THIS IS HOW IT SHOULD BE

2014. Morning one of the new year. I had just kissed the boys goodnight after welcoming them to the year they would finally go home, and we were waking already. As tired as I was, after a few blinks and a radical adjustment to the light of Haiti pouring into the windows, I woke up to the sound of children laughing. Playing. Singing. This is the sound of Hope House.

I recently saw an idea that I’m implementing for this year. I am planning to write one thing each day that I am thankful for. And today I am thankful that I started the year in the company of beautiful people who have given themselves to Haiti and her people. And because of this family, I woke to the beautiful sound of happy children. They are happy. They are loved. They are living. Not just existing. They are living and thriving because they are being cared for properly and responsibly.  They live in a home. They play with toys. They receive love and continual interaction. They play house, and they play kitchen, and they count, and they run, and they swing. They even stage their own big wheel Indy 500 around the play yard. THIS IS HOW IT SHOULD BE.

Every orphanage is a temporary solution for a horrific injustice a child is caught in the middle of. It’s not their choice. Their reality is the that of cause and effect. Their time spent in this limbo should be designed to not only meet their needs, but to keep them happy and allow them to thrive spiritually, mentally, healthily, socially and lovingly.

I’ve only begun to scratch the surface here in Haiti. But from what I’ve seen thus far, I have been horrified by the living conditions of most of the children I’ve met. I wouldn’t keep an animal in the room my boys lived in. I might store a rake or a shovel. A lawn mower and a can of gasoline would be fine too. But never children. From what I’ve seen, due to the vast need for care, orphanages take in many more children than they can support responsibly. And the burden on the system drives the demand for more donations, and more funding that is simply not always available. The demand also weakens the already struggling infrastructure and rapidly diminishes the delivery of accurate and responsibly timed adoption processing.

Due to the inherent struggles of catering to the needs of over one hundred children, our kids experienced little more than their basic needs being met. In the many days that I’ve spent at our orphanage, I rarely saw games being played, artwork being done, songs being sung by the children, outdoor play including toys or equipment other than a sparsely used playground apparatus. I rarely saw toys at all. Even soft and plush toys, or sensory toys for the children who aren’t mobile.  It was explained to me that the 180 dolls I made and brought to Haiti on our first trip were “loved to death” within a month to two of bringing them. It was later further explained to me that the children ripped them apart, threw them on the roof, and well…destroyed them. Why? They were so pleased with the gifts; and I felt so fulfilled knowing that they could all choose from the large bags when we offered them two a piece.  As I made my way around the orphanage I was startled by the conditions my sweet little boy called home. And in those moments I was so happy that I was bringing joy. I was giving them a possession. They had no personal items, other than possibly their toothbrushes. But these dolls were theirs. They got to choose them and keep them. That was the plan anyway. They had something of their own. To play with. To love. To hold. To hug. To cry into. To laugh with. Theirs. Why did they destroy them? Because the nannies were outnumbered at least 6 to 1. There was no one to stop the madness of their fighting and jealousies over who had which doll. There was nowhere to keep the treasures that I had given them. And like much of the other donations brought to our orphanage, they were eventually destroyed, thrown away, hidden, or possibly given to other people.

In addition to dolls I brought, I’ve delivered ride on toys, Little Tikes building sets, Barbies, Legos, foam blocks, musical instruments, sensory toys, laptops and learning programs, shoes and clothing, food, baby baths, portable cribs, bouncy seats, Bumbo seats, blankets, school supplies, art supplies, medical supplies, toiletries, formula, diapers, wipes, medications, storage containers, utensils and cups, and gifts for children from their parents. And though I’ve seen some of the items that I’ve brought used, the vast majority disappeared. I have found that our financial donations seem to evaporate as well. To be fair – the laptops are being used by the director of the orphanages family. Just to clear up where those disappeared to. Instead of being used by the kids in the school as planned…well, they’re being used by kids. His kids. His daughters wear my daughter’s hand me down’s. The clothing that doesn’t require zipping, buttoning, clasping, or tying. The perfect orphanage clothing that will require little mending to be comfortable. But I guess those donations were considered too nice to be worn by the children who run and play among the cement and dirt and rocks. Those clothes were saved for the children who live in a home.  With their loving parents. Kids who go to school. Who play with toys. Who must have needed this clothing much more than the children at our orphanage who wear clothing that is torn and falls off of them. Surely there is an explanation for everything, right?

I am tired of the waste. Our children’s lives. Our time. Our money. Our efforts. Our donations. Our patience. I’m tired of wasting it all. I have seen so much waste. The time wasted alone is catastrophic and overwhelming to think about. I have seen wasted efforts. I have seen the clothing and shoes I brought for my son on the staff. I have been asked to buy new shoes for my children knowing that the last pairs of new shoes I brought were never used for my children. I've been told that the $300 we pay per month for our children is not enough. I've been told that what we have brought is not enough. I have been told that the items I have donated that I’ve witnessed elsewhere were bound to be destroyed by the children at our orphanage so they were taken elsewhere to be used by others. But that I needed to bring more.

I can’t count how many times I’ve heard people quote the bible and refer to orphans in Haiti as “the least of these”.  My children and their friends are the least of nothing. They are humans. They deserve love and compassion. They deserve a proper and ethical and responsible and legal process. They have a family. And they deserve to come home. And while they’re STUCK, they deserve to be treated like humans. How do we expect children to behave like appropriate and honorable and trusting and loving humans when they are treated like animals or worse? They deserve better. They shouldn’t be corralled and treated like a meal ticket with a number. They shouldn't be caged by being tied into a crib to limit their play time because there aren't enough people to watch over them. They shouldn't be tied down when they're sick because the staff is so limited that they can't keep an eye on a child hooked up to an I.V. I hope that my daughter doesn't remember being tied down, because sadly, she is so use to it that I have gotten photos of her smiling while all four of her limbs are tied to the sides of a crib. Smiling. Because this is normal and she is coping.

What I know now is that my instincts were dead on from day one. IT SHOULD NOT BE DONE THIS WAY. IT DOES NOT HAVE TO BE LIKE THIS. IT SHOULD NEVER BE LIKE THIS. OUR CHILDREN DESERVE BETTER.

I’ve seen HOW IT SHOULD BE DONE. It’s obtainable, reasonable, and possible to properly, ethically, responsibly, and lovingly run an orphanage where children live happily, without abuse, with comfort, with toys, with education, with love, with faith, with promise, and with hope.

It’s called HOPE HOUSE. Hope House is the orphanage for The Haiti Foundation Against Poverty. That may be a recognizable name, because they’ve earned their reputation for doing an amazing job with several different programs here in Haiti. They have a school as well as a clinic, to name a few of their projects. And their orphanage is considered a pillar and example of how things should be done here in Haiti. It is small and very new, but in the year since they opened their doors to adoptions, they have sent 1/3 of the children they love – HOME. Of the children who entered IBESR (Haitian social services) last year when V should have been submitted, every single one of them went home in November 2012. Children submitted in that time frame from our orphanage are still in Haiti waiting for documents that should have been obtained months ago. The Hope House children are with their loving families. They have been delivered from their home here in Haiti to their forever families in the states. Even with this being their first crack at adoptions; still getting their feet wet in the process, and still establishing their street cred here in Haiti, they have accomplished getting more children home in their first year than our orphanage sent home in the span of January 2010 and November of 2012. That’s quite an accomplishment. How? How have they been able to do this? Because they do not seek their bread and butter from running their orphanage. They run their orphanage compassionately and responsibly with the sole goal of uniting the children with their forever families. They seek no delays. They properly deal with all complications. They are honest. They are punctual. And they are committed to ensuring that the children have true advocacy. There is no time buffered in their process. They work diligently for the children and their families. But while they are housing the children, and beyond, these children are their family. Considering that for the first two three years that my youngest son lived in our orphanage the director didn’t know his name, I would guess that five years from now our director may know little about my boys other than the fact that he found their mom to be a colossal pain in his ass. But the loving family at Hope House will not only be acutely aware of the uniqueness of every single child they housed, but they will know and love every single one of their families and continue to remain an active part of their lives.

THIS IS HOW IT SHOULD BE.

Hope House is not the only place in Haiti doing adoptions responsibly, professionally, legally, ethically, and lovingly; but they have my respect and I am loving them for doing it the right way! Please read about the amazing ways they spread love and give Haiti hope!

http://haitipoverty.org

http://haitipoverty.org/Projects.aspx

If you have bought a “Hearts for Haiti” painting from me then you now know where your money has been sent. The campaign will continue once I return home and can get back to painting. Thank you for your participation. If you’re interested in purchasing a custom Heart painting to benefit the children of Hope House and The Haiti Foundation Against Poverty, please feel free to send me a message and I’ll be in touch.

Heart paintings (better photos) can be seen on FB:

https://www.facebook.com/groups/wildrootcreations/

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Wild-Root-Creations/120354501379572

Or you can view really outdated (and poor) photos of heart paintings on my website, which is in dire need of a serious facelift here:

http://www.wildrootcreations.com/index2.php#/gallery1/5/

Thank you to Hope House for providing me a refreshing view of the amazing work you do here in Haiti. Thank you for loving Haiti and her people. Thank you for setting the example of HOW IT SHOULD BE.

Proof that there is a Santa Clause: A Boy and His Sword

Leading up to Christmas, Parker and Djedly watched a few holiday movies. And each time there was an opportunity for Djedly to talk about Santa, Parker would squint his eyes, and lift his top lip and push his nose up and scowl and say, “there is no Santa. He not real.” And in my head I would smack him. But in reality, I would reply and tell him that it saddened me that he had lost his magic. Well…he never had it, likely. Here in Haiti, magic is very different concept than most of us are use to. Magic can be evil. It is not a miraculous, twinkly, incredible concept. So this took some explaining. And when I had a quick moment alone with Parker I explained to him that we believe in keeping the magic alive for the children in our home. I told him that he could choose not to believe in the magic of Christmas, but if he did want to participate that he might just be surprised that Santa listens and watches and knows what the perfect gifts to give special kids who believe in the magic and let the soft, warm jolly glow of the season fill their hearts. Yes, he knows that Santa is a figment. I’m not trying to pull a fast one on a 13 year old. But I wanted him to have a sense of wonderment and participate in the Christmas spirit as well as the secret. So he agreed not to tell Djedly and Leo what we had discussed. And from that day forward, he was not so negative and critical about Christmas.

In fact, by the time J and the kids arrived, Parker was delighted to see the pieces of our Christmas tree come together. And he was inquisitive and excited to see all the ornaments ($1 store – HOLLA) spread out across our table. He helped Djedly and Leo put hooks on each one of them. And then J and I sat back and watched four of our five children decorate our tree. They were together. Making the magic happen. The soft glow of Christmas filled the room, and the warmth of our hearts came along with it. That feeling had been achieved. Yes, we were forced by circumstance to recreate our advent on a tropical island. Yes it is far from the snow globe of a white Christmas we all hoped to have. There was no amazing Christmas Eve dinner. No last minute screaming at kids to keep their nice clothes clean before piling into the car to slide around in the slush on the way to J’s church where we would snore through the service. Sorry J but I think we would all have more fun if we attend the black church. Plus you would look fantastic in a shiny purple suit with a matching hat with a peacock feather. Just sayin’. Love you. Mean it. But yeah…

What we did have was almost everybody. Almost. We didn’t have a toddler running like a daredevil toward the tree in tackle mode. But we had time. And we had grace. And we had fun. We played Christmas carols and watched the kids put several ornaments in a clump on one side of the tree. We reminisced that we had fulfilled J’s lifelong desire to have the Charlie Brown Christmas Tree, because we definitely had a very good version of it. We watched and we smiled. And we were happy. We had the closest thing to what we really wanted and needed that we could possibly have. We finally had the boys with us for Christmas. We have hoped and wished and cried and screamed and prayed and longed for the year that we would finally see them tumble down the stairs and stare in wonderment at packages delivered secretly while they slumbered. And while there were no footed jammies and crème brulee French toast baking while the packages were vigorously torn apart, we had a small and happy present exchange. We got to watch as they cautiously ripped open their packages and examined the contents with fresh eyes. They had never had a Christmas like this. And we were able to give them their first. There are so few firsts that we will have with them. That’s the breaks with adopting older children who you may never see a baby photo of. You have no idea when they started to walk. You will never have a hand stamp from kindergarten. Or when they lost their first tooth. You will never know what their first word was. But this was their first Christmas. A real Christmas. With a tree. And reindeer. And lights. And packages. And ornaments.  And us.

My favorite moment of the morning came when Parker started to open his Santa gifts. He slowly opened the package. I could see Britt and Leo sitting on either side of him looking like they were about to rupture; urging him to fiercely rip it open and reveal the surprise inside. Instead, he thoughtfully opened it, expecting to be disappointed by the contents. I could see the look of glaze plastered across his face. Until he opened the box. And his eyes immediately shot up to me. He looked back down and as his smile emerged, which he was clearly trying to force back, he had a knowing look on his face. A look that said, “holy shiz I got EXACTLY what I wanted.” And then J handed him another package. A long and slender wrapped gift. And the smile could no longer be contained. It was the perfect finishing touch to the super pack of Ninja accoutrements he had already received. A sword. He now had all possible Ninja issuance. Stars, weird Asian shoes, belts, daggers, a hood, a kimono and pants, and a sword with a sheath and strap.

There is no way to tell whether he will ever again have a Christmas moment as surprisingly fulfilling as this; but I will always cherish knowing that we were able to give him his first. He felt everything that Christmas is about.  And now he is in full- blown Ninja glory Heaven.

Thank you Santa.

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