Russian Orphanage Life: Scene Two

Two of the kids in the orphanage hallway;
the boy put on one of the orphanage's suits,
 hoping to impress us.

I didn’t curse the potholes as we bounced south over pock-marked roads nearing our most far-flung orphanage, since they forced our driver Sergei to stop recklessly passing other traffic. Three death-defying hours after leaving the regional capital, we were in Peter’s city, a town still the region’s fourth largest despite 40 years of declining population.  Founded in 1552, it borrows its name from Russian folklore, after a magic stone with healing properties, though today there is little to suggest healing anywhere.  The road leading to the orphanage was flanked by small frame dwellings; weathered stick fences guarded tiny vegetable gardens. On the road’s shoulder a hunched babushka led a dairy cow on a leash.  Sergei was still irate at my leaping unannounced from his Volga sedan at a stop sign for a photo hours ago, so I bit my tongue as I fingered my camera and looked wistfully out our rear window as the cow and her mistress grew smaller.

There is little to commend Peter's hometown

When we arrived at the orphanage, several kids bolted out the doors to welcome us.  One was Peter, a cheery, animated lad I knew from his recent Lighthouse Project trip to the U.S.  Inside, several others lined the halls to see us.  Nowhere else did kids show such interest, or desperation.  Their rampant desire notwithstanding, I knew there would be precious little hope we could impart here.  But while this orphanage is one of the most deprived we work with, and several adoptees have characterized it as preferable to life on the streets only because three daily meals were served, Peter, now 12, remembers life there in fonder terms. 

He arrived on a bus at about age five from the detsky sod, or baby house orphanage.  Several other orphans were with him, having graduated the sheltered environment of the baby house.  As the newcomers disembarked the bus, older orphans heading to lunch encircled them, gawking at the smallness of the detsky sod kids.  Peter was frightened, but soon found his caretakers kind, unless he disobeyed.

Peter's orphanage

Peter’s new institution was gargantuan, with enough kids to warrant separating them into rooms both by gender and grade. A caretaker awoke each group between 7 and 8 a.m.  Before she was done, Peter’s roommates were already pillow fighting or playing with toys.  The caretaker would remind them to make their beds and brush their teeth; most orphans brush after rising, not eating, and have mouths full of cavities to show for it.   Once everyone was ready, they left for a breakfast of porridge, served inside a neighboring building.  Kids washed their hands before eating, and sat at assigned places where their food awaited them.  When they finished, bigger kids descended on the tables to eat the leftovers. 

Soviet-era safety posters welcome visitors in
the entrance to Peter's orphanage.

After breakfast, the kids queued up for school outside a third building on the orphanage grounds.  As an all-orphan school, the kids were largely spared the condescension of “home kids,” their term for children with families.  Peter spent fourth grade, his final year at the orphanage, studying reading, writing, math, and painting; science and social studies were omitted from the curriculum, leaving kids ignorant of the larger world outside the orphanage.  While some students fussed during class, Peter rued the time wasted as the teacher struggled to calm them.  As part of their lessons, kids sang once per week.  Gym class was Peter’s favorite; depending on the season, they might play soccer, ski, run, or bicycle. School was in session Monday through Friday, not Saturday as many Russian schools were.  When I asked if they wore uniforms, Peter told me they wore their own clothes, proudly adding he had “more than one outfit” to choose from.

The orphanage dining hall

Mid-morning, the kids enjoyed polnik, a snack time of tea and cookies served in the dining hall.  Unlike kids from a nearby orphanage we work with, Peter had a break from school for a soup lunch; he regarded days when borscht was served among his happiest there (Russian Orphanage Life, 1/28/12).  For dinner, bread and an evil-looking white sausage called sausiskii were on the menu. Only adults ever helped with meals.

On Sundays, Peter’s group cleaned their room, a task he considered the bane of orphanage existence.  He had a shelf for his clothes, though older kids sometimes stole from him the things they coveted.  His bed was “good and comfy”; at nighttime, the boys in his room feigned sleep until their caretakers left for the evening, then pillow fights broke out.  One caretaker remained at the orphanage overnight in case of emergency.  Kids caught misbehaving were banished to a dark basement and left to stand there for an hour; Peter learned obedience after a few trips.  Some kids would fight, but Peter avoided it, since he was too little to win. 

A bedroom in Peter's orphanage

There was a place in the capital reserved for kids Peter said could not hold their tempers.  Every three months, doctors visited the orphanage, taking an entire day to examine the children and to critique their scholastic progress. About twenty orphans were sent there for three month-stints based on the doctors’ recommendations.  Returning kids brought reports of being locked up, sometimes even tied up for severe infractions, which made every doctor’s review feel harrowing.  Kids sent away there four times stayed permanently, and forfeited any possibility of adoption.

Cigarette smoke clouded the orphanage bathrooms; Peter attributed his frequent illness to the omnipresent fumes. By 6th or 7th grade most orphans smoked, a vice he found "gross.”  Though he had no idea where the money originated, the staff gave kids 50 rubles per month (about $1.70) as allowance, enough to keep the older kids puffing and the restrooms stinking.

Sometimes the environment around the orphanage terrified Peter. Once, at age seven as he walked alone outside, a drunk staggered up and tried to take him home. Finally the drunk’s lady friend intervened and forced him to let Peter go.

The orphans freshened up occasionally in the banya, a Russian sauna with birch twigs and leaves bundled together and hung above a steam source; unlike the bathrooms, the smell was pleasant.  Steam and the resultant perspiration helped loosen the dirt from their bodies; afterward, they took a bath.

Most of the time Peter enjoyed orphanage life, though room cleaning times and mad teachers equaled bad days.  Peter’s happiest memories were of his borscht, and of a caretaker taking him to the store to spend his allowance on candy.  

During the summer, orphans left to live with foster families.  Two boys in the first family Peter stayed with were cruel; in his second foster home, Peter remained with Tota Luda and her husband three months, pulling weeds in a garden overgrown with tomatoes.  He disdained that work, but liked life outside the orphanage, once attending a wedding with Tota Luda.   

Kids at the orphanage

Orphanage kids longed for families, though with no social studies classes and no knowledge of the United States, they had no aspirations of adoption by Americans.  But as he saw others leave, Peter thought them lucky, and wished them happiness.  After his trip to America with the Lighthouse Project, he realized a family wanted him; thus, he began to implore his orphanage director daily, “Director, are they here yet?”   While she reassured him, obstacles which delayed his parents’ coming rendered him disappointed and with dwindling confidence as the wait dragged on.  After all his questions, when his turn to go finally came, Peter thought he noticed the director “was a little glad that I left!” 

In court for his adoption, the judge’s serious appearance when she entered the courtroom intimidated Peter.  He agreed with a simple “Da” when she asked if he wanted to be adopted, then let his nerves silence him further.  He’d made the right decision, he told me, reckoning he was the fifth child from his institution to find a forever family; nonetheless, it was a hard day when his new parents took him back to the orphanage to bid everyone farewell.  As teachers cried, it pained him to leave his friends with nothing but bubblegum for their futures.

Peter's arrival at the airport in the United States overwhelmed him.  But his new cousin waved a sign of welcome, quickly teaching him to high five and give knuckles, and to his profound relief, he found America wasn’t scary for long.  As other kids from his orphanage followed him into local families, Peter relished the chance to reconnect with them.

Kids outside to see us off

I asked Peter what he would tell his friends left behind. “If you want parents from America, that’s a really good choice.  But it is going to be hard to learn the language.  That was the hard part when I came here.”  To help him, his parents worked on his English on the summer afternoons following his homecoming.  Even Uno games provided opportunities for lessons, he noted with a hint of disgust.  But he was delighted when I praised his English. “Thank you!” he gushed.  I had to [learn] because I didn’t have no one to speak to me in Russian!”

Kids waving goodbye at the orphanage

Peter wondered what my plans were for his interview.  I promised I’d post it on our website, to share with others about Russian orphanages and the kids who wait in them.  He brightened when I hoped his story might help some of his old friends.  “Oh, that’s nice! I hope they get adopted.  If you do get adopted, I am really happy for you guys!”

So Peter’s orphanage days are a memory, but my mind’s eye vividly sees him there, the brain-jarring day we left him.  He and his friends spilled out the orphanage doors behind us, aching to seize every moment with us; some of those dear ones, like Vasily, still wait just to be chosen (Solid Gold, 12/1/09). After we’d hugged our goodbyes and collapsed into the Volga, most of the kids filtered back to the orphanage.  But not Peter.  As we drove away, I glanced out the rear window again. He was waving to me.  Smiling and waving.

Someone Else's Kid

Our first Sunday together

Shielding my eyes in horror whenever Caroline Ingalls labored to give birth on Little House on the Prairie, I would beg my mom to mute the sound; I owe my desire to adopt to her refusal. Good reasons to build families through adoption abound, but for me, it all began with Ma. 
 
Randy was washing clothes in our dormitory laundry room when we met my freshman year at Michigan State. Solicitous, polite, and a patient listener, he was almost perfect.  His only flaw was a doozy, though: he did not share my desire to adopt.  I badgered him mercilessly, but no matter how often we discussed it, he was adamant he couldn’t love “someone else’s kid.”  I took a risk and married him anyway. After graduation, we began talking more seriously about children, but Randy remained mired in his opposition to adopting; he was sure he could only love his “own” offspring.

One Sunday in late 1996, a family from our church arrived carrying their new three-year-old daughter from India.  At her baptism a few weeks later, our minister preached about adoption, which I’d never considered a religious subject.  But as he weaved into his homily plenteous biblical examples of God’s compassion for orphans, he opined that since all Christians were themselves adopted by God, more should thank Him by adopting.  Inspired, I ignored the impulse to elbow Randy’s ribs.

Shortly thereafter, I taped a Turning Point special on Romanian adoption.  The next day, I pleaded with Randy to watch it with me, and not to refuse the request I’d make afterward until he’d prayed for at least one week.  While he viewed the episode with seeming indifference, he kept his vow of silence when I asked again about adopting.  Six days passed; then January 23, 1997, he confessed he’d been considering adoption since the sermon, and had already realized it was in our future a week before Turning Point.

Nicole's referral photo

I danced from the mailbox to my house a few days later when documents from the local adoption agency arrived.  After extensive discussion, we choose Guatemala as our country.   Our families were thrilled, though my mother-in-law could not understand our decision.  “Can’t you have your own kids?” she prodded, as if no one would adopt if they didn’t have to.  I rejoiced at Randy’s complete conversion when he pretended not to understand the question.  As she elaborated, he corrected her that the child would be our own.

Guatemala’s mañana culture consigned us to a nearly two-year wait for a referral.  In October 1998, our social worker phoned me at work to announce a baby girl, Nicole, had been chosen for us.  Randy left work immediately for the photos, but promised not to look until I got home.  When they heard the news, my parents rushed over to see their first grandchild, then treated us to a celebratory dinner; my mom kissed Nicole’s photo before leaving that night.  Randy’s parents lived in Iowa, and drove to see the pictures a few days later.

Randy playing with Nicole
the day we met her in Guatemala

We flew to Guatemala City to meet our daughter and her foster family 27 months after deciding to adopt.  After glasses of lemonade, which we guzzled before the ice could melt, the foster mother presented Nicole to us.  Sleeping when she was placed in my arms, she opened huge eyes, shook her head, blinked, and looked into my face, as if yearning to learn who her mama would be.  She was adorable in her yellow dress, with dark eyes and curly, doll-like hair.  Randy was smitten, overcome to see a real child gazing at him, and craving his love and attention.  “She’s ours,” he told me.

Nicole the day we arrived home with her

Guatemala required two trips, and we tormented our agency with calls as we awaited permission for our second visit.   A day before Nicole’s first birthday, she was in our arms forever.  Arriving home, a festive throng assembled on our lawn to greet us. As we turned down our street, my uncle, a Grand Rapids policeman, veered out in front of us to escort us with flashing lights and wailing siren.  After we showed the baby her new room, my mom spread a picnic feast outside.  My mother-in-law carried Nicole everywhere; when the time came for her return to Iowa, she sent my father-in-law home alone, and told him to come back in a week.

Emily's referral photo

Two years later, it was Randy’s idea to look to China for a child. When our agency warned us of an impending holdup due to bird flu, Randy and I left on vacation.  Checking in for our flight in Detroit, the clerk told us to call home.  Nicole, 4, answered, “Hi, Mama!  Adoption’s ready!”  I phoned the agency, and they read little Jin Su Li’s documents to me.  They’d e-mailed her photo, but in the era predating ubiquitous WiFi, we had to fly to Philadelphia before we could access the Internet.  In our giddiness, $7 for five minutes online seemed a bargain when we saw our precious daughter in her padded suit, with an incongruous poolside backdrop. We signed acceptance documents in the airport, and US Airways staff faxed them to the agency for us.

 

A cultural tour in Nanchang, China;
This man has a mallard duck, two
pigeons, and four turtles, among
other unusual items in his baskets.

Traveling with a group of families getting daughters from the same province, we arrived in Beijing two months later.  In a stifling room, as children were presented alphabetically by adoptive family surname, we rejoiced at being D’s.  Soon, the room resounded with crying: the babies, disconsolate at their abductions by strange-looking people, and the parents at receiving such wondrous gifts. Our daughter, now named Emily, weighed 12 pounds at 11 months, and was starved for love. As we cradled her, she arched backward at the waist, desperate to move as far from us as possible.  She didn’t smile once, and sobbed almost the entire trip. Randy cuddled her constantly; my nerves could scarcely suffer the incessant wailing. Even new parents in our group started offering suggestions which, as an experienced mom, galled me immensely.  At night, Randy paced the hallway with her, showing her things from our high rise hotel overlooking the Gan River.  Whispering gently, holding her close, he trusted the crying would cease; he reassured me that once she figured out we weren’t leaving, she would love us back. 

Emily's very first smile for us

As our week in China progressed, Emily hardly warmed up, though her active rebuff of us subsided.  Borrowing a stroller from our hotel, we wandered the streets on excursions we dubbed “cultural tours.” She stopped crying during the tours, so we went out daily.  On those riveting walks, we witnessed the most fascinating sights we’d ever seen.  The day before our departure home, Randy clapped as Emily rolled over, garnering a half-hearted clap-clap in imitation.  It was her first interaction with us, and a most glorious memory.  After our trip, our family welcomed us with signs, balloons, and cake at the airport. When we strapped Emily into her car seat for the ride home, Nicole bounced in beside her.  “It’s very fun to have a sister,” she chirped, as Emily's first smile crossed her face.

Our referral photo of Julia and Michael;
We knew they were ours by the time the photo
had opened to the level of the black line.

Only a few weeks home from China, we had no business attending an adoption fair, but I went anyway and met a coordinator for the Lighthouse Project.  She detailed their efforts with older child adoption, my lifelong passion.  While the resultant path was circuitous, I coordinated my first Lighthouse Project hosting trip out of that serendipitous meeting, ultimately deciding to adopt a sibling group. Despite expeditious work on the adoption, obstacles repeatedly arose; eventually, Lighthouse Project director Hope asked us to consider switching regions. Though we refused, after an unusually despondent message from me Hope e-mailed a photo of another sibling group.  I was initially annoyed, but downloaded the photo. With dial-up Internet, it opened just a few lines at a time, but by the time the freckles on the little girl’s cheeks appeared, I was captivated.  Randy concurred. 

Michael and Julia on the couch,
the first time we saw them

Five weeks later, we were in Russia. When we entered our hotel’s lobby, Julia, 8, and Michael, 6, were on a couch before us. Randy especially was appalled that such little ones had no parents caring for them, and wondered what could possibly have been more important to them than the two.  No one introduced us, so we sat down next to them, then scooped them into our laps. They warmed to us immediately, easily accepting the toys and candy we offered.  We hadn’t even left the couch when we knew they were ours.   They soaked up all the love and attention we could lavish, then did whatever necessary to earn more.  Our time with Julia and Michael was unspeakably rewarding, because they were old enough to want us. 

Julia crying at her desk in the orphanage school when
we left her. She is trying to smile here for my photo.

When it was time to return the kids to their orphanage, leaving them behind was gut wrenching. We were still outside the building when Julia started sobbing; seeing this, a caretaker scolded her as we walked in the door.  Our visit did not increase our desire to leave the kids there. The building housed Julia’s school, and she sat at her desk for a teary-eyed photo.  Witnessing this, Randy implored me to "pull out all the stops" to get the kids home quickly.

Back at the hotel before leaving on the train for Moscow, it was distressingly quiet in the cafe where we had shared all our meals. Reminiscing about the blessed commotion the last time we ate here, I broke down, then Randy followed.  We’d blown through all the napkins on the table, and were puffy-eyed, red-faced messes when our server arrived.  Though he’d seen us with the kids several times, he was perplexed about why we were so distraught.

Julia and Michael come to us.

We rushed to finish our process, returning to Russia in early 2006.  Back at the orphanage, we waited in the director’s office for the kids.  Growing impatient at the protracted delay, we opened the office door to look into the hallway; right then, Michael was striding down the hall.  Seeing us, he exploded into a run, leaping joyously into Randy’s arms.  That memory burns in our hearts, bringing a smile to both of us whenever we recall it.  Julia lagged behind, torn over leaving the teacher she lived with.

During the next weeks in Moscow, we anxiously anticipated gathering our entire brood under one roof at last.  After 25 days in Russia, a crowd cheered our final arrival home. Three countries and four children later, we were a family, in every sense of the word.

Now six years have come and gone, yet after all of our adoptions, one thing hasn’t changed: Randy still can’t love someone else’s kid.

He’s far too busy loving his own.

*****

At least 90% of our first-time callers are women.  A common lament among them are husbands who are not fully on board with adoption. If you're a man and would like to speak with an adoptive dad, we have several who are willing to share their experiences. Please call me at (616) 245-3216, and I will put you in touch with one of them.  It might be one of the best calls you ever make!

Peppered With Joy

Alexei in his orphanage

Tammy and her husband were childless and interested in adoption, but had never really considered the adoption of an older child. She traveled with an early Reverse Lighthouse Project trip to Moscow, where she fell in love with 12-year-old Alexei.  After a rather circuitous adoption process, they welcomed Alexei home in 2011.  In mid-February 2012, Tammy spoke with me, bubbling about life with their new son.

It is important to note that while we are delighted that this has been a very joyous adoption, and we here at the Lighthouse Project always hope, pray, and work toward such positive outcomes, we also recognize that many adoptions of older children will have substantially more difficulties than this family has experienced.

Russian Orphan Lighthouse Project (LH):  How did you and your husband come to adopt an older boy from Russia when you were looking at a younger girl from China?

Tammy: We were scanning the entire world for orphans and their plight, and spending lots of time in prayer. Your blog just happened to be one of our nesting grounds. You posted a kiddo with an “I’m a Pepper” t-shirt on the very same day I was on the edge of attending a Lighthouse Project trip (Peppered With Love, 9/28/09). Not for adoption, of course, as I had no clue where our kiddo would come from!

I went to a women’s conference to drop off CDs. My friend pushed me to stay. Wrestling with this decision to go to Russia or not, I sat in the red velvet church pew, kind of praying and listening, but not all there. I whispered, "Well, God, I will go to Russia, but I am not sure why You would really plan an adoption in the most expensive, unfamiliar, and barely pleasant country.” Remember, I had been to 13 different countries, so in my all-knowing brain I was sure our little seed from heaven would be from one of "those countries." At the moment I finished my half-hearted prayer with a promise, I did the worst thing: I asked for a sign from God for confirmation.  My friend’s little girl tapped me on the shoulder and gave me a can cooler to hang onto. It said, "I’m a Pepper."

Then in Russia I met Alexei. I put gloves on his hands, and he looked at me with those big blue eyes, and I didn't see an older child at all or an orphan, I just saw my son. Age was just a number.

LH: Did you have any fears before your adoption which actually came true?

Alexei meets a friend's baby

Tammy: I worried about him being homesick. It has happened twice since he’s been home.  He’s not inconsolable, but he’ll want us to be close.  He just cries, then gets over it. I worried he’d miss his culture and country, and it has come true. It hasn’t been terrible, but I feared him being sad even once, and he was.

LH: What challenges did you face when you brought Alexei home?

Tammy: The biggest was communication right away at deeper level. I think he would say that, too, being an older child and knowing his language.  Then coming here, and language learning has to start all over again.  Since communication does have to come slowly, it gives time for relationship to build slowly and naturally, so that was good.  But we wanted to comfort him with words, and we just had to hold him, or cook something we thought might comfort him. We really haven’t had other challenges.

LH: Communication is a common concern of pre-adoptive families, but our staff frequently thinks language is lower on the list of challenges, as compared to some of the behavioral issues older kids can come with. Is your thought on communication being your biggest challenge a reflection of the level of difficulty not sharing a language caused, or a reflection on the ease of your overall adoption?
 

Alexei and his dad

Tammy: From day one he has been easy to comfort.  He does not do a lot of negotiating, just does what he needs to do. At about four months we were able to make jokes and laugh about the same things and understand things together. There were no other challenges that we have had, so I think it’s more a reflection on the ease of our adoption.

LH: How did you handle the language challenge?

Tammy: I prayed a lot, prayed a lot to deal with it.  We tried to learn Russian and tried to use it, so he would understand we were trying. It was really just a challenge because we wanted to know him better, and know him faster. We needed to talk to do that, but we couldn’t do it right away. It wasn’t bad, but you have to be really patient, you have to be creative.  We were playing board games, reading the Bible in two different languages.  If he looked low or sad, we would leave and go on vacation or play a game or make him a different kind of food. When we were on vacation, we didn’t have to struggle to communicate as much because we weren’t on any regimen, just a relaxed and laid-back vacation. We always offered a translator, but Alexei felt more comfortable talking to a girl he knew from the orphanage who had been in America longer. Sometimes he didn’t want to do that, but sometimes having someone talk to him in Russian just put him at ease. He would talk to his Russian grandma on Skype, too. 

LH: How has the transition been compared to what you expected?

Tammy: Much easier. We took all the adoption classes, and took everything with a grain of salt, but realized maybe he’d have behavior problems, or he wouldn’t attach.  Our first two weeks home I woke up every day at 6:30 a.m., went for walk, and prayed about all my fears. When I got home I left my fears at the door, and just went in to love him and be his mom.  The classes and other adoptive families prepared us enough to make us aware of what could happen. Knowing those things, our transition was much easier than we expected.

LH:  What joys have you had?

Tammy: How long have you got?  Everything! Alexei is very affectionate, just hug, hug, pull us in and hug us. That’s the most important thing! And we have this very tall boy wanting to make sure we don’t forget to hug each other. He did not expect anything of us, and never said, “Why don’t I have this?”  He loved us for who we were.  I could see that in how he acted: he makes us cards, writes us messages, he’s willing to be open and honest, he’s not withdrawn. He was open to saying “I love you” the first day he got home, and he physically showed us he loved us from the first day. We didn’t expect that, but we got it! I did not expect his immediate acceptance of us as his parents from an older child; I expected a friendship first, but he loved us as parents. We could see it in his actions, and I loved that.

LH: What advice would you give to other families considering older child adoption?

Alexei with his dad

 Tammy:  I don’t think there is less joy and love just because they’re older; it’s so strong!  I wasn’t there the years when he was little.  But I don’t wish I knew him when he was a baby, because I just feel like he was always mine.  Don’t look at it as “I only have them a few years as compared to a baby.” That’s impossible to measure until they’re in your arms and in your home.  Alexei is no less precious because he’s older. Don’t hold back! Sometimes you expect older kids to act 14 or 15, but they might be emotionally 7 or 8. If he wants to hug in the kitchen for 10 minutes, we let him. We don’t know what he missed, and he might need that. My advice? Expect to fall in love with them! Alexei is just as precious as if we had him when he was three or four.  My friend, an adoptive mom of several older Russian kids, told me to have no expectations. People think you wouldn’t hold your son’s hand when you’re talking to him, but don’t hold back. He values his family! Don’t hold back on loving him and enjoying being his parent.  Just because he’s older does not mean he doesn’t want you to sit in his room and play with him. If he’s this affectionate, why would we hold back?

LH: What has been the most fun you’ve had together?

Tammy: Bedtime!  Every night before bed we read and pray and then start tickling.  Only two nights since we’ve been home has it not happened.  It starts in his room, then moves to ours, then back to his. It’s just a riot, it’s everything, it’s a Hallmark commercial!  Then he’ll ask random questions because he doesn’t want to go to sleep, things like, “Why in English does it say this?”  It’s the most precious time for us, and a lot of fun.

LH:  What has been the hardest thing you’ve overcome so far?

Tammy: A lot of kids say, “In Russia…”   That’s one of the big things we’ve overcome together. It wasn’t a hard thing, but after hearing it 100 times per day…  We had to learn ourselves that we don’t know what it was like in Russia. Now we don’t worry about the “In Russia…” part.  Buildings are bigger there, ice cream is better there. In the transition, you as parents realize you don’t know Russia.  It could break their spirit to act like you don’t believe it, so we had to learn patience with cultural things. We overcame being bothered by it.  We never debated it with him, but we discussed it privately.  An adoptive mom told me when they stop doing it, you’ll miss it.  It was us overcoming it.  At first we were concerned if what he was saying about Russia was true, but then we realized it was more important to support him.  Those statements showed his love for his birth country more than if they were true or not. It was never a negative thing, but it’s just how sentences would start. You should be prepared that kids are going to talk about Russia a lot, and you are going to listen.

LH: Sometimes new adoptive parents do not “feel” like a family right away. Do you feel like a real family yet?

Tammy: Yes!  Absolutely.  I don’t know what it was like before he was here; it feels like he has always been here.  He and my husband do things alike.  I think it’s pretty funny.

LH: How has your extended family accepted Alexei?

Tammy: Overwhelmingly.  We had an interesting Christmas.  Everybody just showered him with affection.  Not just gifts, but time.  They wanted to take him places and show him things.  I almost had to tell them not to forget the other kids.  It was the same thing as a baby, only they could talk to the “baby” and teach him new things.  There was ten times the involvement because they could do things with him. It has been incredible; every single person on both sides has accepted him and fallen in love with him. It’s a miracle.  Everyone adores him. He gets letters every day from cousins and nieces and nephews. I expected it, because every day we tried to get him home, it was everyone’s heart desire.  Everyone is saying, “Wow!  What a wonderful experience! I expected a nephew, but never a nephew like this!”  It’s neat to see they love him more than they even knew that they would.

LH: What have you learned through this adoption?

Tammy: Every day Alexei is translating in his head because of language and cultural differences.  Every day he gets exhausted, and you can see it in his face, but he isn’t going to take a nap because he doesn’t want to let us down. One day he was upset and tired. Finally, he laid in his bed and cried. We went to him and told him, “We love you when you’re angry and when you don’t obey us. We’re doing this because it’s important for you. A good family loves each other and is there for each other. If you could communicate with us and tell us you’re tired…”   Us coming to him when he was upset, rather than just letting him be upset, shocked him. He couldn’t believe we loved him when he was angry. But a good family loves each other and forgives each other. When a child is upset, when you’re nurturing them into this relationship, I don’t think you should let them be upset; you should talk to them and let them know you’ll be there for them if they want to talk.  Bring them back into the family when they don’t know how to reconcile.  They don’t know how to fix a situation, because in their past people just walked away. We didn’t read this, it just happened. We did not want him to think we were staying angry with him, nor did we want him to stay angry with us. 

Also, just be patient, because they ask a lot of questions. Be patient and be available.

LH: What other things have been remarkable?

Tammy:  [The day] he started calling me Mom!  He called us our first names in Russia. Our hostess told him to call us Mom and Dad, but I told him to call me whatever he wanted. I struggled with it, but my husband said it’s just a title, and since he never had a mom, maybe he doesn’t know what it is.  I prayed about it and let it go.  After a few months, I woke him up one morning. I said, “Good morning, Alexei,” and he said, “Good morning, Mom!”  I said, “Mom?!”  He said, “Yeah, you’re my mom.  I love you, Mom.”  I told him he didn’t need to give me anything for Christmas!  When my husband got home, it was the same thing for him.  My husband asked, “Is he calling you Mom?”  And I just smiled and nodded.  It took some time for him to start, but I remember the exact day because it was very special to me, and he knows how much it means to me.  We let it come natural.  If it had never come, I would not have been disappointed, because I loved him like a mom would, and he was a wonderful son.  After about two months I let it go.  He acts like a son and he loves me like a son would, and actions speak so much larger than words.  I don’t think anyone should get hung up on it.

A lot of firsts with older kids you don’t realize you’re going to have, so it’s kind of neat.  Some people think they’re missing out by adopting older, but they’re communicating the things they experience for the first time with you.  You’re sharing it! When you adopt an older child it’s a very rich experience, and a profound experience to watch them heal, and to be a part of it.  Once he made a mess with some glow-in-the-dark powder, then he realized he shouldn’t have made it at his age.  But then he put it on my face and nose and we started laughing.  He started saying, “I’m sorry!” and cleaning all up, but I thought, “What did he ever get to do before this?”  There were things that he didn’t get to experience, and it’s a delight to share them with him.  Zero expectations.

They’ll surprise you with their joy! 

***

Thank you, Tammy, for sharing a bit of your joy with us!  All of us at the Lighthouse Project are thrilled for the three of you, and we wish you continued blessings as you continue to grow closer together in the coming months and years.

Going To Be Extraordinary

Tim dislikes his wheelchair and seldom uses it, so it’s an ironic first impression I have of the 12-year-old being wheeled onto the YMCA stage to present a monologue he wrote himself. My friend Hope, director of the Lighthouse Project, ages ago lost track of exactly how many adoptions she’s done, though she pins the number at over 1,000. And after devoting her entire adult life to the work, this boy, a triple congenital amputee, has stolen her heart more than any other child she’s helped. 

She’d mentioned Tim before, only a snippet here or there, so it was a surprise a few days ago when she entreated me to attend a play of his in Chicago.  It’s an inconvenient 200 miles southwest on a weekend that already has me traveling north to a four-hour board meeting Saturday morning, then to a Sunday morning church adoption fair.  But before I could wield this iron-clad excuse, she reminded me that Tim was her most special adoption, ever. Hope always gives, and I’d yearned to reciprocate, but never had an inkling how.  So to honor her commitment to the orphans of Russia, not least of whom were my own two kids, I acquiesced and agreed to go with my family.

On the day of the play, I rush home from a most wearisome meeting. My husband and kids are waiting at the door, and they leap into the van without my ever shutting it off.  If we aren’t ensnarled in traffic, we should make the play, Relentless Is My Middle Name, with a half hour wiggle room. I don’t fritter away a second of the journey, finishing a photo sheet of kids seeking their families on our next Lighthouse Project trip, and speaking with several hosts and Hope, who’s worried we’ll be late.

Traffic parts like the Red Sea though, and we arrive even before the doors open.  Tim begins his production draped in black cloth, which is theatrically removed.  Lifted onto a podium, he recounts the story of his birth in Ukraine, adoption at age three from Russia, and life with his family as one of eleven children. His poise, humor, and transparency are mesmerizing, and make seeing him as a completely normal boy, just with one arm, effortless.

His biological mother was exposed to radiation near Chernobyl, he tells us. Though many children from the area suffer anomalies, she was young, and unprepared to parent him. Somehow, Tim left Ukraine and ended up in a baby house north of Moscow. Besides life, her only gift to him before relinquishing him to the orphanage was his name, meaning iron.

While his orphanage was filled with kids with special needs, there was nothing else unusual about the institution where Hope first met Tim in 1999.  Drawn to his intelligent eyes, she recalls him as a sensitive boy. Deeply moved by his sadness, and at his crying when she took pictures and video, she used extra care to make them perfect. Afterward, she found excuses to visit him during frequent trips to deliver candy and humanitarian aid. Wanting him to feel loved, she would hold him and feed him cookies. 

Our translator Faith, with Tim at home

The orphanage director was a lady who genuinely cared; Hope judged her one of the best she ever encountered in visits to hundreds of orphanages. Other kids there had been adopted previously, but the director believed such a happy outcome impossible for Tim. Hope, undeterred, wrote his profile, and forwarded the photos and video to the American agency employing her. A social worker posted the information on the International Child Amputee Network, an Internet support group for families of young amputees. In August 1999 a friend sent Virginia Monroe, an Illinois mom, Tim’s picture from the website. Virginia connected with the little boy instantaneously, and she made a decision, legendary within her family, to adopt him as quickly as possible. The agency sent Virginia the video Hope had filmed, but noting Tim’s lack of expression, cautioned her against adopting him. A social worker dissented. “He’ll be fine,” she soothed, as Virginia made plans to visit.  Hope was thrilled.

At nearly three years of age, Tim had never spoken. Only three weeks after viewing his photo, Virginia met him in the baby house, where he was clutching a piece of bread. He refused eye contact, so she sang, made fish faces, and carried him all day. At a meeting that afternoon, the director wailed dramatically, “What will become of him? He’ll never have a normal life. It’s such a tragedy!”
 
“Who are you talking about?” Virginia demanded, as Tim laughed. Her family would welcome him, just as soon as they could complete the paperwork. While the Monroes focused on the adoption from home, Virginia sent Hope’s friend to feed Tim fruit every week, as supplement to his typical oatmeal and water diet at the orphanage, and to practice different skills with him.

When Virginia and her husband returned in February 2000, Tim again resisted eye contact. But so completely did they trust their social worker’s judgment that they never feared adopting. The workers cried tears of joy for Tim as he left; when he was put into the car, his eyes began sparkling, he patted Mr. Monroe’s back, and he was born a new boy. In just the few days before his homecoming, he learned 300 words of English, and started chattering incessantly. Within a few months, he was a blur of motion.  Nearly ten years later, the talking and activity have yet to subside; his sister claims anyone who talks as much as he does must have a purpose.

In Relentless, Tim notes children with challenges like his were once consigned to circus freak shows. Lamenting that people now turn away from those with disabilities, he welcomes questions from those he meets, hoping they’ll become more comfortable around kids with special needs. He references other amputees, and their contributions to society. “With a little creativity, we can manage anything!” he bubbles. 

After his performance, I interview Tim at a reception. His maturity, insight, and personality are captivating. As the most quotable tween I’ve ever met, I tell him he’s articulate. “Thank you,” he beams, “but I feel like a normal kid!” At school, he is treated like everyone else, which he appreciates. Without a hint of malice, he calls his teachers “tough old broads” who don’t feel sorry for him or let him charm them. I chuckle; it’s a mature sentiment, but he’s naïve if he thinks no one is charmed.

He finds friends quickly; with his personality and the bevy of kids mobbing him, I have little reason to doubt. He likes acting, hanging out, using the computer, and playing games. His best friend has muscular dystrophy, but Tim says he’s friends with anyone who is willing. Having had plenteous opportunities to interact with disabled kids, he’s found that they want normal lives and don’t want to be considered freaks. “That gets my heart,” he adds soulfully. He doesn’t see himself as truly different, despite common questions from other kids about where his arm and legs are.

His mom supports him as he becomes who he’s meant to be. She encouraged him to act, and he confides he wouldn’t have done it without her. She doesn’t want him letting people wait on him; sometimes, when she asks his help in getting things, he laughingly scolds, “Mom, I can’t reach.”

“Oh, yeah,” she’ll remember.

Of his siblings, eight were adopted from various countries. There’s also Akiki, an Abyssinian he calls “a magnificent cat. All of our family have something wrong,” he says, explaining even the cat was abandoned in an apartment without food or water when they rescued him. “I look out for my family, and I love them a lot,” he adds with a smile.

Tim wants to visit Russia, though he has no desire to stay there. He isn’t angry with his birth mother, accepting she was scared when she first saw him.  But he would not live with her, even if she offered, since “I am just so happy with my family. It’s a joy!”

I asked if he ever wished for legs and another arm. “I never wished that,” he says philosophically. “I would not be who I am with legs. I like to be me. It turns out you don’t need legs to survive. I don’t regret being born without legs.”

Tim's hero Nick Vujicic

Tim has role models, guys whose differences in limb are less notable than the differences they make in life. “I want to be like Nick Vujicic, who carries a message.  My heroes are Nick Vujicic and Kyle Maynard… I would like to tell them how much I admire people who do what they do and don’t give up. If I met them, which I probably will, words will just be flowing out of my mouth!”

Virginia tells me later she’s never seen Tim depressed about his disabilities. As matriarch of a large and diverse family, she doesn’t pay any attention to people’s stares. “You have to get comfortable with being conspicuous. Confront your self-consciousness and walk through it. You have to develop a sense of humor,” she says. For families new to the journey, she counsels being natural.  Tim calls it being “oblivious,” which he says proudly, like it’s a compliment.

It never occurred to Virginia to say no to Tim’s adoption. “When God gives an assignment, when you’re called to do something, you have to do it. You’re not in charge of the outcome. Amazing things happen all the time.” We end up talking so long that the janitor asks us to shut off the lights at the Y when we leave. I have never met such a family before, and I can’t help but adore them for their faith, humor, and honesty. Meeting them was such a worthwhile reward for our four-hour drive here, and the four-hour return trip ahead. It’s a cinch to see why Hope reveres this as a “very, very special adoption.”

Tim aspires to a career in theater, to have a wife and kids, and of going to Russia, and all over the world, to help adopted kids. I ask what he would do for them. “I want them to have food, clothes, and things that belong to them. A family. That’s what I’d like to give them. Some kids are going to be extraordinary when they come and get families!”

This very extraordinary kid, Tim “Relentless” Monroe, is proof positive of that.