Laundry in Addis

I have become the laundra-matic. Why: because my family brought three of each thing: panties, pants, shirts, and they get dirty here in Africa very readily, from the red soil, the dirty benches upon which we wait for paperwork, in the taxi cabs. Not to mention the fact that if you somehow manage to preserve your clothes for the day, Pacifique is sure to throw up on you at least one good one per hour. So, we wash every day multiple times and try our hardest to make our small box of Tide last three weeks. When in Rwanda, itr was no problem to wash and dry. Time consuming, yes, but no problem logistically. Rwanda was in its dry season and it was bone dry and 100 degrees each day, so our laundry dried almost instantaneously. But here in Addis (we got here Saturday night) we are in the rainy season, which means massive downpours and thunderstorms every day in the afternoon and virtually impossible laundry drying situations. At any given time there are diapers and t shirts and panties draped meticulously all over the room- on the doors, hangers, chairs, even the luggage rack. I spend my days obsessed with turning them just right, so that all parts will be exposed to the hotel air system at some point during the day.

So Addis is fine. We are staying in way too nice of a hotel- one that has me seeing dollar signs in place of everything my cornia, (retina?) registers, but apparently there is no other place to stay that is safe and has good water and no raw sewage. It is a world apart from Rwanda, and the whole family agrees that Rwanda felt more comfortable to us. This lkand is strange to us, more foreign. We were fortunate to get in on the weekend, have Sunday to relax, and then beat feet to the adoption work this morning (Monday). The task at hand here is to get a US visa so Pacifique can come into the States. Kind of a vital point, as leaving him here in Ethiopia would really stink.

We were able to get up, go to the doctor for an exam necessary for the Embassy interview and then proceed right to the Embassy to file our paperwork. The man there in charge of adoptions was quite easy to work with, and let us slide by with our lame translations of the Rwandan documents and also said we did not need an interview, which I had understood was an integral part of the process. So we wait for tomorrow for the medical tests to come back, and then they are sent to the Embassy. After that, they will issue the visa to come home to the States. We checked return flights and there are none Wednesday and Thursday and Friday are full. So, we are booked on a Tuesday pm flight arriving Boston on Wednesday, but that will all depend on the medicals coming back in a timely and perfect fashion tomorrow. And then of course the visa being issued in time to make the flight.

But wait... now mom from home is saying that our travel agent there shows us canceled on the Tuesday flight and booked on Thursday, so I guess what this means is another wait and talk with the Ethiopian office in the morning. Argh. Welcome to the transitory lifestyle of private international adoption.

So, if you do not hear from us again, then it is good news and we are on a plane. If we are stuck, we will certainly find the time to write.

Many blessings and thanks for all the love, prayers and well wishes sent this way. It has meant so much to us all.

We did it!!!!

I only have a second, and am typing on an iPod, so briefly...

OMG!!!! We flew thru immigration in record time (less than 24 hours) and got the passport, walked to the us embassy and finished our paperwork, then took a hot cab (100 degrees outside) to Ethiopian airlines to buy the baby's ticket. We leave Saturday afternoon for addis and hit the embassy Monday!

Woohoo!!!!

Thursday Update

A quick entry to update you- not going for writer's perfection here, just the basics.

Monday we turned in our paperwork to the Ministry requesting our fancy letter that would give us permission to travel and would also serve to complete the adoption process and enable us to keep Pacifique with us at all times. Tuesday they woman who needed to write the letter was out of the office all day, but with an email to the Minister herself, we were able to get commitment that the letter would be available for us the next day (wednesday). So on Wednesday morning, the Minister followed thru with her word and after waiting for some time in their office, we received the magical piece of paper. If ever there was a celebratory moment, this was it.

So we traveled to the orphanage one last time to deliver the official papers (I'm leaving out all the steps in between for notaries, banks, lawyer payments, etc)and Pacifique was sprung officially from his previous residence.

Returning home was a blessing, but after about 15 minutes of bliss, Pacifique began screaming in a way that indicated severe pain... altho he was simply ravenous. It only took about one nanosecond for us to determine that we were without the bottle we brought from the states. We must have thrown it aside at the art market, traded it hastily for a diaper to catch the one millionth puke. The kid is a fountain. Anyway, Scott ran through Kigali to the baby store to find a smaller version of our Avent bottle for a mere $20 USD, only to find he has spent all of his francs at the art center. Needless to say, it was a bit of an unfortunate introduction to living with us as parents and guardians for Pacifique.

Today we went at opening to the immigration office to request Pacifiques's Passport. That meant a 5 am rise, and one grumpy Ariah Ray. At the counter we explained our situation, hoping to get some compassion and assistance for a process that usually takes 10 business days. We showed them copies of our Saturday tickets to Addis, and explained that we needed the passport by tomorrow at 11 am or else we would be stuck here until at least next Wednesday due to the fact that the US Embassy closes at noon tomorrow and does not accomodate us again until Tuesday. And we cannot leave until we clear the Embassy.

So right now, we are crossing all our everythings that some miracle will happen and we will be able to get a passport (we were told it was impossible, but I knew to clarify: "is it impossible, meaning it cannot be done, or is it very difficult?" The answer was that it is very difficult which if anyone knows, I know, that those are two very different terms)by 11 tomorrow. If you have any prayers at all, please send em our way. I feel like a guy at a dead show, his finger in the air over his head, with a sign "I need a miracle."

So tonight we are headed to a restauarant for the first time with babe in arms. No idea how to handle that. I am slave to the bottle now, and have new appreciation for what a convenient miracle breastfeeding is! Everywhere we go, we need to strategize how to get a food source for this child. Last night he slept thru dinner which made things very enjoyable, today he has been sleeping the last two hours, so I am in for a different experience.

Anyway, he is cute as a button as my mom would say and we already love him to pieces. We will be glad to finish this leg of the journey and begin our travel to Addis. Our goal is SolarFest!

The Wait

The Wait

It’s possible that by the time I finish writing this post Jaya and Ariah will have arrived back at the motel with the “To Whom It May Concern Letter” letter in hand. If so, in a matter of a day or three we’re flying to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia for the second leg of this three-legged run. It’s also possible that the opposite will be true. We don’t know, and if you haven’t gathered by now that business proceedings in Africa have a vastly different nature than they do in the States, I’ll tell you that they do.

(So it didn’t happen today. The girls just returned. The file hasn’t even reached the desk of the woman who reviews it. Twice today the secretary instructed Jaya to come back, the second time, tomorrow. Ahh, but the Minister won’t be in the office tomorrow, so maybe we’ll have it on Thursday. If only! If only they understood what it has taken us (geez) to get to this point, maybe then they would shout, “Give me that file. Let me sign it! Allow these people to unify the links. Let them return home.” And I also hear the gentle, reassuring voice: this will happen when its natural course rounds the bend and glides over that one rightful stone. Be patient. All in good time.)

The language differences, even between English as a first and second language speakers, present significant communication difficulties, and the bureaucracy here seems to me to be considerably less efficient, organized and streamlined that what I’ve experienced in the States. You know, that good ol’ expeditious bureaucracy. I don’t know if my judgment above is ethnocentric or not, but based on experiences it at least appears true.

Yesterday (Monday) we delivered all of our documents to the Ministry of Family and Gender, including our request for the “To Whom It May Concern” letter/cover page, our ticket out of this country (this one’s for you Paul Morgan) with the “lad.” It was a fortuitous delivery in that everybody involved with generating this most precious letter was crammed into a small, bare bones office, including the Minister herself. They all greeted us warmly, even one whom Jaya found rather challenging last year. The Minister held Pacifique, so did the other woman. We presented them with gifts from our homeland: maple syrup, maple candies and the beautiful ceramic creations of our supportive friends and neighbors, Nick and Diane (Rising Meadow Pottery—hey guys, I really wanted to work in the pitch; it’s the least I can do). But equally as important to us flying out of here soon, this letter permits us to keep Pacifique with us at all times. The more time we spend with Pacifique, the more challenging it is to return him to the orphanage each night no later than 5:30. Logistically, it’s a slight hassle, but emotionally it feels sad; it tugs at my heartstrings. Jaya would likely elaborate with more than just sad, but that’s how it feels to me. Our desire is to care for, hold, and nurture Pacifique 24 hours a day. That will happen soon, and if soon is tonight, we’ll rejoice. (Not tonight)

The sisters at the orphanage are always gracious and smiling, and I have no doubt that their manner is genuine. They follow the mission of Mother Teresa. Same garb! The outside grounds, inside the perimeter walls, are clean. Someone tends a vegetable garden in one portion of the courtyard. The Swiss chard, collards, kale, lettuce, onions, etc. look healthy, damage free and green. I’m not certain if the kids eat from this bounty. I’m a little puzzled by the smell that greets me each time I enter through the gate and toward that garden. My guess is pesticide, maybe to stave off the swarms of mosquito “bugs” inside the orphanage. I seem to recall that smell one 4th of July when the field underneath where the fireworks display was going to erupt was saturated with a chemical agent designed to stifle the unprecedented invasion of the winged suckers who spawned outside the city of Denver one summer. Maybe I’m incorrect in my assumption, but it just has that synthetic odor. What are they to do? There are hundreds are children in there, maybe thousands for all I know. Someone told us last night that the current statistics claim 850,000 orphaned children in this small country alone.

Two mornings ago I walked down to the orphanage to pick up Paci and had to walk around the back of the building. When I rounded the corner I was immediately swarmed by, I don’t know, 15 toddlers. Each one ran up to me with outstretched arms, “Daddy, Daddy,” clung to my pants and shirt, and held on for much of my walk toward the one child I can help right now. Frankly, I was a little concerned about having them all clutch and cling to me. Many of them were dirty. Snot ran down from their noses into their mouths. Their eyes watered. Open sores stood out like a raspberry floating in a boat of chocolate. I felt desensitized, a robot on singular mission. In that back yard fifty other toddlers stood two feet tall and stared at me with either hopeful or vacant eyes. I walked down the dark hallway, opened the door to Pacifique’s room, the baby room, where thirty babies reclined in thirty cribs, some wailing, some staring off into space and others sucking from a bottle. A nurse handed me Pacifique, and I turned around and repeated the same march through humanity that had united me with me son. I could try and describe the conditions, the smells, the lack of light in more detail, but I don’t want to. I know that the sisters run as nurturing, loving and comfortable home as they can given the monumental task set before them. The regular staff and volunteers from around the world, as far as I can tell, do their loving best as well. But regardless of all of the goodness behind those walls, it really does appear to be “a hard knock life.”

We continue to wait. That means poolside mostly. It’s sunny and warm (80’s) here everyday. Rwanda is in its dry season which apparently means no rain—nada—from the beginning of June until the beginning of September. So as we wait, we’re the beneficiaries of sun rays. And we understand that our Vermont family and friends are currently shriveling from so much rain. Might as well make another Annie reference, “that sun will come ooooooout tomorrow…” We’ll do what we can to change the weather patterns with our return.

Over and out. And love, love, love!

Papa Scott

Confluence

I sleep beneath a constant buzz of swarming mosquito bugs. I actually don't really sleep since they are so loud, like a distant hum of a mower or a cluster of cluster flies in an attic window, dying to escape the summer heat. I would like to say that I have been in Africa enough to realize when they are out of the net or inside it, but it isn't true, not at all. This morning when we woke up Ri to begin what has become a torture scene of taking a shower, we smashed four blood filled bugs inside the net.

The other night when I finally slept I dreamt of Ariah dying, a disturbing dream which fortunately I awoke from. Those of you who have lost your children know the hell I refer to that is so real in a dream, but when it actually becomes your life you awake only to find you are living hell and only your dreams actually serve as an escape at times. Now enough time has elapsed since Trace's death that I no longer have that sinking feeling when my eyes open upon waking and I take stock of the fact that unfortunately I am still alive and my life has become an unbearable nightmare. Now, even before Pacifique, I have found light in the days and gratitude for my life which I very nearly lost. I have circled back into a good life where my waking brings relief from the fears that manifest in my dreams, like Ariah dying. I awoke with her feet in my face (she was sleeping Pippi Longstocking style) but oh, how I didn't care... I just grabbed her red, Africa stained feet and embraced them, grateful to feel the warmth in her body.

The firsrt time our second son was put into my arms, I marveled silently at the warmth eminating from his body. His warm baby head was the frist thing I noticed, it felt so very different than holding Trace cold and stiff from the morgue. I did not expect to be comparing the two in that way, deep in my mother bones, my mother heart and my mother breast and my mother tears recalled the feeling of despair holding my cold son. And with Pacifique's warmth against me, milk breath in my ear, baby inhalations against my chest came a gift I was terrified I would never receive; the blessing of mothering another child.

As I lay under my mosquito net last night, having had to give the son I am loving by day back to the orphanage beds by night, listening to the swarming around me, I feel I am at the confluence of many many losses. Finally arriving to the place I have held steadfast to for two years now, searching the world and the ethers and our hearts over, I can finally rest. It was no easy feat to steer this tattered and weatherworn ship into harbor, but we are here. And now, while I could not afford to stop and look at her hull while the journey was underway, I can get off and take stock of all that happened along the way. I have lost a son, but never the dream of having a son to care for. I have lost my womb, but never the instinct to bring a child into this world, into our home. I have lost my best friend, dear Amy who passed over two years ago to the day that we received Pacifique as our son. But I have not lost her dream of raising children gently and wholly and of adopting herslef one day from a place like Africa. I have lost in many ways, or been estranged from, my cherished friend in my hometown, one who began the process of adoption in Rwanda with me, and did not finish her dream. I have not and will not lose my love and gratitude for her. And so as I lay under my net, I close my eyes and let myself breathe, perhaps really breathe, for the first time since Trace. And with the breath comes an enormous wave of overwhelming emotion. I can feel all these losses fully for the first time, and all at once. My confluence is here and it is where I move from loss to life and celebration. I don't know how long I iwll be in this harbour where I feel the losses of Trace and my womb and my friends so accutely, but soon I will be moving on in a new way toward home.

Blessed be.

Our son, Rukundo Pacifique, was found here on December 5th 2008, by two young boys. His mother dropped him here in the bushes. We haveall gained so much in finding him, and he has also lost a great amount. We feel his story pulsating through us. May his ship be at harbor as well.

Back on the Horse

This time around I'll save all along the way.

Right now I don't possess the wherewithal to recollect what I lost last night. No, instead I'll reflect on today's events. Swimming has become the most popular activity when we're not conducting business, and today was business free. All Ariah wants to do is play in the pool, which we're so grateful to have available to us since the motel is modest, quite nice, but modest. About all Ariah has going for her, other than heaping love on her new brother when he's with us, is the pool. We have a television, but as Ariah has noted, "It's all grown up television, definitely not kid's stuff." Keeping Ariah happy, not at the complete expense of everything else, including ourselves, has been a priority. No, we didn't drag her along on this transcontinental journey; she wanted to come. That felt good to Jaya and me, having her participate in the acquisition (sounds strange but it's accurate) of a new brother, seeing his homeland, and most importantly feeling connected to this monumental family experience. And we both knew that it wouldn't be all vanilla ice cream cones and bike rides. Ariah has been our only living child for seven and a half years, and we've chosen the attachment parenting route. That means mountains of attention. Suddenly she's out of her element, no friends to lean on for play (support or respite), Rwandans everywhere gawking at her (since the other day I've seen plenty of other white people here, but not one other white child), and a new baby brother who is garnering so much attention, obviously. I was sitting next to Ariah at one point today, Pacifique in my lap, and I’m giving him love: chanting, blowing on his belly, stretching his arms and legs, rapping in baby lexicon, and the whole time I’m also observing Ariah’s reactions to this play. It appears that she’s confused, maybe a little jealous. One moment she’s reprimanding him for touching her with his foot then next moment she’s asking to hold him. Judging by her facial expressions, knit brow, scowl; ear to ear smile and full moon eyes, she’s at the mercy of this grand and grand scale transition. I’m not worried. She’s a grounded little girl, full of love, full of compassion, full of grace and nurturing. No, Pacifique isn’t black baby doll Isaiah; she can’t be the present mother she is with him in a sling on her shoulder, but caring for Isaiah has taught her how to hold and kiss and love her new baby brother, in embracing half of their emergent, paradoxical relationship. Did I mention what a saving grace that pool has been?

One more thing. I asked Happy, a Rwandan man whom Jaya befriended on her last trip over here, what the role of the father is in this culture. “Is the father involved in raising the child?” He said that the father’s responsibility is to provide, not to raise and nurture children. He said that if a Rwandan man walked the streets as I did the other evening with a baby in his arms, people around him would say, “He’s turned American.” I said that I had wondered about that when my walk draw the attention of everyone. Happy chuckled, “Men here, unless maybe they’re highly educated, don’t participate much in raising children. The man tells the child to do something, and the child does it. ‘Go to bed! You go to bed.’ ‘You can’t go out! You don’t go out.’ ‘Do this job! You do that job’ ‘Don’t you cry! You don’t cry!’ No, the men here don’t do the children so much. But they do know about you American men.”

Alright, I’m out of here, but not before acknowledging all the loving messages people out there have been sending. They’re blessing us for sure, helping us to feel supported and connected. And Esther, wow! Thank you for the beautiful bouquet. We love you! All of you.

Papa Scott

Photos you've been asking for

So it takes about 30 minutes here to upload one photo, and beyond being infuriating, it has also just simply not been do-able due to our hectic schedule. But here goes, I will try to see how far I get for you all.


The road to the orphanage


Outside the orphanage gate before meeting Pacifique for the first time


Ahhhh... finally.....


All together outside the doctor's office



Happy Father's day!!!

More to come later... but for all of you who are wondering, we passed court yesterday! Scott spent three ours writing about it, but it is in the ethers now... needless to say, he is our son, but we cannot leave the country with him until we get the letter from the Minister and the Rwandan visa. No idea how long this will take, but it could be a while. We are on African time... Court was a trip- sitting there with Rwandans in pink gowns (picture hospital gowns) which inicate they are criminals. Adopting a baby all in french with inmates present to witness! Whatever- the point is, it is all moving along and for real this time. Going to pick up Pacifique now, more later.

We have an itouch now and can read all your posts and encouragement and tears immediatley here at the hotel. How wonderful the technology is. Your words and hearts are bring us to tears constantly. It is so meaningful, bless you all!

One from Dad

Right now I'm feeling extremely frustrated and disappointed. I just spent hours, literally hours, drafting a lengthy, detiled post, and when I went to publish it, poof, it disappeared. Apparently the wireless connection had expired or something. I really can't believe it. Below is what I had saved before we went to dinner tonight, a small sampling. I'll post it to salvage something of the offering I had attempted to make to the blog. I don't have the poop to revise it or add more at this time. Nighty night.

Papa Scott


Truthfully, I haven't the foggiest idea of where to begin, so this might read at times like a stream of consciousness, or maybe not. Like I said, I don't know where to begin.

Pacifique is beautiful. Right now he's sleeping in a basinet on top of a table next to me as I write. Ariah sits next to him playing games on the I Touch her uncle lent us for the trip (hi Toph). The weather here is lovely, sunny and warm, though the pool at our motel is unheated and nearly unbearable to stay in for more than a few minutes.

I had a remarkable experience yesterday evening. We needed to return Pacifique to the orphangage, within walking distance from our motel, by 5:30. We checked into our room at 4:45, and Jaya had promised Ariah she would swim with her that afternoon. The reached an agreement that I would return Pacifique while the two of them swam so that we could honor the return time and then get to dinner. I bundled up the little guy, cradled him in my right arm, slipped his baby bag over my shoulder and set off. It must have been rush hour judging by the car traffic and the mass numbers of pedestrians walking the sidewalks. (This ain't rural Vermont by a long shot!) People, people, people everywhere! Here and there, among thousands, I spot another person with white skin, but I'm a little white buoy on a beautiful black sea. I'm pretty certain that I caught the gaze, no penetrating stare, of about 3,000 Rwandans--maybe more--on that walk. Here I am, a single white man walking the streets of Kigali with a baby in his arms. I have no idea what the role of the father is in this culture; I haven't seen any with babies. Of course that only means that I haven't seen them. Some people in their cars honked at me, grinned tooth baring grins, gave me the thumbs up. Others just stared, expressionless. I tried to say "hello" to everyone. That minimized some of the awkwardness I felt in being stared at. I quickly embraced the fact that these people were curious of me. No one gave even the slightest hint of aggression or disqust, though I did wonder if they felt that way about me. The truth is, according to our lawyer and driver, is that they are overjoyed, grateful and in awe of the fact that an American is taking one of their own into a home in the States. This morning, in front of the court building (I'll talk more about that in a minute), a number of women came up to us, speaking their native tongue, smiling brightly and ooing and awing over Pacifique. Everyone, these women included, who finds the courage or feels the desire to talk with us also mentions Ariah. "Oh, are you the sister? You happy, now you have baby brother." It's nice to hear, though I think it overwhelms Ariah; she just kind of grins and partially averts her eyes. (Remember what I said about stream of consciousness)

Music in My Heart

So we were on the plane and Ariah was leaning over onto my chest, snuggling up. She is the one who was sure a baby was coming to us from Rwanda . She knew it was a boy. She knew the Minister said yes the day before she informed us of our approval. The girl is in touch. She is leaning on my chest on the airplane, so quiet she could easily be asleep or just barely there, and I hear her say, "You have music playing in your chest."

Course she also told me I had a parade in my belly, which was accurate as well, seeing that I was as bloated and gaseous as could be from the airplane food that they serve every two hours.

Back to the music... turns out, Ariah has been right all along. I do have music in my heart. Pacifique is a blessed boy, he smells good (once you get the orphanage smell off him) and he is ever so soft on the skin, he has beautiful brown skin and eyelashes that go up to his eyebrows. He smiles and coos and, well... spits up incessantly. I'm wishing I brought a lot more clothes for him tahn I did, cause we need to change outfits constantly.

So yesterday was successful going thru the first step with the adoption, the sector. Apparently here we get a fancy Act of Adoption filled out where we were required to show lots of detailed papers for Pacifique. We walk into the halls of the sector which are dark and gloomy, and Pacifique startles and flexes his back. His eyes open wide and he becomes tense. It wasn't until today when I was outside the orphanage with Pacifique and walked into the halls of the orphanage to the baby room that I realized what he was reacting to. He did the exact same thing with his body as we entered the orphange, so I am guessing the dark hallway reminds him of his residence, which while they really do a marvelous job considering the situation taht they face, really isn't where any child should have to grow up. Looking in the baby room this morning, seeing Pacifique's bed and roommates was quite shocking. I do not think I have processed it at all yet- a dark, stuffy room filled with cribs so small side by side by side and filled with very small babies. Pacifique really does not cry with us, and he has had a life of un-attachment parenting so far. He is in his crib all day I suppose, gets fed when he is lucky. So he has learned to roll with it, not cry at all, and be tough.

Our document was ready yesterday, our swell lawyer went to the serious court today and was able to obtain a court date for us tomorrow at 8 am! Holy moly! Then I guess he is officially ours, although we cannot leave the country until a few more important steps are done, which could take a while.

We have checked into a hotel tonight after having stayed with dear friends the last few days... the hotel is very nice and accomodating, has wireless, a swimming pool, a fire at night, breakfast in the morning, and is at a very nice location. Right across from the famous Hotel Rwanda, the Mille Collines. Tonight the front desk man helped with my computer. A young Rwandese man, who when he bent down to type in our internet code revealed a mass amount of deep scarring to his skull. It took everythig I had not to reach out and run my hand along the criss crossing 8 inch scar lines, weeping.

So tomorrow we have court! Cross you fingers, and hope we don't have spit up (which this kid gives new meaning to) on the judge like we did on the passport photo equipment today. Reading all your messages and seeing you all write has been amazing! Truly a highlight of our days. Keep it coming and God Bless!

Arrived Today, Tuesday

So we are all here safe in Kigali, Rwanda. I certainly have plenty of blogging material due to the hectic and chaotic and mainly disappointing nature of our trip here, but the time is lacking to use the stories and observations usefully. Scott awaits me (well...sorta, he's fast asleep) in bed, and we have to get up early tomorrow to begin the day.

Long story short, we left for Boston on Saturday at noon, stayed at very nice hotel, woke at 3 am to get to airport, flew like clockwork to Dulles for our 10 am trip to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Well, the sign at the gate says 10:30, then we hear at 11 that there is a maintenance problem. Actually, technically speaking we can't make out any words, just a man making fuzz on the loud speaker, but word on the street as we come to know it after 24 hours of waiting, is that there is a significant maintenance problem. Ethiopian Airlines tells us as little as possible, sometimes things like "we are almost thru cleaning" and "we are just now finishing the repair" but hours fly by until at 4:30 they announce (again, just static fuzz over the PA) that we wil be put up in a hotel. Now the logical overdrive kicks in and I am thinking about 300 people all managing to obtain vouchers and get shuttled to the hotel and then back again for the 3 am check-in now required to make the morning flight. I also begin adding up the cost to the airline for this procedure they are about to invent apparently for the first time, and the best I can figure is that we will all get to the rooms in time to sleep about 2-3 hours and then begin the process back to the airport a full 24 hours after we had done this the first time. I would have gladly accepted cash money in order to save the airline the cost of the hotel and the shuttles (they hold TWELVE PEOPLE AT A TIME, and yes I am yelling!) and the buffet dinner they provided and stayed in the gate itself snoozing on the floor... and it likely would have been more resting!

Long story but we did end up leaving Monday at around 8 am... and the flight was as marvelous as one can get a 17 hour flight to be (and that isn't counting the 3 hours to Kigali). So we just about arrive and Ariah gets sick. For the first time in my life I get to use the white lined bags they so thoughtfully place in the seat pockets. I flash to how those darn germs could have possibly spread from my neighbor to us when we have been strictly quarantined for the past 2 weeks at least. And I flash to how on earth we are going to get thru the airports now, and evade the people asking what is wrong while they hand out Swine Flu information sheets, and flash even more forward to how this could impact our plans and progress here in Kigali. It is truly amazing how quick the mind of a worried, distraught mother can work. Thank goodness I brought Scott along to help keep me balanced. I can hardly get him to look up from his Taoist book the entire time, and I can confirm now that not only can the craziest roller coaster on earth not get a rise out of him, but the flight crazies (cancellation and mayhem that ensued) and the Ariah pukes does not get any attention either. That man is truly patient and flowing. He convinced me that Ariah was merely dehydrated, something that was fixed with some serious sleep and hydration.

So we get into Kigali (all our bags arrived!) and dear friend Julie picked us up. I inquire about court first thing, and hear that there was a big problem that held up the court progress. She informs us that it is now fixed, and things are on track. After being given the option of seeing Pacifique immediately today or resting and going in the morning, we quickly resolve to rest considering all the situation, and go fresh in the morrow.

Yeah, well that lasts about 10 minutes until I say, "are we sure....?" and over rehydration, Julie informs us of the problem Sunday. She got a call from the Sister at the orphanage saying that their doctor had been by and examined Pacifique, reporting that it was likely he would never walk. Progress haults. Julie suggests a second opinion, which they received quickly. A good Belgian doc looked him over and disagreed, coming to the conclusion that Pacifique was likely a preemie and now more like 4 months old developmentally. So he is not walking yet. Anyway, this information spurs us to go meet Paci and bring him to yet another doctor for review.

My goodness. I was a nervous wreck. I didn't know what to expect, I didn't even trust myself to know what to do when I got let in the gates to the orphanage. We really hadn't prepared Ariah for this yet, not that I know how to prepare her regardless, but it seemed so sudden and I was unprepared in some ways. How that is possible after years of dreaming of this child, I do not now.

Anyway, we park at the top of the hill to the orphanage and walk down. We come to the blue gates (thanks Megan for getting me here!) and knock. I notice I have placed myself behind the entire group of us and decide I had better suck it up and move forward. The sisters welcome us and they are so disarming and pleasant and happy. Pacifique has a fever they say, so they want us to get him checked. Eventually a sister walks toward us with a bundle in her arms, She holds him so we can see him, and I greet him for a while with her holding him. Then suddenly he is put in my arms nd it takes just a minute for me to feel comfortable accepting him, actually the minute is more liek the time it takes for me to let myself love him. And when I do, I hold him over my shoulder and feel his warm head against my face, cheek. And I cry. I just cry just as my friend did when she finally succeeded in pushing out her baby into her arms in the tub. She held him and cried, as did I. As I cry, I feel the people move in around me , and sisters are coming from many directions toward us, and i feel I may actually be in a real live Hallmark advertisement.

And Pacifique leaves with us for the rest of the day... Ariah is a natual big sister, holding him so nicely and consciously, loving him, caressing him. It was so good to see her happy again. She says she loves him already just like she loved Trace.

Dad seems happy too, immediately holding him and making him smile. Pacifique reaches out to grab him, his earring and his nose. What a happy day. The doctor is wonderful, sees nothing wrong with the child, and yes, he has a fever which is unexplained to date. Tomorrow we get to go to court and see if we can proceed on to our next court date that will make Pacifique legally our son. But in our hearts, he has been for a long time now.

We're Headed to Rwanda!

So... I know it has been nearly a year since I have posted, but it looks like it is a good thing I didn't erase this whole blog out of despair and frustration in the interim. We are going to need it again to keep you all updated on our progress with adopting our son in Rwanda!

There were times over the last year (and a year before that) when I thought I would literally die from the agony of never being able to become a mother again... and now after a complete miracle, we have been approved in Rwanda by the Minister in charge of adoptions. We have, through the Grace of God found a son who is waiting for us in the Home of Hope orphanage. Bless the Sisters who prayed on this choice they faced of which of the orphans was to be united with our family. While they first told us there were "no" babies who were young... that they were all 1 year or more... they apparently had something shift, because when my Kigali friend Julie went to meet the Mother Superior, she introduced a boy of 5 months, found in the bush, and named Pacifique, meaning "peace". I knew it was him, immediately.

And so we have a new lawyer who is an angel earthside... she is efficient and professional and extremely timely and communicative. What more could you ask for? She is finishing up all the details and readying for our arrival in Kigali on Monday.

So soon we will be meeting our new son, a boy who gets a second chance at love and safety and family and who gives a family orphaned somehow by the loss of their own son a second chance at life and love and family.

Stay tuned... we will try to update daily!