Out and about in Pereslavl

Every minute I spend with Sasha I see a different side of him. Sometimes he looks almost like a vulnerable, wounded bird ... skinny little thing you can almost see through. At other times he's a bouncy little powerhouse with big smile and boundless energy, which usually ends when you least expect it. When he's happy, he's a joy. When he's tired, he sulks, pouts or cries. Who knows, maybe I'm just describing your typical 8 yo?

Personality-wise he's definitely the more quiet, shy type. The contrast with the little girl he's joined at the hip with is quite striking. But I don't know many kids like her, so it's not fair to judge him by that. He may always be shy or he may open up as he becomes more comfortable with me. Time will tell.

One thing I was very happy about is that he seems to like dogs -- not only because of Max, but I think there's tenderness in children who love animals. They have have a dog he loves at the orphanage (big, gentle Ralph), but he pets dogs on the street as well. Russian towns are full of stray dogs. Yesterday a big one befriended us and Sasha was completely unfraid and petted him for a while. I wanted to adopt him, too.

Meanwhile, I'm very concerned about how Sasha will do when separated from little Olga. They're the cutest couple and he doesn't do anything without her (and vice versa). It will be quite a shock for him to him leave without her.

I wish I could post more photos of the town, but it will crash the blog. There's something so serene and timeless about Pereslavl ... mired in poverty and ruins, yet picturesque in its antiquity, clean, and friendly. It also has a huge lake that must seem like an ocean to the kids. Peter the Great presumably began building his fleet here. I so hope I'll get well in time not just to travel back home with Sasha (or else!), but to get to know the town where he grew up. For his sake and mine.

But for now I won't see Sasha for a few days. This cold won't let go and I'm not getting out of this bed until I get better. For now I'll have to be content watching the huge snow flakes dance in front of my window. And thank my lucky stars I decided to take this laptop with me!

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Those left behind

I'm still at the hotel, too sick to go to the orphanage, so I keep flipping through photos of the kids ... and getting increasingly depressed. What a joy it was to play with them and see their little faces brighten up at the smallest thing. Yet except for little Olga, perpetually happy and perky, the others looked at me with such soulful, sad eyes once the games were over. They know I'll take Sasha away and they stay behind. And they must wonder why. Don't they deserve a better life? And I can offer them nothing more than a smile. How can I explain to them that any family would be lucky to have them, but their own government keeps them hostage?



"My" little Olga in particular will be the hardest to leave behind. She never takes her eyes off me or stops smiling and chatting. But she has two brothers here, including a twin. I don't know her story, and it's better I don't. She's not in the databank for adoptions regarldess, which means she's not available for international adoptions. But even if she was, her chances would be nil with two brothers in tow. So this smart, bubbly, adorable child will become yet another victim of institutional care.

The same for all others ... little Dima, and Andrei, and of course the older boys who have long since given up on a family, and pass their time smoking or tossing around an old football in the dusty yard.

Thousands of families want these kids ... and the Russian government would rather institutionalize them than allow Americans to adopt them. They try to make it sound like there's something wrong with them all. BS. They're great kids. All they need is a little love. And little is all they'll ever get.

Polish Kleenex, snow flakes and rivers

If you have to be miserably ill with a cold (ha-chooo!!!), you might as well do it in a hotel room overlooking a beautiful stream in an old town where time seems to stand still. It started snowing this morning, with big fluffy flakes, the kind that reminded me of the joy of the first snow when I was a kid. And the scattered fishermen don't seem to care, almost as if they're part of the permanent landscape.

But that's about the best thing I can say about this miserable day. I'm by myself in Pereslavl (my interpreter is in Yaroslavl, more than 2 hours away), stuck with my cold alone in a hotel room. Not only do I have no food or drink (save for the mineral water I can buy at the hotel) but I've run out of the Kleenex I've brought with me. You may think it's funny, but when your nose is raw and all you have is rough, heavy-stock toilet paper, you don't laugh. And I keep running out of that, too. My coordinator called the hotel for help (since they speak no English), and after many hours someone kocked on my door. I thought help was on its way: what I got was two tiny travel packages of tissues ... hooray for those, I thought. Until I try blowing my nose. The Polish-made tissue is worse than the toilet paper, with a texture vaguely resembling sandpaper. Welcome to Russia.

But the town is just lovely. Here are some pictures of the area next to the hotel. Everywhere you look are colorful houses with wood carving and more churches than stray dogs.

Learning patience

Almost everyone who ever adopted says that in the end it's the most rewarding experience of their lives. I don't doubt it. But I'm also learning to readjust my attitude if I'm to get through the next few months. People have been telling me for years to read up on all these books on adoption, on bonding, on problems these kids are likely to face. I always figured parents never read manuals, so I'll manage just fine, too. I was fooling myself. Institutionlized kids don't just turn into perfect little angels the day you walk in and say "I'm your mom." In fact, most go through a tough transition.

I think believed the best in part by observing kids adopted through hosting programs. Not that it was all smooth sailing for them, either, but they had definite advantages. Those kids are hand-picked for the hosting program; then they have time over the summer to get to know their new parents, and by they come fetch them, the kids already know them pretty well.

Things couldn't be more different for Sasha, whose adoption is the traditional variety, where he doesn't know or possibly even remember the person about to become his mother. Deep down I think he's a great kid. But he also happens to be a shy and sensitive little boy, who gets emotionally overloaded very easily. He's been abandoned by his mother at 6, then tossed from orphanage to orphanag in this small town. A 4-block car ride on little dirt roads is a big trip for him. And here I come from another world, total stranger (even if people tell him I'm his "mama"), and I don't even speak his language. How can he not be scared? In fact I'm shocked that on his good days he's fun and trusting and went alone with me to the ice cream store and held my hand all the way. But when something scares him, he freaks out or goes off and cries ... and I freak out worse than him! It took a lot of reassurance from a lot of people (including adoptive parents and even strangers on the internet) to make me realize over the last few days that all this is completely normal ... adoption world "normal," anyway.

Meanwhile we've had some very nice times. Here's a sweet story: When we went to buy ice cream, he asked for two. I wondered what the heck he was going to do with two of them, especially when he stuck them in his jeans pockets, but I wasn't about to argue with him (not that I could have if I wanted to). As soon as we were back at the orphanage (a short walk amid stray dogs and ruined churches), he ran up the stairs and gave one them to his favorite teacher (picture below). Only then did he pull out his popsickle and licked away.


Another thing I noticed here: They tend to underestimate kids and challenge them to their abilities. When I played with Sasha the other day, they brought the "psychologist" along. Immediately she gave Sasha a toy to play with to show me what he can do, and I nearly flipped. It was a big cube with cutout shapes, and he was supposed to fit the right shapes back. That's a toy for a 3 year old or less, not an 8 yo. At first I thought they must think him mentally retarted and I freaked out again. When she left the room I pulled a big jigsaw puzzle off a shelf and asked him to put it together. It was a pretty hard one and he needed a little bit of help (even I didn't get it easily), but for the most part he did it. So why give him the toddler toys? And then you wonder why institutionalized kids are all "delayed."

Although I admit to being very worried about how we'll get through the first few months, I'm also excited and can't wait to see what Sasha's real abilities are once he's in a loving, stimulating environment. But it will be a rocky ride for us both.

I have a son ... unofficially official

Kaboom. This was suppose to be the news after a few blog entries, but everything happened so fast, I barely got my bearings, court hearing and feet under me before I knew what hit me. So my apologies for the lack of suspense. I'm finally enjoying the luxury of round-the-clock internet access in my hotel room in the perfectly picturesque old town of Pereslavl, with my room overlooking the lazy river. After a day of sheer joy with the kids at the orphanage, I can put my feet up, smile, and write.

It seems like a few eons ago, but incredibly, it was just a couple days ago that I got to hug Sasha again. My jaw dropped when I laid eyes on the little guy. The Russian idea of making a boy presentable for adoption is to shave his head. Save for a hint of bangs, he looked like he was about to join the Marines. You'd never believe the difference it makes. But anyway, I'd like to claim it was a storybook reunion with tears of joy, but truth is the Sasha was quiet as a mouse for about an hour or two. But he warmed up slowly. That in spite of the fact that the batteries on the remote control car I brought him died somewhere in between home and here. Ouch! Thankfully they sell batteries in Russia so the embarrassment was short-lived.

Yesterday (Monday the 17th) was the big day -- my day in court. As if I wasn't nervous enough, I had to wear a business suit (skirt variety). Not exactly my daily attire, but I survived. I also survived the interrogation from the judge who didn't look me in the eye once (beneath his digity, no doubt) and having the proceedings in a small courtroom with a jail cell (cage) in the back. I wondered how many wrong answers would land me in there. But seriously, all went smoothly. After about 15 minutes we were asked to leave the courtroom for the judge to make his ceremonious decision. He took a grand total of another two minutes to usher us back and decree in the most bored, unemotional tone possible that Sasha's name has been changed to Alexander Max Friedlander and I'm his mother. Court dismissed. We were out before my eyes had time to well up. None of this is official until the 10 day waiting period is over (+a holiday in between), but I don't need to return to court. They'll issue the papers at the end of the month.

Unfortunately, this is not quite the end of the story. After the hearing we drove back from the capital of the region, Yaroslavl, to the town where the orphanage is (about 2.5 hours away). I went back to see Sasha and all went well until we took him for an outing. To make a long story short, an attempted stop at a restaurant for some reason triggered a panic attack and crying fit in the little guy. I still don't know what happened, but it scared the daylight of me. They assured us at the orphanage that he never did anything of the sort before and all this was just too much/too soon for him. I'll confess to a very uneasy night, wondering if I didn't jump into this too fast. But today he was great, especially when we went out to play with the other kids.

This day with the kids reminded me of the day I played with the children in Blagodarnyi at the other orphanage, two years ago. There's something unique and special in the openness and innocence of these Russian orphans. Everything puts the biggest smile on their faces. Just like last time, I was heartbroken that I can't take them all home with me. It's a tragedy how most of these kids languishing in orphanages will never have a family because their paperwork doesn't fit the strict Russian rules for international adoption. Some of them have parents in jail (some for life!) yet they won't renounce their right to the kids, so they sit in prison and the kids in orphanges. Lovely.

Anyway, until the waiting period if over I plan to stay close to Sasha. In a way it's a wasted of an opportunity, especially when I could travel to amazing places like St. Petersburg. But this whole trip is exhausting, both physically and emotionally. (I changed hotels more times than I can count, spent a totally jet-lagged day in Frankfurt, one in Moscow, one in Yaroslavl driving back and forth hundreds of miles, etc). And then there's the emotional rollercoaster to boot. Most importantly, I think Sasha needs time to adjust to this transition. If I vanished for a week, he may feel abandoned again. So I'll probably just relax, enjoy the nice but brutally expensive hotel (they all are in Russia) and explore Persislavl.

Monica

Still at home, heart offshore

If all goes well, 9 days from now I'll see Sasha again. The enormity of it still doesn't hit me most of the time as I go about daily life in an absurd pretense at normalcy. But sudden waves of emotion wash over me every now and then. One such time was last night. For some reason, the song Bring Him Home from Les Miz popped into my head while I was walking Max. I can't get it out of my mind, so here's my blog.

Enough for the preamble. The real posts will start in Russia. I'll stop in Germany for one day to see my childhood friend, Sanneli -- but that's not part of my Sasha journey. That one will start on Sunday, April 15. First post when I have net access in Russia.

Monica