Rejoicing in the Day

We have taken Isabella out in public a couple of times since we arrived home three weeks ago.  She has done fine each time, snuggled in close to me in the wrap, but is obviously happiest when we are home.  Here at home, Isabella is relaxed and secure -- a very happy baby.  She cries when she is hungry or tired, and the rest of the time smiles, plays, and loves on us (she gives slobbery kisses now!).  Laughing or crying, she is a joy.

I am constantly in awe that Isabella was created for our family.  The heartache and pain that brought her to us reflects an imperfect world, yet was part of God's perfect plan.  Our family is full of love, joy, happiness, peace, and contentment in this day that the Lord has made, and we rejoice and are glad in it.   

 

 



Irksome Immigration Notice

Yesterday, we received a Department of Homeland Security U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services I-797C Notice of Action - Appointment Notice, instructing Isabella to appear at the USCIS office three hours away at 8 a.m. on February 16, so that USCIS may "capture [her] biometrics."  Uh, say what? 

Everyone else that we have talked to says that their I-797C Notice of Action says "Welcome..." with no mention of an appointment.  SO... I call the telephone number on the notice.  That call goes about as well as expected.

First, I listen to the menu options.  At about the seventh option that does not describe the purpose of my call, I decide to be smart and press '0' for an operator.  USCIS has anticipated my move, and has the phone system set to punish me:  the menu options restart.  I am a fast learner: this time, I let the menu options run all the way through... and confirm that none of the nine options suit me.  The menu restarts a third time, and I press '2' -- it still doesn't fit my situation, since my situation hasn't changed in the past 20 minutes, but pressing something seems like the best plan.

Success! This new menu includes an option to speak with a representative.  A live person.  Perfect.  "Please hold..."

The music is easy to tune out.  I begin to ignore, when suddenly the background music is interrupted by an important message:

"The fees that you pay for filing an application or petition are used to process your form and [insert dramatic pause] they are NONREFUNDABLE!" 

Huh. 

The music resumes.  I am just beginning to tune it out again when another message is given by the same cheerily ominous male voice:

"To prevent delays, please review your application package. Make sure that you have included all of the necessary documentation before submitting it to USCIS."

Seriously? Has any person in the history of mankind ever heard one of these witty reminders and thought OH THANK YOU! What a great thought, let me hang up now and get right on that!

I spend the rest of my time on hold (40 minutes, but who's counting?) trying to guess what the next reminder will be. Each successive message is as inane as the last.  I start making a list of suggestions for future public service messages:

To prevent delays, please place the correct postage on your application. If you fail to do so, your application may be returned to you by the U.S. Postal Service.

Exercise caution when sealing your application. Paper cuts from licking the envelope seal may be painful, and treatment of any resulting infection is NOT a reimbursable or tax deductible expense.

Make sure that you have adjusted the volume on your telephone to a safe level to prevent hearing loss caused by listening to boringly unhelpful hints at high decibels.

Do not drive to your appointment under the influence of drugs or alcohol. Driving while intoxicated may cause death, serious injury, and property damage, and may further delay your application.

My self-amusement is cut short when my call is finally answered.  I ask whether the appointment was set in error, given that Isabella is just seven months old and no one else seems to have heard of this.  Do they really intend to take her fingerprints or other biometrics? 

"Yes, USCIS needs to take her photograph for her green card."

Me:  "Really?  You want me to drive 160 miles over a mountain pass, in February, with an infant in the back seat, so that you can take her photograph? Is there any way around this?" 

"No.  We must take her photograph.  Would you like me to repeat this information?"

I bite my tongue.  Saying the first thing that comes to mind would probably end with black SUVs in my driveway and Jack Bauer shouting in the background "Do you trust me? RUN!"

Instead, I force myself to say thank you as if I might actually mean it, hang up, and promptly call a friend to find out if the green card comes into play at any point in the citizenship application process.  It doesn't, so I decide to check the box on the Appointment Notice "Please reschedule my appointment."  Isabella will not be applying for employment or traveling internationally in the next few months, so why not skip the green card? 

My plan: to keep rescheduling the appointment until our readoption is finalized and the citizenship application is approved, then tell USCIS that they can keep the green card.  Politely, of course. 

We'll see how that works out for us...

Numbers Matter

May we each strive to provide complete and accurate information as we diligently advocate for international adoption, lest the devil be in the detail we omit.

Grandma and The Mission. Grandma recently came across a photo of the first girl that she sponsored through *** Mission, a charity that has provided care and training to destitute women and children in India for over 100 years. Laughing, she explained that as a poor college student and later struggling teacher, she looked forward to the annual updates from the girl that she pinched pennies to support. After several years, however, she noticed that the girl never seemed to age as much as one would expect.

Grandma realized that the idea that she was supporting a particular girl was a fundraising myth, although the *** Mission itself was real and the good that it was doing in the community was real. She started donating to the *** Mission generally, giving up the idea that a particular child, whose picture she could put on her fridge and whose letter she could read, was being helped by her particular dollars. Forty years later, she continues to support the *** Mission.

Bad means to a good end. That memory led to a discussion of the challenges and temptations that charities face when fundraising. Every organization has overhead expenses, and most of its activities are carried out by “workmen worthy of their hire,” not volunteers. Yet donors are just ordinary people with the usual weaknesses, often motivated more by a particular idea than the overall charitable activity. It is more gratifying to donate to “send Mary to school for a year” then to “pay for the postage on our fundraising materials” or “pay our accountant.” For Mary to go to school, however, all of the expenses must be paid, and expenses are not easily broken down by individual. An organization’s overhead may average out to $500 per child, but each additional child helped does not add $500 in incremental expense.

So it is that good charities have given in to the temptation of having multiple donors sponsor the same child, or presenting one child as a caricature of many other children who do not have as compelling of a look, story, or letter. It would be easy to stop donating to a charity that is caught in a lie, but in the end Grandma showed compassion and understanding, and has helped support countless other children who she will never receive letters from.

Other charities have found a way to balance presenting information in a way that motivates people to give, while at the same time disclosing how funds are pooled and that your particular dollar does not go to a particular child or a particular item.  For example, we love Heifer International and the practical, helping-people-help-themselves assistance that they provide. In their Gift Catalog, one may check a box and send money for a particular animal, like "$120 for a goat" for a family in Ethiopia, or "$5,000 for Noah's Ark,"  pairs and trios of every animal on the list, to be shared with families around the world.  This motivates people. In the fine print, however, I found the disclosure that I was looking for: "Gifts made through this catalog represent a gift to the entire mission. . . . We use your gifts where they can do the most good by pooling them with the gifts of others to help transform entire communities."  

The truth matters. A lie, no matter how well-intentioned or justifiable, undermines the credibility of the entire organization and can be the death of a good charity. Likewise, numbers related to orphans matter. Using inaccurate numbers, even inadvertently, strengthens the position of opponents to international adoption and puts at risk the very thing that we are working so hard to support. One writer describes the misuse of statistics as creating a “myth of a world orphan crisis,” even as he himself admits that there are thousands of children (albeit not 160 million orphans) in need of a loving home. By perpetuating inflated numbers, we are buying into the same worldview: that it is the many that matter, not the few.

Personal bias. Before I go any further, I should confess my bias. My father passed away when I was eight. As the oldest of four children, I was acutely aware of how hard my mother worked to provide a stable, loving home despite our circumstances, which were (in hindsight) sometimes heartbreaking, often challenging, and always tougher without Dad. I am very proud of my mother, and all the more defensive when I see other widows in similar positions overlooked or dismissed despite the love and care that they are providing for their children.

160 million orphans… or not. UNICEF defines an orphan as anyone who has lost at least one parent. This definition can be helpful in a certain context: in developing countries, where life is fragile in the best of circumstances, children who have lost at least one parent are statistically more vulnerable, and single-parent households need our particular love and support to thrive.  Well-meaning people and organizations, however, often equate a child that is technically an “orphan” as a child in need of a loving home, and that is simply not the case. Most orphans have a surviving parent, and most continue to live with a parent, grandparent or other family member. Every time I read something like “147 million children need someone to tuck them in at night,” I am offended on behalf of every widow and widower out there who sacrifices daily to provide a loving home for their children.

Accurate numbers. UNICEF estimates that 13% of the orphans in developing countries (21 million) have lost both parents. Of these “double” orphans, most (over 90%) live with surviving family members. This means that there are still tens of thousands of double orphans in need of a home, not to mention the many more children whose surviving parent(s) have relinquished or abandoned them because they are unable to care for them. One child in need of a home is one child too many.  1%  (not 15%) of the population in Ethiopia is HIV positive; that is still too many.  4% (not 25%) of women die in childbirth; that is still too many.  The life expectancy of Ethiopians is 55 (not 45); that is still too short.  The most accurate statistics about Ethiopia are still heartbreaking, and help to describe the desperate circumstances facing the average Ethiopian family and explain why in-country adoption is not yet a viable option for children who are in urgent need of a home.

Christ loves the one. Throughout the Bible, there are examples of how much God cares for each individual child of His. Examples that come to mind as I type this at 2 a.m.: Abraham’s discussion about Sodom and Gomorrah, that ends with Abraham asking if God would spare the city if there were but one righteous man, the parable of the prodigal son, whose individual return is celebrated, and the shepherd who leaves his flock to search for the one sheep that is lost. We should be just as motivated, just as eager, to seek out the one child in need of a home, regardless of whether the total number is in the tens of thousands or hundreds of millions.

One family, one child. I am not advocating adoption from Ethiopia because of the five million children who have lost at least one parent. I am advocating adoption because of the one child left on a street corner who needs a loving family rather than a life that ends in prostitution or suicide.  International adoption, while not ideal, is that one child’s best option given the current challenges facing Ethiopia. 5% of Christians do not need to adopt to solve a world crisis of 160 million orphans, mythical or otherwise. One family needs to adopt – internationally or domestically, love knows no borders - to bless and be blessed by the one child in very real need of a loving family that he may otherwise never have.

For some of the most up-to-date orphan statistics, including those above, see The State of the World’s Children, 2010, UNICEF. For many other statistics, interpretations and extrapolations, please see my July 1 post labeled “Statistics,” which has over fifteen source citations.   

Family Photo Ops

Isabella is 7 months old today, and we have had her in our arms forever for three weeks. God is good!

OKAY... so...  after setting down firm rules that no one may hold Isabella except us for the first few months, she seems to be settling in so well that we are already letting immediate family members hold her for 30 second photo ops.  Isabella does not seem to mind too much, although if we do not take her back quickly she will start to cry -- a good sign of attachment, which makes us happy.

Here is Isabella with Grandma, Aunt Kristen, a few of her cousins, and Matthew (of course). 

 

 

First Doctor Visit

Well, technically this was probably not her first doctor's visit -- a pediatrician visits Hannah's Hope regularly, and Isabella had a couple of exams there.  This was Isabella's first visit to a doctor's office though.  She is officially 25.5 inches and 14.9 pounds, with a head circumferance of 17 inches. 

The exam went well:  Isabella is perfectly perfect - and healthy! - in every way.  The wheezing is a lingering symptom of GERD, which she is outgrowing; it should continue to subside over the next few weeks as she continues to develop.

Our biggest decision was what to do about Isabella's immunizations.  The record of shots that she received in Ethiopia was sketchy.  Niether we nor our doctor were comfortable trusting the record, and a blood test to confirm the antibodies in her system is cost-prohibitive. 

We followed our doctor's recommendation, and started her with her 4 month shots.  Even if she has not effectly had her 2 month shots, by the time she is one year old, she will have "caught up" and the immunizations will be effective.  We are not concerned about the possibility of repeating some immunizations, because what most physicians, including our family doctor, say about immunization safety makes a lot of sense to us. 

Shots were traumatic.  Against a lot of the attachment advice out there, I opted to stay with her - I couldn't leave her alone - but by the end of three shots in her legs and a heal poke, I was ready to cry with her.  Poor baby! 

P.S. My eyes are almost back to normal, and my energy is slowly coming back as well. Imagined health problems averted! If I could just get myself on Isabella's schedule and sleep from 8:30 p.m. - 4:30 a.m. I would be doing even better. I just cannot make myself go to sleep that early though!

Let's Rock the Orphanage!

Over thirty Special Mothers and staff at Hannah's Hope provide incredible care to each precious child. Unfortunately, they often do so sitting in incredibly uncomfortable sagging stuffed armchairs, balancing on traditional wooden stools, or even sitting on the floor. We recently had the privilege of delivering two rocking chairs, including this one.

 It warmed our hearts to see a baby being rocked to sleep, possibly for the first time in his young life. The director at Hannah's Hope has assured us that they would love more rocking chairs.

Please visit RockTheOrphanage and consider the different ways that YOU can help:

- Spread the word by linking to this site on Facebook, your blog, etc.
- Host a fundraising event in your church or community.
- Contribute - no amount is too small!
- Pray that God will provide for all of the needs of the children who wait.

THANK YOU!

One Week Home!

One week ago today we walked into our home with Isabella.  What a wonderful week it has been!

Isabella is happy to report that her parents are quick learners:  already they have mastered the art of jumping when she hints at crying, and they are pretty reliable at feeding her every 3.5 hours on the dot.  Diaper changes are still an adventure.  How mommy managed to get Desitin on her foot, tummy, and arm, all in one changing, is a mystery.  Mom and Dad also violated the feeding recommendations last night, filling her tummy with rice cereal in an effort to steal a few more hours of uninterrupted sleep. It worked... and Isabella didn't seem to mind too much.  What she missed eating at the midnight feeding, she made up for the rest of the day. 

Matthew is doing well.  Having Isabella home is certainly an adjustment, but he is a trooper.  He loves Isabella so much, the closest that he has come to complaining is telling Grandma "there are a lot of new rules!"  Rule number one:  we are QUIET when Isabella is sleeping.  That is a tough one when you are a 4-year old boy.  When she is awake, he cannot get enough of her:

Fortunately, she thinks he is the greatest thing since Avent binkies. 

We did come home with some minor health challenges.  Isabella has a constant wheeze.  Initially we thought that she was aspirating her spit up, but since we have had her home and on Enfamil AR formula, she has been keeping her food down very well.  We are looking forward to getting her checked out by our family doctor on Monday. 

Meanwhile, I have some unknown ailment.  Last week, I was convinced that I had pink-eye, and my doctor called in a prescription for me sight-unseen (no pun intended).  Days later, however, the medicine is not making a difference, and I look like I have something seriously wrong with me. I am also weak and lethargic, which I had attributed to jet lag and sleepless nights, but coupled with my death-warmed-over look, I am starting to wonder.  I guess a visit to the doctor is on the agenda for me, too.  Blech.  As an amateur hypochondriac, I avoid doctors... they tend to burst my bubble and tell me that I am perfectly healthy, and where's the fun in that?

FINALLY, and on a much happier note... in an effort to continue to avoid cleaning my house, I set up a site to raise money for rocking chairs for Hannah's Hope:  RockTheOrphanage.  Check it out and let me know what you think!

Letter to Friends and Family

Our precious Isabella is finally home! As Isabella's parents and forever family, we are committed to doing what we believe is best to help Isabella thrive. This will take a lot of work on our part, and understanding and cooperation from everyone around us.  Because you care for our family, we want to share the following information to help you assist us in laying a strong and healthy emotional foundation for Isabella.

FORMING ATTACHMENT. Attachment between a parent and child occurs over time. In a normal parent/child relationship, when a child communicates a physical or emotional need, a parent meets the need and soothes the child. This attachment cycle repeats over and over again, creating a trusting and secure relationship between the child and her parents. By God's design, a foundation of attachment is laid in the tiniest of babies that will profoundly impact their behavior, learning, health, emotions, relationships and values for the rest of their lives.

INTERRUPTIONS IN ATTACHMENT. Children who come home through international adoption have experienced interruptions in this attachment process. The loss of their biological mother and/or father at an early age is a major trauma on their little hearts, whether they are a few weeks or several years old. Spending time in an orphanage disrupts the attachment process even further.

RECREATING ATTACHMENT. Now that she is home, Isabella is understandably overwhelmed. She has lost the only caregivers that she remembers, and everything around her is new and different. She is just beginning to learn about her environment, love and family; she did not experience God's design for a family in an orphanage setting. The best way for us to form a parent/child bond with Isabella is to be the only ones to hold, snuggle, kiss, instruct, soothe and feed her for the first few months.  During this time, as part of the "cocooning" process, Isabella will have structure, boundaries, and close proximity to us that is different than a child who enters a family at birth. Please be assured that we did not make these decisions lightly: our adjustment and parenting plan has been thoughtfully made based on many months of prayer, education and research.

As we promptly and consistently meet all of her needs in a predictable, secure environment, Isabella will learn that we are her parents, that the world is a good place, that her needs make sense, and that she can trust us to meet her needs and love her deeply. We are essentially recreating the newborn parent/child connection. After Isabella establishes this important bond with us, she will be able to form other meaningful relationships and modulate her emotions, growing into a healthy, well-adjusted, Godly young woman notwithstanding the challenges in her little life that brought her to us.

HOW YOU MAY HELP. Please understand that we want nothing more than to have Isabella hugged, cuddled and cherished by ALL of you (she is, after all, totally irresistible). Until she has a firm understanding of family and primary attachments, however, we would be grateful if you would limit your physical contact with her, and redirect her to us if you see that she is seeking out food, affection or comfort. Sharing this request is difficult for us because we have snuggled, cared for, fed and loved so many of your children, but it is necessary because of Isabella's circumstances.

Please set physical boundaries. It is important that other adults refrain from what is typically considered normal physical contact with Isabella. This will (for a while) include things like holding, excessive hugging and kissing. Children who have spent time in an orphanage are inclined to superficially attach to anyone and everyone, which hinders their most important, primary relationship with their new parents. Behaviors that may seem benign, such as being exceptionally charming or indiscriminately affectionate, may actually be examples of a hurting child who is unable to distinguish between the roles of parents and strangers. By setting physical boundaries as the adult, you will help Isabella learn the difference between you and us. Waving, blowing kisses or high fives are perfectly appropriate and welcome!

Please redirect Isabella’s desire to have her physical and emotional needs met by anyone (including friends and strangers), to having us meet them. Orphans often have so many caretakers that they, as a survival mechanism, become overly charming and affectionate toward all adults, including those outside their family unit. It may appear harmless and as if they are simply being "very friendly," but it is actually quite dangerous for the child's development and should be discouraged until primary attachments have been established.

RISK. If we seem overly focused on this topic, we are: this is too important to get wrong. Children who fail to establish a healthy bond with their parents may suffer the rest of their lives with Reactive Attachment Disorder, which causes severe interpersonal and behavioral difficulties into adulthood. While we want to let you hold and personably interact with Isabella, the risk is too great these first few months, and the potential consequences too devastating. We hope that you will understand and support us in making these tough choices for Isabella’s long-term well-being.

We are incredibly blessed to have so many friends and loved ones around us. Thank you again for your never-ending love, prayers, and support during our adoption journey.  We will continue to rely on all of you as we adjust to life as a family of four!

Homecoming

Matthew improvises a Welcome Home dance...

...while Isabella wonders "is something WRONG with this kid, mommy?"

Gotcha Day - Part IV

Thursday, January 6:  We are looking forward to being home and having our family of four together for the first time.  We have breakfast, finish packing, have lunch, and then Jon takes a cab to the Hilton Hotel, where Ethiopian Airlines has a reservation desk, to see if he can change our seats on the flight tonight, so that we are sitting together. 

Meanwhile, I speak with another family in our travel group who is on the same flights home (they live near Salem, Oregon), and we agree that we should just check out of the hotel at 4:00 p.m. to avoid paying an extra 50% room charge for late checkout.  We are very tired of being in the room anyways - at least the airport will be a change of scenery while we wait. 

Jon gets back - no luck changing our seat assignments, but he did do a little more shopping at the gift shops and has a surprise for me on the flight home (a heavy silver cross pendant).  At 3:30 p.m., we go downstairs to settle our bill.  The final bill for five nights lodging, all of our meals in the hotel restaurant, and laundry nearly every day?  $425 USD. 

Although we can charge to our VISA credit card, we decide to pay using the last of our cash, to avoid paying the surcharges by the hotel as well as our credit card company.  We cannot imagine what else we will need cash for on this trip; the shops and restaurants at the airport accept VISA as well.  No sooner have we taken our cash supply down to almost zero, then we notice that the gift shop in the lobby has an Ethiopian Art coffee pot that matches our new set of cups, tucked back on the bottom shelf.  (It was probably made in China, but that's okay!) How much?  1,800 birr.  Too much.  We offer 800, and finally agree on 1,000 (about $60).

The "gift shop" consists of four glass cases with items ranging from toiletries to clothes, shoes, jewelry, and yes, even a coffee pot.  The gentleman on the right is the shopkeeper; it is his shop, he seems to rent space from the hotel. 

Then we realize our mistake:  we do not have that much cash left.  The shopkeeper graciously offers to let us take the coffee pot, get cash at the airport ATM, and send it back with the Riviera van driver.  Instead, we go back to our room and look everywhere, finally coming up with the equivalent of 1,000 birr in three different currencies - Euro, USD, and ET Birr.  Success!

At 4:00 p.m. we go back down to the lobby to take the hotel van to the airport.  As we are leaving, the hotel manager invites us and the S family to participate in a coffee ceremony.  To celebrate Christmas Eve, the hotel has set up a coffee ceremony in the lobby for its guests.  This is an offer we can not refuse.  What an awesome way to end our trip, and we certainly have time -- our flight is not scheduled to leave until 10:15 p.m. 

The coffee beans are roasted over a small coal fire.  Traditionally, the beans would be crushed as part of the ceremony; today, they take them in the back and use an electric grinder to grind them into a fine powder.  

The ground coffee is put into the coffee pot (unfiltered), and hot water is poured in.  The design of the pot makes it possible to shake to mix, without water spilling out.  

The clay coffee pot is set directly on the coals, and incense is sprinkled on the fire. 

Fragrant greenery is spread on the floor as part of the Christmas tradition.  We see the same in many of the shops and restaurants at the airport later that night.

Jon drinks enough coffee for the both of us, and we reluctantly leave for the airport.  On the way, Amber S. looks at her daughter and says "enjoy the ride! this is your last time riding without a car seat."  I look at Isabella and imagine what she is thinking: "Mommy, enjoy the ride! this is your last time riding without me screaming to get out of the car seat..."

The line at the ticket counter at the airport is short because we are still so early. We check two blue tubs for the return trip, filled with our clothes and souvenirs, including the two wooden stools.  Despite all of the stuff that we are now checking, our carry-on bags are just as heavy as they were on the trip over.  Go figure! So much for packing light on the trip home.

Once inside the terminal, we wander around the shops and finally settle in at a restaurant. I gulp down two (or was it three?) glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and we share some palatable french fries while we wait for the time to pass.  Shortly after 9:00 p.m., we get in line for security into the waiting room for our flight to DC.  Although the main line is long, they have an express line for families traveling with children, so we get through fairly quickly and sit down.  There are not enough seats for everyone waiting to board; those who make it through later sit on the floor. 

As the time ticks away towards 10:15, we realize that our flight is going to be late.  We should be boarding by now, but there is no plane in sight.  They finally announce that yes, the flight is delayed. 

Friday, January 7. Melkam Gena - Happy Christmas in Ethiopia! 

Some time after midnight, we finally board the first leg of our flight home.  We are utterly exhausted before we even take off.  It is going to be a long 16 hour flight. 

The plane lands in Rome for about an hour, to let some passengers off and refuel.  Someone explains that all flights have to take on more fuel on the return flight, not because it takes that much more fuel (although it must, because the flight is longer the other direction), but because they cannot take on enough fuel in Addis because of the altitude (8,000 feet). 

Isabella is perfectly happy on the flight home. It makes no difference to her whether she is sitting on our laps in a hotel room or on a plane.  We, on the other hand, have many moments where we are tempted to break down and cry like a baby.  Sitting in the middle three seats, next to someone on the end, Jon in the middle and me on the aisle, we try to sleep, with little success.  While we pass on the food that is offered, Isabella guzzles her formula, which we are going through much faster than we had expected.  Just before we finally land in DC, she finished the last of the formula that we have packed. 

We get through Immigration and Customs fairly quickly, considering that we are among the last to deboard the plane.  About an hour after we land, we have boarding passes in hand and are headed quickly to find the gate for our flight to San Francisco.  What should have been a relaxing 5 hour layover is now a 2 hour scramble to make our connection.  With a quick stop at a news stand to purchase pre-mixed formula for the remainder of the trip, we get in line for security.  This line is slower than molasses.  By the time we make it through, getting a snack is out of the question and we are seriously concerned that we may miss our flight. 

We make it, with little time to spare. Tired and hungry, we are still very glad to be back on U.S. soil. 

Connecting through San Francisco, we finally land in Portland 37 hours after checking out of our hotel room.  Although we still have a long drive in front of us, we feel like we are finally home.  While the S's clean up in the bathroom - they have family, friends, and even a photographer meeting them at the airport - I tell Jon, again, how glad I am that we decided to arrive low-key, without being met by anyone.  I look as bad as I feel, tired and filthy; the thought of putting makeup on makes me shudder, and combing this greasy hair... eww!  There will be plenty of time to catch up with family and friends after we settle in at home.

Or so I think.  As we round the corner, we see... the Rogers family, holding "Welcome Home Isabella" signs and smiling.  It is SO good to see them, but seriously... they're taking photos?!  Cheri assures us that they will only send them to us and we will have complete discretion as to what happens to them from there.  Okay, it is a nice surprise after all!  We have so much to catch up on, but first, we need food.  Good old American comfort food.  Red Robin, anyone? 

My order of Cajun Clucks, fries, and cheese sticks taste so incredibly good.  Jon looks equally infatuated with his burger. Through mouthfuls of food, we share with the Rogers random stories of our trip and grin inanely at Isabella, in our arms at last. The Rogers' daughter, Magdalyn, four months older than Isabella and home since July, looks like a giant baby next to Isabella.  What a difference a few months makes!

From Red Robin, we hit the road home.  The last few miles, Jon confesses that he is in that painful-to-stay-awake stage; still, we make it.  Bouncing across the potholes in our driveway never felt so good. 

As we walk in the door at 9:00 p.m., Matthew comes running to greet Isabella.  Never mind Mommy and Daddy, his baby sister is the new center of attention and his goal is to make her laugh. 

We unceremoniously dump our luggage in the middle of the floor and collapse.  Our own bed feels heavenly. 

As I type this a few days later, Isabella is in our bed, sound asleep.  She too is home at last, and thriving. 

Gotcha Day - Part III

Did I mention the number of people that we met with stories to tell?  The Riviera International Hotel lives up to its name, with a mishmash of guests from all corners of the globe.  Some, like us, have planned to stay awhile.  Others are just passing through unexpectedly, often waiting for connecting flights that they missed.  A third group are there for the long haul, a consequence of choice coupled with circumstance. 

The American gal headed home to ***, a small country in Africa where she has lived for over fourteen years.  We ask what brought her to ***; she responds, vaguely, that she went for school and ended up staying.  Perhaps a Christian missionary, living under cover because the country is 90% Muslim?  We pray for her safety.

The older, married couple from Minnesota, on their way to the Congo with a missions building team. They previously lived there for a number of years as missionaries.  We pray that their message is heard. 

The 55 year old pilot from Bellingham, Washington, in town for a multi-day interview with Ethiopian Airlines.  Laid off from TWA a number of years ago, he has bounced around to various flying gigs, and is currently employed training Ethiopian Airline pilots in Britain.  Recently divorced, with his children all in college, he finds himself looking for one last adventure.

The boisterously rough expat (Brit? Australian?) who says that he is a well driller who has lived in various countries in Africa for 8 years with his wife and now 6- and 8-year old sons.  He describes his heavy equipment, currently in Ethiopia but perhaps soon to be moved into Sudan. 

He is a questionable character, tragic whatever truth lies in the wings, with a persona that brings Hemingway to mind.  With his laptop and motorcycle helmet resting on the bar counter, he prods Isabella with a visibly dirty finger; when he offers to hold her, I pull her closer and say, truthfully, that she is bonding with us and does not like to be held by strangers.   We pretend not to notice when he returns to flirting and bargaining with the girls who sit in the bar. 

The girls' stories are both wholly obvious and yet wholly untold.  We identify four, in various rotations of two.  They arrive in the afternoon and sit alone at separate tables, facing the entryway.  They could easily pass as regular gals on break in almost any city in the U.S.  They are modestly primped and polished, from their hair and makeup to their nails and jewelry.

After greeting each other, they each sit their cell phone on their own table, and order a single drink that they nurse for hours.  I recall reading, in one guidebook or another, that the oldest profession in the world, while technically illegal, still carries some minimal amount of respect in Ethiopia; it is hard to know what one would do to survive, or help one's family survive, in the most desperate of circumstances.  Strangely, a couple of these girls are among the only overweight local young women that we have seen: confirmation, perhaps, of the money to be made in that line of work.

They admire Isabella, who is fascinated by them. They, too, offer to hold her, and again I smile but decline.  We nod goodbye as we leave after dinner.  On our last night, I wonder if there is something more that we should say or do, but nothing comes to mind, and the moment passes quickly. 

Each of these people's lives taunt me with promises of complex, interesting stories that I will never hear, like the bulk of the iceberg forever unseen under the water.  I am left with a heavy heart and a sorrowful prayer: for all of you who are lost, may He lovingly lead you home.

Gotcha Day - Part II

Sunday, January 2: We have a relaxing morning of sorts, giving Isabella a bath, dressing her in a cute outfit, and getting breakfast in the restaurant downstairs.

The other three families in our travel group arrive late morning; we meet up with everyone in the lobby at 2:00 p.m. to return to Hannah’s Hope to complete final Embassy paperwork. Four of the families in our group are adopting children under one year old; one family has been blessed with three siblings, ages (4?) to (7?).

At Hannah’s Hope, we have a lot of downtime to mingle with the kids who are waiting. One little girl around five or six years old who lives with HIV gives me the biggest hugs. She is still waiting to find a forever family; while she waits, she sees friends go home with new parents. One family in our travel group is taking away her current best friend. My heart breaks for her, yet she continues to smile and emanate joy.

Jon spends time with a boy who captures his heart. If he could, Jon would bring him home with us.

We complete the paperwork for our Embassy appointment. Almaz stresses the importance of answering all of their questions truthfully, to the best of our knowledge and belief.

We receive a few more details about the circumstances that led to Isabella coming into care. Not details that are different than what we knew, but details that enhance our understanding of her situation.

Isabella says goodbye to her special mothers. She lights up and smiles for them, and looks concerned when she comes back to us.

The special mother in the blue shirt breaks down in tears in the end, which puts me over the edge too.

We get one more photo with Almaz, and a photo walking out of the gate at Hannah's Hope:

Monday, January 3: Embassy Day!

We are picked up at 7:40 a.m. and set out on the 30 minute drive to the U.S. Embassy on the other side of town. The Embassy is one of the nicest buildings that we have seen in Addis Ababa; a new addition that is being built even has heavy equipment in use, a rare sight.

We show our passports and hand over cameras and cell phones as we go through security: no photo ops here. Inside, it is nothing like I expected. It is a very large waiting room with rows of chairs, seating over 100 people facing a wall of people sitting behind (presumably bullet proof) glass, with little pass-through trays, and digital numbers on the wall above each window signaling the next in line.

As we enter, we are each assigned a number, and wait for our turn. We quickly realize that numbers are not coming up in order. One minute we hear “number 127, please come to window 15…,” the next minute, “number 451, please come to window 2,” and then "number 233..." We are number four hundred and something, but whether that means a fifteen minute wait or a five hour wait is anybody’s guess.

There is a TV mounted on the wall at the end of the room, broadcasting U.S. government programming. Senators give brief holiday messages, or so we guess; the volume is muted. There is also a plastic play structure at the back of the room, where the toddlers can play. Several families in the room are obviously there for adoptions through other agencies, but most of the people waiting appear to be Ethiopian nationals. Someone mentions an immigration lottery that is held every year. I am reminded how thankful I am to have been born in the U.S., by the grace of God.

Isabella chooses this inopportune time to become un-constipated. I guess she is just that bored, like the rest of us. Many intense sounds, tears, and three diapers later, she feels better and I am up to speed on the logistics of changing messy diapers.

When our number comes up, maybe an hour later, our appointment with the gentleman behind the glass lasts all of three minutes. He checks our passports, has us raise our right hand and swear to tell the truth, then asks a few questions – is this the child you expected to adopt? What do you know about her birth mom? Did you both meet her before court? No – then you’ll need to complete a re-adoption and file for citizenship. (I want to say ACTUALLY everyone should complete a re-adoption, regardless of whether they need to do so for citizenship, but I bite my tongue.) Do you have any concerns about the adoption process? Done. Your agency can pick up her visa at 10 a.m. on Wednesday.

We are relieved to have this step completed and know that we will be bringing Isabella home at the end of the week, barring civil war or Acts of God. On the drive back to the hotel, we experience what has become the usual sights and sounds of Addis Ababa… with one very funny exception. 

As we come to a stop at an intersection, an aging, unmarked truck pulls up next to the bus.  Sitting in the truck bed is a civilian, as well as a soldier with an automatic weapon casually resting on his knee. With the vehicles stopped side-by-side, the gun is pointed straight at Jon. Jon nervously jokes that he hopes the safety is ‘on.’ We assure him that the gun probably doesn’t even have a safety. I start to take a photo and then think better of it. We are probably not in the best position to annoy the guy with the gun.

Monday night, the moms stay at the Riviera with the kids, while the dads and other family members are picked up by Wass and taken to Yod Absynnia restaurant for the cultural dinner.  Jon has fun, and even samples the honey wine.  Isabella and I are happy to stay in the room and sleep.

Tuesday, January 4: Almaz invites those of us without birth family meetings to come back to Hannah’s Hope with the families who do have meetings. This is highly unusual, but we welcome the chance to go back to take more photos of the children who are waiting, to give to their families. It should be a relatively short visit – we will be picked up at 10 a.m. and come back around noon.

You have to be stinkin' cute to pull off a bow like that!

We arrive at Hannah’s Hope to discover that the best made plans can always be disrupted by surprise government audits, regardless of what country you are in. The audits are routine, and last anywhere from minutes to hours. The audit today, of course, turns into one of the longer ones, complete with staff interviews. The good news is that these audits are just one of the many processes in Ethiopia that help ensure that adoption continues to be open and ethical; the bad news is that the audit came on today of all days.

Today, when two different special mothers, at two different times, try to hold Isabella, she cries until they hand her back to me. I think we are starting to bond, just a little. It makes the special mothers sad, but I am secretly pleased. 

The birth family meetings are delayed two hours; we do not return to the hotel until 2 p.m.  With the delay, I have even more time to wander around, taking photos and video of children who wait.  I am pleased to see that the rocking chairs are already set up and in use. One is in Isabella's old room, and the other is in the room across the hallway.  The next baby to share the crib that Isabella slept in will be rocked to sleep...

These are the only two rocking chairs in the rooms; there are still two more infant rooms without any rocking chairs at all...

The day is especially warm, probably in the mid- to high-70's, and humid. We take off Isabella's sweater to reveal the adorable onesie underneath. 

At the hotel, us moms get off the bus with our children, and send the dads out to shop. Each dad, including Jon, is a bit overwhelmed with the shopping lists that they have been given.

Meanwhile, Isabella and I go back to our room and take a nice long nap together. By now, we have learned so many things about her: she likes to sleep on her side. She loves skin-to-skin (cheek-to-cheek) contact. She cries when she’s hungry, tired, or (infrequently) frustrated. When she is tired, just swaddle her up, put your cheek against her forehead, and do the mommy dance while shushing her – works like a charm. She is also eating a lot more, going from 4 ounces every 4 hours at Hannah’s Hope, to 6 – 8 ounces every 3 – 4 hours in our arms. Better than that, she is hardly spitting up at all – either the Enfamil AR (with rice) formula is working, or she is outgrowing her GERD.

We wake up two hours later, just as Jon gets back from shopping.

Jon lucks out. For some inexplicable reason, he decides that the second shop that he will go in will be the one down the way and across the road in the little shopping complex. The shop itself was almost empty, but the gals in the shop are super helpful. They invite Jon to sit on a stool and enjoy coffee (Jon never turns down coffee!) while they run around to different shops and gather the items on his list. Not only does he get everything on my list from the comfort of a stool, sipping coffee, but he gets most items at better prices than I was able to negotiate last month. So much for a tough afternoon!

Purchases include a set of china coffee cups decorated with Ethiopian art (500 birr), a traditional clay coffee pot (100 birr), two medium-sized traditional stools carved out of a single piece of wood (300 birr), a carved Nativity (220 birr), carved coasters (220 birr), and wood/leather drums (100 birr).

Wednesday, January 5: Jet lag is an odd thing. I am wide awake at 2 a.m. Because I am desperate to get home, I decide to shower and go to the 24-hour Ethiopian Airlines ticket counter at the airport to see if I can talk our way onto a flight tonight, rather than wait to leave on the flight tomorrow night that we are booked on. Why not, I have nothing better to do. Jon and Isabella are both sleeping like babies; I rouse Jon enough to tell him that I am taking his passport, the credit card, and all of our cash, and will be back in a few hours. He mumbles something that sounds like "okay," so off I go, chuckling to myself  "You may not miss me when I'm gone... but you'll certainly miss me if I do not return with your passport, cash and credit card!"

The staff at the front desk either do not understand my request, think I am crazy, or both. They finally explain that there are no taxi cabs available at that time of the morning, but they will call the Riviera van driver to come get me, no problem. I watch TV in the lobby for about twenty minutes, wondering if I am making the poor driver come in early. There is a decent thriller on; like most shows on TV, it is an American movie broadcast in English, with Amharic subtitles. Unfortunately, I’ll never know how it ends; I did not recognize the film or the actors.

The relatively short (about 15 km) drive to the airport is interesting. Until now, I have only seen Addis bustling with people, shops, and animals everywhere you look, even as late as 9 p.m. At 3:30 a.m., however, it is eerily quiet. Where dozens of people swarm during the day, it is empty - we see no one walking or sitting alongside the road, and the shops are all closed up tight. There are very few cars on the road at this hour; the one that we pass flashes his lights at us, apparently the universal sign for “dim your lights!”

At the airport, it is quieter but there is still some minimal activity. The driver drops me off and waits. I run up the stairs – I am starting to adjust to the altitude – and find my way into the airport. Without a ticket, I have to convince the guard at the door that I am not there to get into any trouble. Once through security – you get scanned going into the airport itself – I wander around trying to find the ticket counter. Finally, I break down, embrace my ignorance, and ask a group of soldiers who look half my age where the ticket counter is. One speaks good English, and directs me around a seemingly empty corner, where the ticket counter is tucked away and hiding without lines of people leading up to it.

There is no one in line. The ticket agent, once he understands my request, explains that the Wednesday night flight is overbooked. There is no chance of getting on. At least I know that I tried.

I make my way back out to the Riviera van, where I wake the driver up from a nap. The drive back to the hotel is equally void of cars and people, save for the newer model, high end truck that has hit the guardrail and rolled over. A single vehicle accident, with a half dozen people standing around looking at the truck. The Riviera driver shakes his head and says “too much drinking while driving.”

Another relaxing morning in the hotel, with an early lunch downstairs. I order lasagna, as do two of the others in our group. One hour later, all three of us are in desperate need of Cipro and Imodium AD. The pills do the trick, and we all decide not to order the lasagna again. At noon, we are picked up and taken back to Hannah’s Hope to meet with Almaz, review final paperwork, pick up our children’s Ethiopian passports with U.S. visas, and hear some parting words of wisdom from Almaz.

Almaz is an incredible woman. Born in northern Ethiopia, she moved across the border into Sudan before immigrating to the U.S., where she earned a college degree and lived for fifteen years before moving back to Ethiopia to work with our agency to set up an orphan care program, including the Hannah’s Hope transition home and adoption program.

The adoption program is just one of many ways that our agency serves families and children in Ethiopia; worldwide, they assist over sixty children in numerous ways for every one child that is adopted, with adoption being the last option for only the most vulnerable children. This is one of many reasons that we chose our agency, and we will continue to support the other work that they do in Ethiopia. As Almaz explains far more eloquently than I can, adoption is not ideal, but it is the best option for these children, who need to be held now and cannot wait for the circumstances in Ethiopia to improve.

One family in our group must rush back to the U.S. Embassy with Almaz. Their daughter’s passport has her correct photo, but the U.S. Embassy made a mistake and included a different child’s photo on her visa. We learn later that the situation, while stressful, is resolved in time for them to make their flight that night.

We return to the Riviera. This time, Jon stays at the hotel with Isabella while I go out with another dad in our travel group and his mother-in-law. We return to the shopping center for a few last minute purchases, including a cross in the style of the southern region, where Isabella was born.

The cab is a rickety old car, driven by Solomon, a driver recommended by many adoptive families.

One family in our travel group has brought Solomon’s family Christmas gifts.

On the drive back to the hotel, we stop at Kaldi’s, a coffee chain that is an obvious knock-off of Starbucks. Unlike Starbucks, however, they do not sell anything but baked goods, ice cream and drinks – no shelves full of coffee mugs, bagged coffee, or other tempting goods to purchase.

We have noticed a lot of missed capitalist opportunities like this. Luggage carts at the airport are free.  The Yod Absynnia cultural restaurant does not have a gift shop or non-perishable goods of any kind for sale. They could make a mint off of their tourist crowd by selling DVDs of the performance and related trinkets.

Across the street from Kaldi’s is a bustling goat market.

Solomon explains that tomorrow, everyone will go out and buy a goat or other animal for a special Christmas dinner on Friday. He said he himself will buy a goat and butcher it in his home. The price of a live goat? 800 birr (about $45 USD).

Addis Ababa is fascinating in so many ways.  On the one hand, everyone insists "No crime! Perfectly safe!"  It definitely feels safe during the day, in a group or accompanied by a local - safer than some parts of many U.S. cities.  Yet all of the houses are behind high fences with barbed wire at the top, referred to as "compounds;" there are often several family homes or buildings within a single compound, as with the Hannah's Hope complex. 

At the hotel, there are two guards at the front door at all times.  Everyone who is not a guest is patted down before entering, including people like Hannah's Hope staff that they see every day. Before a guest may leave in a taxicab, the driver's information is noted by the hotel staff and a photocopy of his driver's license is kept on file, to ensure your safe return.  The police are heavily armed, and soldiers are everywhere as well.  It is tough to tell if all of this security is really necessary, or just remnants of tougher times that are hard to forget... 

This trip, we are in Room 111, overlooking the courtyard in one direction, and in the other direction, an Ethiopian Orthodox church peaking over the hill.

The room that Kristen and I shared last month, #407, is on the other side of the hotel; I miss watching the field across the street, which is bustling with activity all day long.

Although the view is different, the furniture in the room is the same as Room 407. If you bump the headboard at all, it in turn bumps a light switch inexplicably mounted on the wall midway down behind the headboard, turning the lights in the room off.  I cannot tell you how many times I hurt my hand reaching down behind that *$@! headboard to flip the switch back on.

Isabella looks especially tiny in the middle of that big, wildly uncomfortable bed:

We never could get the lamp on the left side to turn on.  

Gotcha Day - Part I

Let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start…

Wednesday night: I am restless. I know that it is unlikely that we will get an appointment with the U.S. Embassy on Monday, January 3, but I cannot talk myself out of being hopeful. Throughout the night, I get up and putter around the house. I research flight options. Again… and again. If we get a call in a few hours telling us that we have a confirmed Embassy appointment for this coming Monday, I want to go NOW. I refuse to wait a single day longer than is absolutely necessary.

Thursday, 12/30: I wait. At 7:45 a.m. the phone rings. It is Grandma, calling to say that she is headed outside to clean snow off of her X-Terra so that she is ready to come down to our house on a moment’s notice. Thank you, Grandma! I continue to wait.

At 8:21 a.m., the phone rings again. This time, it is our Case Manager. I take a deep breath, then answer, pretending to be calm. “Hi Angela, this is Kiersten. How are you doing?” “I’m fine…” (trying desperately to sound nonchalant). “Are you ready to get on a plane?” I don’t remember much after that. I think I lost my façade of calm. There may have been squealing. I hang up as quickly as possible and scramble.

Jon stayed home from work today, on the off chance that we would be leaving. He realizes quickly that we are going NOW – if not from my end of the conversation, then from my chaotic scrambling with a big grin on my face. If we get on the flight out of Portland this afternoon – the flight that I noted in the wee hours of the morning as the best possible option – we need to be out the door and on the road to the airport in four hours.

Jon starts to scramble as well. On top of last-minute packing, he must load all of the donation tubs and rocking chairs into the Jeep. It is going to take some creative juxtaposing to fit it all in, along with our pushing-the-limit carry-on bags and the baby car seat.

I call the travel agent to book tickets. Candy is frustratingly calm, the antithesis to my soccer-mom-on-speed persona. We need tickets now. We need to leave now. N. O. W.

Next, I call Grandma and tell her that we will be leaving around noon. She hangs up quickly so that she can scramble to be here in an hour. We explain to Matthew that we are finally going to Ethiopia to pick up Isabella and bring her home! He is a bit disoriented by this news. I remind him that he gets to begin opening his daily presents after we leave, and suddenly he cannot get us out of the door fast enough. I call our friends to ask for last-minute favors… garbage day on Tuesday, can you drive our cans down? We have the best friends!

Scramble. Hurry. Faster. NOW.

I call Candy again. She has not had time to look at flights yet because she is booking for another family who is leaving tomorrow. No Candy, we want to leave TODAY. Now. Hurry.

Candy finally calls back to tell us that the first flight that she can get us on is tomorrow. No, that does not work. There IS a flight that is open, here are the details, please check again. Okay, we can get on that flight, leaving from Portland at 5:45, but it will cost quite a bit more. That’s fine, call it my birthday present. We will not be able to relax until we have Isabella in our arms forever, so book the flight TODAY. Candy says that she will call us back when it is ticketed.

11:30, still no word from Candy. We call her again: she is working on it. We call again at noon: do we have to print anything out? If not, we will hit the road and you can send our itinerary and e-tickets to Jon’s phone. No need to print, so off we go.

By 12:30 a.m. we are on the road. We agree that duct taping the lids onto the donation tubs, and taping the two rocking chair boxes together as one piece of luggage, is probably the best plan, so we make a quick stop at the hardware store in Stevenson. About this time, Jon says that it feels like we are on the Amazing Race, and we are winning. Indeed.

We settle for Wendy’s drive-thru for lunch. If the plane crashes and this ends up being my last meal, I will feel cheated. 

Although the first leg of our flight is not until 5:45 p.m., we know that our luggage situation is going to take time, so we want to get to the airport as soon as possible.

We arrive at Portland International Airport at 2:00 p.m. and park in short-term parking to begin taping up our luggage. We tape around and around the two chair boxes, until not even the Box Maker could tell that they used to be two separate packages.

Next, as if big blue tubs with colored packing straps are not strange enough, I cut generous strips of duct tape and Jon carefully applies to each side of each lid to make sure that they hold. Our Ethiopian princess has a redneck accountant for a dad and a… well, we’ll describe mommy to you another time, dear.

The luggage is now ready to check.

With the help of two luggage carts, we take the five tubs into the airport. I try to act casual, standing next to the obscene pile of duct-taped blue tubs, while other passengers with cute compact designer bags walk by and try not to stare.

About this time, I realize that my almost-new Lands End casual walking shoes are starting to come apart at the seams.  They were meant to be an upgrade from the heels that I wore last trip.  Apparently, choosing good, practical traveling shoes is not my forte. Of course I did not pack a spare pair of shoes -- sidewalk chalk seemed more important -- so I spend idle moments for the rest of the trip wondering if anyone else notices the growing hole in the side of my shoe.  At least the seams on my pants are holding... for now. 

Jon finally returns from the Jeep with the rocking chairs, and with our 300 pounds of oversized and excess luggage, we cautiously approach the ticket counter. Several times, the ticket agent starts to help us, but gets interrupted by people who have either missed their flights, or are checking in for flights that are already boarding. We assure her that we do not mind waiting – we are still very early for our flight – and we know that we have an unusual request that requires us to be particularly patient and humble if we hope to obtain her mercy and grace.

While we wait, we hear all sorts of stories from passengers. My favorites: a guy at the next counter over explains that he missed his flight, but someone at the gate assured him that there was another flight that he could get on, the “Ghost Flight.” The ticket agent tells him that there is no other flight, but he continues to insist that there is: the Ghost Flight! Pssst. Dude. Come over here. I have a Spruce Goose to sell you. You can fly it to London Bridge and make a deal.

Then there is the gal who is trying to check in fewer than 20 minutes before her flight takes off, which is apparently against the rules. Her excuse? She points to the size of her bag and explains, indignantly, that it took her 20 minutes to lug it from the parking lot to the ticket counter. Hey lady, you think your bag is big? Check out our luggage situation. You don’t see us checking in late. Begging for fee waivers, maybe, but late? Never.

The first ticket agent is super nice, but also very distracted by the inane but all-in-a-day’s-work issues that she is dealing with. She hands us off to the second agent on duty. This agent is not nearly as sympathetic: her immediate response to our request to have the excess luggage fee waived is “I physically can’t do that!” I bite my tongue: my first tempted response to that statement would not help our situation. So, teetering on that fine line between persuasive and obnoxious, I timidly whisper “Well…….. the gal a month ago was able to do it. Perhaps there is someone else that we should talk to?” We are unceremoniously passed back to the first agent. We were her problem to begin with, and her problem we will remain, come Ghost Flight Dude or Heavy Luggage Chick.

When the first gal has a chance to catch her breath, we show her the very official looking letter from our agency confirming that the blue tubs accessorized with green luggage straps and gray duct tape do, in fact, contain donations bound for an orphanage in Ethiopia. It doesn’t get more sympathetic than that. We show her photos of Isabella to help make our case.

The agent explains that she is a Christian, really wants to waive the fee for us, and will try her best – that is all that we can ask. We explain that we know that she cannot waive the oversized luggage fee on the rocking chairs, and we have come prepared to pay that, no problem. If she can find a way to waive the excess luggage fee on the two extra tubs, though, we would be forever grateful. Otherwise, we will have to decide whether to leave the two tubs with toys and clothes behind. Our finances are beyond strapped, but January 7 is Christmas in Ethiopia, so leaving tubs behind would be a very tough choice.

First, she calls to check whether the plane to Seattle, a small plane, can even accommodate the amount and size of our luggage. Thankfully, it can. Then she calls her supervisor, who approves waiving the fee on one item. We decide to pay the fee for the second tub. We’ll deal with the credit card bill later. At this point, what’s a few hundred more drops in the bucket? Noah had better have room in that ark…

In the meantime, in the almost two hours that we have interacted off-and-on with the agent, we have started to get to know her. We learn a bit about her and her family: please pray with us that her son finds his way back to the truth.

We hand her our credit card, and she rings up the fee… for the single oversized piece of luggage, the two rocking chairs duct-taped as one. She does not offer an explanation for the omission of the other excess fee; we are still uncertain whether she found a way to waive it or whether she paid it herself, but she shushes our question, smiles and wishes us a good trip. We give her our blog address to thank her; her kindness set the tone for the rest of our trip.

By the time we shift some items between tubs so that each one comes in at or under 50 pounds exactly (weighing on the bathroom scale at home, not so accurate), get everything tagged to be checked on through to Addis Ababa, take everything over to the luggage security area to be scanned and searched (and, carefully re-taped by Homeland Security), move the Jeep to long-term parking, and finally make our way through security and to the gate for our flight, it is almost 5:00 p.m. Our flight to Portland boards at 5:15, so we did not allow too much time at the airport after all.

As we are boarding our flight, we see the luggage cart pull up to the plane. Our luggage amounts to half of the checked luggage for the entire flight. Awesome.

The flight to Seattle is fun. The smaller the plane, the more it feels like you really are flying, rather than just sitting in a really uncomfortable seat in a tube balanced on top of a bunch of noisy, vibrating washing machines.

We sit in the front of the plane, and the flight attendant starts talking to us out of desperate boredom. By the time we land, the front half of the plane has heard our adoption story. We are just a little excited.

In Seattle, we meet Auntie Jill for dinner to help pass the time before our redeye flight to Washington DC. Jill drives us to Red Robin, where I down the obligatory four (or was it six?) diet cokes. Jill drops us back off at the airport, and almost immediately Jon realizes that he has left his phone in the car. The car that is now heading north on I-5.

We desperately try to reach Jill on my cell phone: Jon without his phone for over a week is an unthinkable tragedy. I am watching the clock tick away the minutes as Jon dials and redials Jill. She finally answers her phone a half hour later, as she is getting home. Jill turns around and drives back to the airport, on treacherously icy roads, to deliver Jon’s phone. She is a saint.  We make it through security just in time to board our next flight.

Friday, 12/31. Happy Birthday to me! Being on a flight to pick up my baby girl is the best birthday present ever.

The Seattle - DC flight is uneventful. We doddle around the Dulles satellite terminal, trying to figure out if there is a way to check in for our flight to Addis without leaving the terminal and coming back. Finally, we accept the inevitable and get on a shuttle. As we are sitting there, we look up to see the M family from Indiana get on the same shuttle. Until now, we did not know that they are not only traveling a day early too, but on the same flight from DC to Addis. We are all smiles, excited to travel together to pick up our daughters.

We check in at the Ethiopian Airlines counter, get our boarding passes, and go back through security to the terminal to board our flight. We have time to grab breakfast, and take turns with the M's watching each others’ luggage.  Joe M. regales us with stories from various missions trips to places far more undeveloped and remote than Ethiopia; we listen wide-eyed and in awe. 

In line to board the last leg of our itinerary, the flight from DC to Addis, we meet a couple who are traveling with their toddler to visit missionary friends in Uganda. Their three children, including the daughter traveling with them on this trip, are African-American, adopted domestically from foster care. They are very excited for us, and I realize, again, that everyone has an interesting story to share. This will be a recurring theme (subplot? sideshow?) of our trip.

The Ethiopian Airlines Boeing 777 is on par with any other first-tier flight.  All of our concerns about flying this airline evaporate somewhere over the Atlantic. 

Our flight departs late: a long fifteen hours after we board, we disembark in Addis Ababa.

Saturday, January 1:  Happy New Year! Because we are seated towards the front of the plane, we are happily among the first off. We race to the visa line, and make it through after a short wait.

Then, on to immigration/entry. While I wait in line, Jon walks over to the currency exchange counter. The rate is favorable – 16.5 birr to 1 USD – and it is much more convenient to exchange now, rather than later. The line for entry is so short at this point that I keep waiving people by me as I wait. Jon later recounts, in admiration, the checks, controls, and cross checks at the exchange counter, where everything is done manually, just as it is in the visa room and customs. I am suitably impressed. Yes, we are geeks.

We pick up our luggage (which all made it intact, thanks to the miracle of duct tape and a few pleading prayers) and make our way through customs. They ask to search one tub, and we graciously oblige, as if we have a choice. This time, they ask whether we have any cold medicine. We do not. I wisely stop myself from saying “last time we did, but you didn’t ask!” Somehow I suspect that Ethiopian customs agents will have about as much sense of humor about these things as American customs agents… I am still confused as to what is and is not okay to bring into the country as donations, but I decide that now is not the time to ask.

With three luggage carts and the help of a porter, we slowly make our way into the outer reaches of the airport. The Riviera van driver immediately spots us, and begins to lead us to the van. I explain that the M’s are coming, they will just be awhile longer because they were seated at the back of the plane. The driver continues waiting for them, and directs us outside to another Riviera bus that has other hotel guests in transit.

We check into the hotel at 11 a.m. What a relief to be here! No more worries about flight delays or missed Embassy appointments. The end is in sight, with few potential obstacles left.

The front desk gives us our schedule: Hannah’s Hope staff will pick us up at 3:00 p.m. to get Isabella. Deep breaths. Gotcha Day is finally here! We have just enough time to unpack, shower, and relax.

Jon is feeling a bit overwhelmed. Stepping off of the plane into the reality of Ethiopia is a lot to process. Poverty in the U.S., while every bit as real, is still very different than poverty in a developing country.

We go down to the lobby a few minutes before 3:00 p.m. The M’s are there, as excited as we are. When we arrive at Hannah’s Hope, Jon holds our baby girl for the first time. I snap this photo…

…just before she puckers up and begins to sob. She cries... and cries… and cries. She cries so much that the special mothers insist on taking her from us and feeding her themselves, because she refuses to eat for us. Even crying, Jon holds her every minute that he can, while I run around trying to do everything on The List.

First, love on Daniel, the son of a couple who passed court a week before us but are still waiting for confirmation of an embassy appointment. Our hearts break for them. Daniel is a sweetie; his smile melts my heart. We pray his parents get to bring him home soon.

Next, pass out photos that I took last trip. I expected the kids to like printed photos of themselves, but I was not prepared to be mobbed. Within seconds, I cannot hand the photos out fast enough. The kids are clamoring, and the special mothers all come running to see what the commotion is all about. I am convinced that a couple of them shake their heads in disapproval of the chaos that I am causing. One of the staff comes over to help, to split up the crowd of kids before someone gets trampled.  One little three year old girl starts crying when she thinks that she isn’t going to get a photo of herself; I find her photo and hand it to her as fast as I can, stopping the tears. The special mothers see their photos in the mix and come to get them too – they enjoy their photos almost as much as the kids!

Finally, give the special mothers the photos that other adoptive families have sent with me, of their kids thriving in their new families. As the special mothers look through the photos, I realize again how bittersweet their jobs are.

Isabella is forever our daughter, so cry as she may, they finally send us back to the hotel with her. She stops crying in the van. It is the first time, in her memory, that she has been in a vehicle, and she finds it very interesting.

She cries a bit more in the hotel room, but then seems to resign herself to the fact that she is stuck with us. We discover that she enjoys reading books...

 ...and talking to Daddy.

Isabella is the most beautiful girl in the world, ever.  We love her so much it hurts.  Jon admits that, already, he is so bonded with her that if something goes wrong and we do not get to bring her home this time, one of us will have to stay with her, we cannot bear to leave her again. 

We feed her and she falls asleep. We cuddle and snuggle her all night long, cherishing every moment.