Our Adoption Journey: One Kansas City family’s story of traveling far to bring home their child
Once upon a time, I dreamed of having six children. After a very difficult pregnancy, our first son was born. Three years later, after beating the odds against conceiving with severe endometriosis, I delivered our daughter. That would be my last pregnancy for doctors told me I should never get pregnant again. But my heart ached for another child, and that is where our adoption journey began.
I packed the envelope addressed to our adoption agency like a pregnant mom packs her bag for the hospital, checking the list many times to make sure everything was tucked in place. As our giant envelope containing our personal data and copies of every legal form or card ever issued to us made its journey from Kansas to Russia, I became the nervous mother at the end of a long pregnancy. Though I didn't suffer from pre-term labor this time, I did suffer from a racing heart every time the phone rang. Any time we heard from the agency it was the same anticipation that I felt when I went to regular checkups during my pregnancies. These agency calls brought news of impending motherhood. Email updates like "Your paperwork is in region. I'll let you know when things start moving. Right now you are #3 on the list for a little boy" were like ultrasound pictures.
I remember our trip to the hospital the morning I was induced to have our first son. I worried and wondered how our lives were about to change. At that point in life, I couldn't keep a plant alive. How would a baby survive in my care? I felt the same level of anxiety when the agency called and said, "You are getting closer to the top of the list. Make sure you have the updated documents, passports and a copy of your dossier. You and your husband may only have a week's notice to appear in Russia."
Then we got the news. It was time! Our first flight to Russia lasted more than 20 hours. I had all that time to wonder, "Will he like the toys we packed for him? Should I speak to him in English or my very limited Russian? Or should I just smile a lot?"
A rough car ride carried us to the Baby Home of Krasnodar, Russia, in December 2005. As we pulled through the gates, we saw an old brick building whitewashed to hide the signs of age. Painted on the side of this home to so many children was a blue stork dropping off a bundle. I giggled to myself, wondering whether I could get something to calm my nerves. Where was the epidural?
We walked into the back hallway of my son's Baby Home. The walls were bathed in Pepto-Bismol pink paint, the back entrance smelling of cooked cabbage. I could hear pans clatter and women chatter in the musical Russian language that I yearned to understand. These were the people who had been caring for my baby.
Harboring excitement and fear, we were ushered into the director's office. I sat stiffly, trying to look relaxed, loving and worthy of having one of their children. Each time the door opened I was ready to see my son. Thoughts rushed like a river through my mind: Will he have light or dark hair? Will he smile at us? Will he cry, laugh or talk? Each time it wasn't him, I had to relax. He's not quite here yet.
Finally, a woman brought in a tiny boy with big blue eyes that looked concerned, confused and sad. The anticipation had grown so much it took over my arms as I reached for this tiny brown haired boy newly delivered to me. The 15-pound, 14-month-old baby turned his head and cried. I was strange to him, my eagerness frightening.
We sat, for what seemed like hours, on an old red rug playing with the toys that we had brought. We stared at our boy. Our boy looked in confusion at us. And in the background people chatted away in a language we didn't understand, papers were reviewed and organized and completed. This was nothing like a delivery room. I was not able to rock and comfort my son. I was afraid to even touch him.
"You have two days to decide if you want this child," our Russian adoption coordinator translated. "If you don't want this child, we will try to find you another boy in our region to visit." How do we know if this is our son? What should I be feeling for this baby I just met who won't look at me? My anticipation had turned to fear. Fear that he wouldn't love me. Fear that if we took him away from this country and what he knew that he'd always be sad and missing something. Fear that if we didn't make him our child that he would grow up in the orphanage and never know love.
Was I brave enough to love this boy who had never known love? I loved our first child before he was born. I fell in love with our second child the moment they placed her in my arms. Shouldn't this be the same? Was I brave enough to know he may never be able to love me back?
The tiny boy with brown hair and big blue eyes became our son on Valentine's Day 2006. We stood before a Russian judge and promised to love him, care for him and make him part of our family. For better or worse, in sickness and in health, our lives were joined in great anticipation of what was to come.
To say that it's been easy would be a lie. We've had some roadblocks with reactive attachment disorder, but the thing about roadblocks is that they can be overcome. I'm still hoping for a smooth ride, but let's be honest--raising any child has bumps along the way. As I watch my 5-year-old play with his action figures, I feel love for the baby who didn't know what love was and love for the boy who is learning to love those around him.
Would we do it all over again? Like with childbirth, the memories of the pangs of frustration with the adoption process fade. Adoption is a wonderful choice that has changed everyone in our family. I would retake whatever journey was needed to get each of my three children. Regardless of how each child joined us, we are family and I can't imagine it any other way.
Mindy Muller is living the dream of motherhood to three awesome kids in Overland Park.