly to see Parker on the edge of his seat. He would have been delighted and likely would have been singing along in his head to every song. And Djedly would have cupped his face in his hands, half hiding his smile shyly, and then point and say to me, “Mom! Simba!!” And as September came upon us I spoke with the director of the orphanage about the likelihood that the boys would come home in time. He told me that he thought the boys would come home in the first part of October. Just barely missing the show. It was crushing, but I was encouraged to know that he thought things were progressing and that perhaps if we had to exchange family opportunities, that at least I would have the boys home for Halloween. But no. It is now December 6 and we sit in Haiti with falsified documents that are several months from being embassy ready.

We were not home for the baseball playoffs in Pittsburgh. A once in a lifetime opportunity missed. Again. And we were not home to see the amazing 40 foot duck that visited our town for several weeks. Back when the duck was in its home stretch in our town, these were my thoughts:

The 40 ft. rubber ducky will only be in Pittsburgh for 8 more days. So we've essentially missed the duck. We missed Lion King. And the Greek Fests. And the Pirates playoffs. Leo stopped sucking his thumb, sleeps in his own room, has grown at least two inches, and has joined a bowling league (seriously amazing). Britt is finishing a season on both the JV and varsity soccer teams, and I didn't get to attend a single game. Tonight we missed the 10-year anniversary of our beloved Chillith Fest.

Cue fiddle.

Instead of sharing my amazing bed with the huz, or sharing my bed with the amazing huz, I share my stack of bricks and springs with ants. I share my shower with mosquitos. I share my kitchen with lizards. I share my food with an unidentifiable insect…mmmmkay, the insect wins. I don't want to share. And this week marks the 28 month anniversary of signing Djedly's referral. Parker no longer believes he is coming home, despite my insistence that a passport is coming...and I've stopped using the word soon.

I HAVE NO IDEA WHEN WE WILL BE COMING HOME. Just making that known.My cup may be half empty, but thankfully I'm on an island with a LOT of rhum to fill it up with.

Three months later I still don’t know when we will be coming home. And I’ve consumed quite a bit of rhum. I’ve wept on the stairway of my apartment just out of view of my boys more times than I can count. I’ve sat up at night listening to the dogs bark in the distance…the gunshots closer than I’d like them to be, and the heckle of the confused roosters who clearly think that midnight is the new dawn…and in all this time I do a lot of thinking. I think about how much I miss Britt and Leo and J. I think about all the time that we are not spending together. I think about all the days that they come home and I’m not there to help with homework, hear a story about their day, have a laugh, give them a hug, tell them I love them…or just snuggle on the couch and catch up on t.v. and let our minds be numb…be normal. I miss being “normal”. I want my bland, regular, no frills life back. Ok I’m seriously understating how our lives are normally…but I would trade packing several 70 lb. hockey bags and hauling my ass to Haiti every 8 weeks for bland right now. I would trade living in Haiti for the cold and gray of Pittsburgh right now. I would trade my flip-flops for my Uggs right now. Oh Uggs…we will have to break up because I am now fully aware of how you are made (if you want to be informed google the pink/peta youtube video and prepare to be incredibly upset). But getting back to what I would trade…I just want my life to be what it should be. And right now it should be me sticking my frozen feet on my husband’s torso because it’s so FREAKING COLD IN PITTSBURRRRRRRRRGH. Instead I’ve swept a few ants off of my bed here in Haiti and I’m curling up in a position that won’t allow the spring that has sprung to invade the space that discomforts my ribs. And I will lie here and think of sweet Leo in his bed with his custom Rhino valentine that I made him tucked into the bottom of Djedly’s mattress in their bunk bed right where he can see it as he falls asleep; and hope that he looks at it every night and knows that I love him way too much. And I hope that Britt knows when she hits the ground running every morning that I’m so proud of her and that I can’t wait to come home and catch up on all that I’m missing. And I hope that she knows that I miss her and think about her and worry about her every day. And I hope she knows that I love her.  I hope that when J rises around the time that I finally go to sleep (and he proclaims that it’s, “time to make the donuts”), and while he works all day long to continue to pay for me to live here with the boys; that he knows how much I love him and appreciate what he does to keep the remainder of our family safe, and healthy, and loved while I’m here. I hope that they all know that I’m with them every day even when I’m on the other side of this ocean. I’m with them. And they are with me.

As much as I feel that with wifi issues and crappy cel service here, that I am on the dark side of the moon; I hope they feel my love. I hope they know that I’m doing everything I can to get home to them as soon as possible. And preferably with two very sweet brown boys in tow.  Because we are all SO over this.

All about the duck: (please come back duck…)

http://www.pittnews.com/arts_and_entertainment/article_2155c05c-2666-11e3-a6de-0019bb30f31a.html

http://www.post-gazette.com/stories/local/neighborhoods-city/feathers-ruffled-704266/

http://www.pittsburghmagazine.com/Pittsburgh-Magazine/June-2013/This-Giant-Rubber-Duck-is-Coming-to-Take-Over-the-Three-Rivers/

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.