I picked up my purse and said to the kids, “Come on; let’s get in the van.” It was as though I’d fired the gun for the 100 meter sprint.
Both kids grabbed their shoes (to put on in the car) and said to each other, “Hurry, hurry, we’re late.”
For once, I wasn’t running late or short on time, but their programmed response revealed more that I cared to know. My frantic pace was reproducing itself before my eyes in the lives of my two children. I hadn’t intended to stress out my children, but I couldn’t deny it. My chaos had become theirs.
Other parents had warned me that I’d begin to see my own bad habits show up in my kids. I was prepared for a child with a stubborn streak, or a shortage of patience, one who was a little too bossy or independent. In fact, I’d probably laugh off those shortcomings in the same way I’d learned to dismiss them in myself. But this scene was uglier than I’d expected. I saw my children having ulcers by age ten. I knew I had to change my ways, for their sake as well as mine
Showing posts with label parents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parents. Show all posts
Friday, January 18, 2008
Monday, December 24, 2007
Our Russian Adoption Adventure - Part 2
Scrunched into the backseat of our Russian chariot, we began our final tasks. Our driver, Igor, took us to the apartment home of Sasha and Natasha. We climbed into what looked like the elevator from the Shady Rest hotel and entered our home for the next 4 ½ days. We were exhausted and I wasn’t sure I wanted the added stress of being a house guest. However, Sasha and Natasha’s hospitality quieted my fears and I thanked God for his provision. Natasha had a delicious hot breakfast waiting for us. We ate quickly and then got ready for the children’s required doctor appointments.
We arrived at the American clinic in Moscow, where the Russian doctor spoke flawless English. Though he was kind, Masha wouldn’t speak to him. He gave us the appropriate medical clearance and with that, we had one more hurdle to jump-the INS.
Our last stop was the US Embassy to get the children’s visas. Weary parents holding crying children spilled from the waiting room onto floors and into hallways. After several hours, an agent began to circulate. “We typically process about three to four families a day,” she explained. “Today we have over eighty families. I’d suggest trying again tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? I wanted to be on a plane tomorrow!
Finally we heard our name. I held the kids while John spoke with the officials. His furrowed brows told me there was a problem. “We’re missing some paperwork,” John informed me.
“We need to call Ron and it’s one a.m. in California!” I snapped back.
“We’ll have to wake him.”
After a brief phone conversation, John reported, “He’s already sent one fax but he’ll fax another copy in the morning. I’ll have to come back tomorrow.” Back to our apartment we trudged; defeated and deflated.
The next morning, I prayed and paced until at last John returned, visas in hand. “It was looking pretty grim,” he explained. “They couldn’t find the faxes, so I pleaded with every supervisor until someone discovered our paperwork was filed under O! Apparently the W sound doesn’t translate into their alphabet. I’m telling you – God found those papers!”
It was Christmas Eve and we were headed home. After touching down in New York, we breezed through customs and immigration. My glee faded when I saw the wall of holiday travelers at our gate.
“Passenger Wallace, please come to the ticket counter.”
No! Lord, don’t let this flight be overbooked.
John returned with the news, “The flight’s overbooked.”
I knew it.
“They had to move us to business class.”
Forgive me Lord for always assuming the worst . . .
Both kids were asleep before the plane took off. I watched Masha, in her chocolate-stained shirt and wild brown hair, my tiny spitfire. Peaceful at last. What would I tell her? How could I explain it was our suffering that brought us each to this place of joy? I had no answers, but I wouldn’t trade places with anyone.
Assisted by changing time zones, Christmas Eve awaited our arrival to LAX. Joyful and exhausted, we plopped our luggage, our sleeping children and our aching bodies into our own car and drove home . . . . home for Christmas.
We arrived at the American clinic in Moscow, where the Russian doctor spoke flawless English. Though he was kind, Masha wouldn’t speak to him. He gave us the appropriate medical clearance and with that, we had one more hurdle to jump-the INS.
Our last stop was the US Embassy to get the children’s visas. Weary parents holding crying children spilled from the waiting room onto floors and into hallways. After several hours, an agent began to circulate. “We typically process about three to four families a day,” she explained. “Today we have over eighty families. I’d suggest trying again tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? I wanted to be on a plane tomorrow!
Finally we heard our name. I held the kids while John spoke with the officials. His furrowed brows told me there was a problem. “We’re missing some paperwork,” John informed me.
“We need to call Ron and it’s one a.m. in California!” I snapped back.
“We’ll have to wake him.”
After a brief phone conversation, John reported, “He’s already sent one fax but he’ll fax another copy in the morning. I’ll have to come back tomorrow.” Back to our apartment we trudged; defeated and deflated.
The next morning, I prayed and paced until at last John returned, visas in hand. “It was looking pretty grim,” he explained. “They couldn’t find the faxes, so I pleaded with every supervisor until someone discovered our paperwork was filed under O! Apparently the W sound doesn’t translate into their alphabet. I’m telling you – God found those papers!”
It was Christmas Eve and we were headed home. After touching down in New York, we breezed through customs and immigration. My glee faded when I saw the wall of holiday travelers at our gate.
“Passenger Wallace, please come to the ticket counter.”
No! Lord, don’t let this flight be overbooked.
John returned with the news, “The flight’s overbooked.”
I knew it.
“They had to move us to business class.”
Forgive me Lord for always assuming the worst . . .
Both kids were asleep before the plane took off. I watched Masha, in her chocolate-stained shirt and wild brown hair, my tiny spitfire. Peaceful at last. What would I tell her? How could I explain it was our suffering that brought us each to this place of joy? I had no answers, but I wouldn’t trade places with anyone.
Assisted by changing time zones, Christmas Eve awaited our arrival to LAX. Joyful and exhausted, we plopped our luggage, our sleeping children and our aching bodies into our own car and drove home . . . . home for Christmas.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Our Russian Adoption Adventure
Ten years ago today, we touched down in St. Petersburg, Russia. Two days later, we became parents of two wonderful children, Hannah and Samuel. Most parents have stories of both the exhilaration and mind-numbing fear they experienced when they assumed responsibility for another human life (in our case, two lives).
Do you remember your first night with a newborn? Is he still breathing? Is she warm enough? Our first night with children took place on the midnight train from St. Petersburg to Moscow:
Igor, our driver, flung both bags and children into the van and whisked us off to the train station. Our tiny compartment felt like a sauna, thanks to an overzealous heater. Inside were two lower bunks with pull down upper-berths. The tiny aisle allowed only enough room for our luggage and Joyce. While straddling the two beds, John lifted Hannah onto the bunk by the window. Uncertain where to put Samuel and trapped by suitcases on her feet, Joyce stood frozen in the middle of our quarters.
As John stacked luggage to clear a place to stand, he noticed storage boxes underneath the bottom bunks. We could prop open the bed, throw blankets inside and presto-we had a crib! We tucked Hannah into the other lower bunk. She dozed off only after her excitement over the train trip succumbed to exhaustion. Samuel was ready for another bottle and a diaper change, which proved to be a challenge in the tight quarters. We finally tucked him back into his luggage box where he probably got the best night sleep of all of us.
We climbed into our top bunks, too hot to sleep. We snuck glimpses of the Russian countryside-farmhouse after farmhouse covered in snow, and then drifted off.
Chimes sounded, the hall lights brightened and a woman barked an offer of coffee or tea through our compartment door. “We’re almost there so we better get moving,” John said.
As soon as the train stopped, we heard a frantic knock on the door. John opened the door and began, “Hi, I’m John and . . .”
“We must hurry, the train won’t wait for you to unload,” said Larisa, our Moscow contact. Not wanting to explore more Russian countryside, we hurled everything into a container of some sort, grabbed the kids, and dashed off the train.
Check back next week for the rest of the story….
Do you remember your first night with a newborn? Is he still breathing? Is she warm enough? Our first night with children took place on the midnight train from St. Petersburg to Moscow:
Igor, our driver, flung both bags and children into the van and whisked us off to the train station. Our tiny compartment felt like a sauna, thanks to an overzealous heater. Inside were two lower bunks with pull down upper-berths. The tiny aisle allowed only enough room for our luggage and Joyce. While straddling the two beds, John lifted Hannah onto the bunk by the window. Uncertain where to put Samuel and trapped by suitcases on her feet, Joyce stood frozen in the middle of our quarters.
As John stacked luggage to clear a place to stand, he noticed storage boxes underneath the bottom bunks. We could prop open the bed, throw blankets inside and presto-we had a crib! We tucked Hannah into the other lower bunk. She dozed off only after her excitement over the train trip succumbed to exhaustion. Samuel was ready for another bottle and a diaper change, which proved to be a challenge in the tight quarters. We finally tucked him back into his luggage box where he probably got the best night sleep of all of us.
We climbed into our top bunks, too hot to sleep. We snuck glimpses of the Russian countryside-farmhouse after farmhouse covered in snow, and then drifted off.
Chimes sounded, the hall lights brightened and a woman barked an offer of coffee or tea through our compartment door. “We’re almost there so we better get moving,” John said.
As soon as the train stopped, we heard a frantic knock on the door. John opened the door and began, “Hi, I’m John and . . .”
“We must hurry, the train won’t wait for you to unload,” said Larisa, our Moscow contact. Not wanting to explore more Russian countryside, we hurled everything into a container of some sort, grabbed the kids, and dashed off the train.
Check back next week for the rest of the story….
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