Anna on April 19, 2014,
holding her adoption referral photo
from April 19, 2007.
Happy Referralversary, Yegetanesh!
For better or for worse, when you adopt you can never forget about it, because before you could possibly have a chance, some other piece of paperwork will be due.
Tonight I am filling in little boxes and blanks from our adoption agency to complete our annual report to Ethiopia. We have to send this until AJ is 15 years old. Supposedly this helps reassure Ethiopia that her children are doing well and adoption remains a good thing for them. I am not sure how well that is working since Ethiopia recently became a two-trip adoption country. Ugh. That about wipes out the newly refundable adoption tax credit.
Oh well. I don’t mind remembering that happy day three years ago.
Three years ago today I first saw this face:
Now every day I am blessed with this one:
Happy referral day, Yegetanesh.
Praise God, from whom all blessings flow.
December 1 is World AIDS Day. Our world is sick. Our brothers and sisters and parents and children are dying. The Body of Christ–We have AIDS. Take the World Vision AIDS Test to see how much you know about the global crisis.
Here in the U.S., where HIV is now considered a chronic condition rather than a death sentence, these numbers mean so much that to us they too often mean nothing. Who do we know who lost their parents? What town have we visited that has been socially, economically, physically decimated by the death of 10 percent of its population to one disease? No one and nowhere. But in Africa–and increasingly in India, China, the Carribean, and Eastern Europe–these aren’t numbers. They are names. They are faces. They are memories. And they are hopes and dreams that might have been.
They are counting on us.
Of the 15 million orphan-reasons to care about World AIDS Day, an estimated 4 to 6 million live in Ethiopia. Though to our knowledge our daughter did not lose her parents to AIDS, in many ways they are all AIDS orphans–for without this plague on the land would be millions more to raise the nation out of poverty, to grow crops, to give health care and education, to take all these children into Ethiopian homes to be loved and cared for. But there are too many.
I highly recommend There Is No Me Without You by Melissa Fay Greene, a journalist who has added two Ethiopian children to her family. She writes of her reaction when in 2000 she encountered the UN statistics of 12 million AIDS orphans in sub-Saharan Africa:
Who was going to raise twelve million children? That’s what I suddenly wanted to know. . . . Who was going to buy twelve million pairs of sneakers that light up when you jump? Backpacks? Toothbrushes? Twelve million pairs of socks? Who will tell twelve million bedtime stories? Who will quiz twelve million children on Thursday nights for their Friday-morning spelling tests? Twelve million trips to the dentist? Twelve million birthday parties?
Who will wake in the night in response to eighteen million nightmares?
Who will offer grief counseling to twelve, fifteen, eighteen, thirty-six million children? Who will help them avoid lives of servitude or prostitution? Who will pass on to them the traditions of culture and religion, of history and government, of craft and profession? Who will help them grow up, choose the right person to marry, find work, and learn to parent their own children?
Well, as it turns out, no one. Or very few. There aren’t enough adults to go around. Although in the Western industrialized states HIV/AIDS has become a chronic condition rather than a death sentence, in Africa a generation of parents, teachers, principals, physicians, nurses, professors, spiritual leaders, musicians, poets, bureaucrats, coaches, farmers, bankers, and business owners are being erased. . . .
Adoption is not the answer to HIV/AIDS in Africa. Adoption rescues few. Adoption illuminates by example: these few once-loved children—who lost their parents to preventable diseases—have been offered a second chance at family life in foreign countries; like young ambassadors, they instruct us. From them, we gain impressions about what their age-mates must be like, the ones living and dying by the millions, without parents, in the cities and villages of Africa. For every orphan turning up in a northern-hemisphere household—winning the spelling bee, winning the cross-country race, joining the Boy Scouts, learning to rollerblade, playing the trumpet or the violin—ten thousand African children remain behind alone.
“Adoption is a last resort,” I would be told in November 2005 by Haddush Halefom, head of the Children’s Commission under Ethiopia’s Ministry of Labor, the arbiter of intercountry adoptions, “Historically, close kinship ties in our country meant that there were very few orphans: orphaned children were raised by their extended families. The HIV/AIDS pandemic has destroyed so many of our families that the possibility no longer exists to absorb all our Ethiopian orphans.
“I am deeply respectful of the families who care for our children,” he said. “But I am so very interested in any help that can be given to us to keep the children’s first parents alive. Adoption is good, but children, naturally, would prefer not to see their parents die.”
I did not adopt from Africa to stand on a soapbox. I have in fact had my soapbox enough years now that I may even have learned a bit about where I should and should not set it (a child’s crib is no place for it). But I am compelled by my love of my child to remember, to consider, to speak for and to help those equally precious who have so far been left behind in her country and around the world. And so as I perhaps have your eyes on my words and your heart on my child: yes, I will speak of AIDS, I will connect the dots, I will tell the truth on World AIDS Day: Where you live should not decide whether you live or whether you die. I, you, we can make a difference.
Beneath the noise
Below the din
I hear your voice
“In science and in medicine
I was a stranger
You took me in”…
I’ve had enough of romantic love
I’d give it up, yeah, I’d give it up
For a miracle, miracle drug
A miracle drug
AJ has been going through an insecure/clingy phase of late. It’s not that she has a problem leaving me so much as gluing herself to me and whining when I’m back. She was fine staying at the seminary for “Parents’ Night Out” (or as we call it, “Glory Hallelujah”). But I went to the library to work for a whole five hours on Saturday, for example, and when I came back she glued herself to me and threw “Mama do it!” temper tantrums if Aaron attempted to help her with anything. Then Sunday she was fine going in nursery and running all over the church afterwards without us. But despite me spending all day playing with her, the writing of this post was interrupted because Mommy had to put her pajamas on her (I did cut a deal that Daddy would read the stories).
I’ve also been noticing quite a bit of play acting with little Fisher Price people and animals involving babies/children/animals crying for their mommies. So yesterday I started not only having the mommy come but telling her mama always comes. I talked to her about how when she goes away, like to Grandma’s, or I go to work, she might miss me, but I always come back. And so it’s okay to miss me but it’s also okay to enjoy going or playing with someone else because she can know that I’ll come back and spend time with her later.
At bedtime she said unprompted, “Mama comes back.”
I guess that connected, so I’ve kept it up today. “You can go to Grandma’s tomorrow and play, and then the next day I’ll come get you. Do I always come back? Yes, I always come back.”
We have been talking more about adoption lately just by virtue of her birthday coming up and friends having babies and her interest in how she came on a plane (we got I Love You Like Crazy Cakes from the library too). I’ve also been busy with work, trying (semi-successfully) to get hours in, and had a friend babysit when my mom was gone for a week. Some disturbed routines and extra busyness.
But who knows if anything has anything to do with anything else, for who can know the mind of the toddler? (Pretty sure that’s in the Bible.) Could be just a phase, like kids have and she’s had before. It’s just tough because she’s overall so fearless and loves her dad so much (and I so love the breaks he gives me!). But for whatever reason she seems to need more of me right now. I’m just trying to play Fisher Price Sesame Street on the floor as much as my body and brain can handle and not think what would happen if I ever get a “real job.” I think I would have to coat myself with Teflon to get out the door.
And I’ll just keep telling her, Mama always comes back.
A study has just been released that should be of interest to all of us connected to transracial adoption: “Beyond Culture Camp: Promoting Healthy Identity Formation in Adoption” from the highly respected Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute.
It was one of the largest studies yet of transracial adoptions and focuses on the first generation of children adopted from South Korea. Some points from the executive summary:
The study also makes recommendations for adoption practice and policy to promote positive adoptive and transracial/cultural identity. Check out the summary.
Related: New York Times article about the study: “Adopted from Korea and in Search of Identity“