So, I set off with my two Haitian sensations, now ages 6 and 7. Let me just say, going store to store, in and out of the car for several hours with a 6 and 7 year old while being overwhelmed with stuff to do, and pressed for time, is not nearly as fun as you might think. It was hours of,"why are your shoes off, we are just getting out of the car again." "No you can't ride in the cart, you are 70 pounds and no you are not too tired to walk down the aisles of Target." Let us not forget,"no you cannot have candy. Just because we are in a store does not mean you get a prize." or "Put that back. Stop touching that" There was lunch tossed at them in the back seat, yes winning parenting skills there, as I was simply out of time to stop for any length of time and still get things done. The whining that went on was second only to my extreme frustration with the whole afternoon. They were kids. They wanted to be outside. Hell, I wanted to be outside, but this was life in this moment.
When we finally finished at the last stop, the grocery store, we had all had it. They piled in the car and I set out for home. Little pangs of guilt with my ever apparent frustration crept in as I thought about these two kids in the back seat. I brought them home from Haiti 3.5 years ago. It was the culmination of a three year extremely difficult adoption process. There were setbacks. Lost documents. Fake documents. Notebooks missing. Official seals not right. Obstacle after obstacle. The crowing blow was a printer that was down at the US Embassy so their visas could not be printed for days, and I could not leave the country until they were.
In the three years leading up to them coming home, I would spend evenings looking at pictures of two children who were growing older by the day without their mommy who by all rights, was a virtual stranger to them. I would miss Alex learning to crawl and ultimately walk. Grace would start preschool in Haiti without the obligatory first day pics with the new shoes and shiny backpack. I was not there to hold them when they were sick or rock them to sleep at night. To be fair, I did not even know their personalities, not really. I had spent a handful of days with them throughout the process. They didn't know mine either. Our relationship was a string of pictures other visitors to their orphanage would send me. Strangers hugging my children when I was not allowed to. Seeds of doubt crept in as to if they were ever coming home, and if they did would it work? The concern over bringing older orphanage children home grew by the day. I do have three other children adopted from Russia, who are now 23, 21 and almost 12, but it was different with them. I met them and brought them home in the same month. In Russia, the legal stuff is all done on the front side before you are matched with and meet your child. In that situation, you are dealing with wondering what your child will look like or if it is a boy or a girl, but that was about it. This was different. Three years of uncertainty worrying about a child you leave behind every time you go for a visit. These were very large hurdles to get them here and I was now frustrated at their very presence today, when by all rights I should be grateful for the frustration. Ah the guiltings only another adoptive parent could understand.
As my brain sifts through all of this, it happened. My playlist was on random. I wasn't really listening as I was deep in thought and, after raising five children, I have mastered the ability to tune out the back seat, when I suddenly realized the kids were singing. They were singing and dancing as best they could in seatbelts. "Uptown Funk" had come on. It was their favorite. The dance party had begun. I hear my six year old son sing,"Julio get the stretch...." which strikes me as so funny I cannot even help but laugh.
As the song continues, my frustration fades as I realize that without those three years of horrific obstacles and late night pining over pictures of children I did not totally know would be mine one day, I would not have had this moment of Alex embracing his inner Bruno Mars as he does the cabbage patch in the back seat. For my Haitian child who grew 18 inches the first 22 months he was home, this is quite a sight.
I can remember when the Haitian adoption was proposed to me. I was afraid of the process. I was afraid it would take three years and it would be hard. When that is exactly what happened. I began to wonder how many times we shy away from huge ugly challenges that seem so hard there is no possible way we can endure it, let alone succeed. I must admit, I have given in to this many times in my 47 years on the planet, and through their adoption, there was so much doubt and despair, I was reasonably certain at times it would never work and I should call it quits.
My final hurdle of the day was to face off with my mom's eulogy. This is a task I have avoided now for a couple weeks. Big ugly obstacle. I tried to talk myself out of it several times. It would not be the worst thing in the world if I told my family no. The reality was, I didn't want to feel the grief. I didn't totally know how my thoughts about my mom and her life were going to translate into a logical delivery and I wasn't totally sure I could do it. Yet, it was my task, one I decided I would regret not doing if I didn't face the challenge. As I sat in the very spot I am in now, the words came. The tears flowed and I ended up satisfied with what came out. We shall see on the delivery on Saturday, but I will know in my heart of hearts I did not run from this challenge to honor her the way she deserved.
What followed this was a much needed dance party with the craziest Haitian children I know, and yes another rousing rendition of "Uptown Funk" right there in my kitchen as I made dinner. The giggles, the smiles and the realization that some hard challenges are worth fighting through, because the hard is what makes it great. Now if Julio would just get the stretch...
