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With my alarm clock across the room, Friday morning I wake punctually. I’m venturing to the train station again, this time for Melinda, who’s returning from our region having met Evgenia, four. Barrie thoughtfully accompanies me. Eliminating both the tardy departure and the storm breeds a more relaxed jaunt than yesterday’s.

Evgenia, now five, and able to travel with us

When the train lumbers in, several familiar faces alight with Melinda, including six children whose families have finished court. Arriving in Moscow, they’re in the homestretch of their adoptions. Nadia, 15, greets me with an embrace and an English “Thank you!” worth the world to me. Her new brother Nikolai, 11, shadows her. Melinda’s visit was to his orphanage, and she tells me he was so excited to be going home that he donned his coat two hours before leaving for the station. Daria, 15, is joined by her two siblings. Before they boarded this train, 30 kids and teachers from their orphanage, all crying, came to the station to wish them farewell. I hate mornings, but seeing these erstwhile orphans, now sons and daughters, and knowing I had a hand in it, is a shot in the arm even at this hour.

Barrie, Melinda, and I leave the station alone. I am itching to hear about Evgenia, who due to her young age was not allowed to travel with us. Evgenia’s a big girl, Melinda says, ready to learn and affectionate. Adding she had a rough start in life, Melinda found she does not speak. The orphanage provides speech therapy, but can afford only 30 minutes weekly, which they worry is insufficient. I wonder if any family will take a risk with her.



Peter, a very pensive little boy

Back at the hotel, I find little Peter playing on the floor without his slippers. The soles of both his socks sport the hand-sewn characters A3-7. It’s a pragmatic solution for the laundress who mates hundreds of socks in an institution, but the markings distress me anyhow. A mom could match them, but no one at the orphanage can pair Peter’s without the aid of a monogram.

Artem

Maria

Later in the morning, we talk with the kids. Blonde sprite Maria, six, oozes confidence. Asked to describe herself in one word, she chooses “beautiful” and “smart.” The kids reveal what kind of animal each would most like to be; Artem chimes, “An angel!” It’s entirely apt, from this cherubic lad who remains one of my three favorite Lighthouse Project kids. When the meeting adjourns, the kids tear into their gifts. Maria gets new jeans, which she is soon modeling with evident pride. She fancies the tag, refusing its removal. It’s so comical I grab my camera. She eagerly poses, after turning the tag to reveal its more flattering side.

After the gifts, I repair to my room, only to be interrupted by a frantic knock. I open to Amy, waiting with Sheri grasping Igor’s outstretched hand. “Igor has a staple in his finger,” Amy gushes, “and when I saw it, I said, ‘Becky! Becky’s a veterinarian!’” Theatrical Igor, who even moans with flair, bites his lip hard at the staple buried in the flesh of his thumb, deep enough to pucker the skin. I’ve never treated a human because of my profession, but in Moscow, though woefully underequipped, I smear hydrocortisone over the wound, pinch the finger, and jockey a tweezers under the staple’s bar. As a tear glides down Igor’s cheek, Amy launches insistently into song, “A, B, C, D, E, F, G…” My patient joins her, in English, and dares a little laugh at the ridiculousness of it. Sheri and I start, too, and by “P,” I’ve steeled myself sufficiently to yank out the offending fastener. I trade the staple for a thank you, and seal the deal with a Band-Aid. Hours after, I ask him how he feels. With assurances he’s well, I divulge I’m a veterinarian. He thinks it hilarious to have been saved by a dog doctor.

Crowds in the Moscow metro

At the train this morning, our Russian adoption coordinator Love gave me small flags as gifts for the hosts. Our group numbers 25, making metro travel harrowing at rush hour. I’m forever counting, though I never get that high before the train roars away. Once, early this trip, we disembark so slowly that we cause the separation of a mother and her young daughter. As the door slams shut, stranding the girl, the mother frantically motions the child to get off at the next stop. While I am relieved it isn’t one of our kids, as a mother I feel a vicarious frenzy, mingled with shame, since our disorganization birthed this trouble. Here I vow to co-opt one of Love’s flags myself, and to hold it aloft in the metro as I lead.



Smiling, before strangers started staring

I always seek to blend in, and heretofore enjoyed a measure of anonymity in Moscow in my black coat, even without the dyed hair or spike-heeled boots Muscovite women favor. Now, hoisting the red and gold standard, I explode from my camouflage. Descending the steep escalators into the metro, the wind tunnel effect whips the flag violently. I feign self-possession, but the flapping draws scads of eyes traveling on the ascending escalator. “People are staring at you, Becky!” someone laughs, in case I haven’t noticed. In their heavy Russian coats, I can’t imagine anyone is naked, so I solace myself knowing they have no idea where the flag is from. Amidst the monochromatic masses swarming the subway, the flag does make shepherding the group simpler. After several hosts hail the flag as a lifesaver, I grimly realize it has a future every trip.

Friday, entering Red Square by Resurrection Gate, SpongeBob, a diapered monkey, and a Stalin lookalike loiter. A Lenin impersonator stands with them, leaning on the pole of an old USSR flag. When he spots me, he raises his flag, waving with gusto, and blows a few kisses. I don’t relish the attention, but answer his volley anyway with a half-hearted wave and one kiss blown back. Numerous wedding parties stroll through the square, after the brides have laid red carnations at the nearby Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Katya, our translator, is getting married next weekend, though she won’t be home until Monday. We’re astonished she’s traveled with us, so close to the nuptials, but she shrugs it off, saying she’s ready except for choosing the traditional white fox cape winter brides wear with their dresses.




Barrie and Alexandra say goodbye

Barrie’s wife Joyce can’t join us this trip, though she traveled in both June and August. Barrie wants more time with Alexandra, 14, and is missing his 40th anniversary for it, with Joyce’s blessing. She’s sent me an anniversary card, with which Alexandra surprises him on the appointed day. Someone gives her a confetti popper, and she releases it to augment the celebration. Barrie is giddy at the prospect of Alexandra joining his family, and shares his anticipation with everyone. While he never shopped much for their other children, Joyce tells me he is driving the expeditions now. When she laughed once he should have been half this excited years ago when she was pregnant, he retorted, “I was half as excited!”

The kids’ last day, Igor wants to sing for us. Valiantly trying to assemble the entire group in the common area for his performance, he counts repeatedly, never reaching 25 as kids keep coming and going. Finally he gives up and settles for having all the adults. He chooses the Russian National Anthem, and with a powerful voice, occasionally cracking, regales us with a passionate rendition. It’s clear he loves singing, and his country.

After the kids are safely returned to the train, headed to their orphanages, the hosts and I share a Moscow farewell dinner in the basement of a new MuMu. We want to enjoy ourselves, but the kids’ departure is too raw. On the way back, we stop at Eliseevsky’s, my all-time favorite store, for chocolate mousse, my all-time favorite food; I unwind with this reward at the end of every trip. It’s nearing midnight when we get to the hotel, but we’re aching for the kids, so David debuts a 2400-photo slideshow he’s compiled of our time together. My host families, friends with whom I’ve shared deep camaraderie these past few days, gather in my room to watch. Only a few photos in, we’re laughing, crying, and reliving our week. It’s so good, and so cathartic to end this way, I almost forget my mousse. As the last photo fades, all concur this was the perfect finale for our time together. I am energized, and yearn to watch it again, now.

Good Lord willing, I’ll be back. There will be new families, winsome kids, more mousse, and my red and gold flag flapping in the metro breeze.

I can’t wait.


Our November kids



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Going With Them

Day three of the kids’ visit, my little band lacks the ambition of the first day and the urgency of the last. While I am gung-ho to show them more of the city, yesterday was a gumption-robbing scorcher, and today is a carbon copy. The families opt to stay in climate-controlled comfort with the kids, but after our late laugh last night, we Americans arrive at the kids’ flat almost an hour later than planned.

We’re throwing a party, and since it’s no one’s birthday, we pretend it’s everyone’s. In a departure-eve tradition at my house, my Russian son measures out streamers twice the length of our playroom and rolls them up as I finalize my packing. He enjoys surprising me with the color, and it lets him do something to help “the Russian kids,” as he calls them. Russian ceilings tower, and hanging my son’s streamers high enough always proves challenging. The festivity gauge rises sharply when I give the kids balloons; soon some joust with inflatable swords, some decorate the flat, and others fashion gaudy headwear for the partygoers.

Svetlana, the chaperone, is polite, but not exactly jovial. She’s claimed several times this week the kids aren’t interested in things they’re yanking my arms for, ensured the television drones endlessly, and made clear that on this, her inaugural visit to Moscow, the only thing she cares if she sees is the Cathedral of Christ the Savior. When she accepts and dons a hat designed by one of our budding haberdashers, I extend shocked and silent kudos, as it would hurt my heart to see an orphan’s generosity rebuffed.

As the festive melee unfolds, I pour over two bird’s milk cakes. I expect to write “Happy Birthday” and the kids’ names in Cyrillic, but the tubes of frosting I’ve brought are almost pathologically uncooperative. Before I get to the end of “Happy Birthday,” I’m lamenting the beautiful vision in my mind is destined to remain only that, until Zulya comes to look, hugs me, and proclaims it beautiful. I recognize her word in Russian, and the delivery is so genuine I can tell she means it. I think it strange that her single word agitates a flurry of emotions within me. I cherish her encouragement, but find it sad commentary that my eyesore of a cake is lovely to her. It highlights why we have a party when it’s no one’s birthday, and even why we run these trips: the kids have been denied most things we assume are birthrights of childhood.

I plant Hanukkah candles on the cake. They were on clearance, and I can’t resist a bargain. As a bonus, they’re more substantive than ordinary birthday candles. We always sing “Happy Birthday” several times for our videos, and shoot enough photos to shame paparazzi; ordinary candles cannot withstand such delay. As the candles burn brightly through all the pictures and songs, no one suspects that they’re not officially birthday candles.

During my first Russian party, I learned to set aside one cake for the kids to blow on and eat, reserving another cake for those favoring dessert unsullied by spittle. After English and marginal Russian renditions of the birthday song, the candles are extinguished by eight kids blowing in near-unison, and the cake is cut. Each child’s piece sports a candle, which we relight to their jubilation. As some kids eat around the flame with shaky hands, and others wield theirs, I wonder what we’d be charged for burning down the flat.

After cake, it’s Pin the Tail on the Donkey time. The kids haven’t played it before, though you’d never know by the skill with which they cheat: only two don’t grope the wall before committing their tails. Even the translator and chaperone feel around. For a low-stakes party game without a prize, the depth of my indignation surprises me. At the end, having no photo, I pick Alexandra, a non-cheater, to reenact the game. She now pats the wall, too, having modified her strategy while watching the others. We Americans play afterward, demonstrating how it’s done. None of us cheat, and the kids laugh like we’re the greenhorns.

A boulevard outside the flat offers a tree-lined walk down the center, with a playground near one end. After the party and lunch, we lug a watermelon and freezer pops to the playground, availing ourselves of a thousand photo ops the kids create. Oleg bats as Jeff pitches him a baseball, Alexandra sits on a slide with Barrie and Joyce, Sergei and Andrei look at pictures, and Zulya and Lora throw a Frisbee. A man and his tiny daughter walk by. The little one is fascinated by the Frisbee, so Zulya squats down, shows her the disc, tries to help her throw it, and speaks gently to her. For a child on the receiving end of so little nurture in her life, it is heartwarming to see how naturally Zulya doles it out.

At the park, translator Irina summons Alexandra; Barrie and Joyce want to talk with her. As she sits beside them on a bench, they tell her she’s beautiful, they love her, and they want her to be their daughter. They flip together through an album with pictures of their family, home, and their son Trevor with a boy he’s adopting from our March trip. Presenting her a necklace with a cross pendant, Joyce shows Alexandra a similar necklace she received from her mom. Alexandra says she likes Barrie and Joyce, but isn’t sure about adoption. That’s okay, they counsel. They want her to consider it, to be sure.

As the rest of the kids play on, oblivious to the momentous discussion near them, I slice the watermelon with a knife I thought twice about carrying down the street. Russians are proud of the watermelons they call “ar-BOOSE.” Since this is my first summer trip, it’s my first taste. Their pride is justifiable, and the watermelon is a most apt treat on this sweltering, but gloriously smoke-free, afternoon.

At night, when I’m unwinding back in my room, Barrie and Joyce knock on my bag door, wanting to talk. They have been trip stalwarts, unfailingly upbeat whether or not circumstances warrant. Having them along has been unmitigated pleasure. They touch me by opening with effusive thanks, then one-up themselves with the tale of their conversation with Alexandra at the park. Later at the flat, Irina tells Joyce Alexandra wants to join their family, but is too shy to tell them. Weeping, Joyce invites Barrie to meet his new daughter. It’s impossible to contain his emotion as he promises Alexandra his lifelong love and protection. He adds, just to me, that he was warned adoption was pricey.  He understands, but invoking the "you can't take it with you" expression, counters that they can take their kids with them someday.

So in a humble room, behind a makeshift trash bag door, I learn the joyous tidings that Alexandra, the first orphan I ever interviewed, has a family, and one I esteem (Mission: Never Accomplished, 2/10/10). As Barrie and Joyce thank me again for helping them find their daughter, it’s worth a hug and a tear. Or two.

Alexandra is going with them.

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Moving Day

Our hotel stands in the shadow of one of Stalin’s seven skyscrapers, a monstrosity at once repulsive and appealing. I identify this landmark for my travelers every trip as a reference point, should they venture out alone. This morning, as we leave for the train station to meet the kids, the wicked smoke obscures its tower, and I wonder if it’s still standing.

In a nod to my neuroses, I always allow an exorbitant amount of travel time to get to the train station. We leave quasi-punctually, though one host makes a mad dash back to the hotel for forgotten passports. The heat makes his sprint torture, but he reunites with the group just as we reach the metro to find the doors locked. A note on the door presumably provides explanation, though with my skimpy Russian, it’s academic. Worrying how to get to the kids’ station when the one way I know is closed, I utter an urgent prayer, turn, and walk away with sham nonchalance. Immediate inspiration comes in my sighting of the underpass spanning the ten-lane road beside us. Since most metro stations have entrances on both sides of busy thoroughfares, I cross under the road, leaving my fears unspoken. When the doors to this entrance open, I know how Moses felt at the parting of the Red Sea. The rest of our trip is uneventful, and we have time for a photo below a clock showing two minutes before the train is due.

The train pulls in as we’re finishing, and we walk nearly to the end before we find the kids standing outside their car waiting. I am masked, but shed it when I notice the kids eyeing me strangely. Angelina, ten, from the January trip, gives me a huge embrace; with her shyness, her hug surprises and delights me. Egor spots the family he met in Missouri last year. His wait is nearly over, as they’ve been assigned a court date in mid-September, but they wanted to see him again. He stands there staring, disbelieving. When mom-to-be Teresa approaches him, touches her heart, then his, he breaks down in tears. Alexandra, fourteen, sees Joyce returned from the June trip, auspiciously this time with husband Barrie. Krista is meeting Zulya and Lora. Two weeks ago, when first we spoke, she didn’t hold a valid passport; now she’s with us, halfway around the globe. Her commitment is breathtaking to fathom, and I’m hoping she finds the visit worthy of her effort.

Oleg and Andrei are unhosted, and they’re here for my assessment if they’re good candidates for adoption. I’d met them briefly at their orphanage, and thought them promising enough to warrant this step. Angelina is hostless, too, and I’ve violated my policy of not bringing an unhosted child twice by bringing her now. Since I already know and like her, she has little to gain here. Extenuating circumstances led me to break this rule, and I am praying I don’t break her heart.

Leaving the train, I distribute masks to everyone but never see them used. Back at the hotel, I’m figuring out if they will refund our money, if Hope has our flats booked, if Love knows when we can get the keys, if Dima can bring sleeping bags, and when he’ll move our copious luggage. It’s frazzling with too many questions and everyone waiting, so the hosts help out with the kids’ breakfast. The lady I need to speak with won’t be here until eleven, so after breakfast, the kids and families go outside to throw water balloons, a fitting hot weather ice breaker. Courageous hosts lend the kids their cameras, while Teresa works to get a good photo of Angelina. By trip’s end, the little girl, so sparing with smiles, has a portfolio demonstrating a metamorphosis from our October to January to August meetings (Scared, 12/21/09).

I aim to sandwich a Moscow River cruise between our lunch and move, but as the wait for the employee drags on, I’m seeing the families’ first day with the kids frittered away behind a hotel. At 12:30 p.m., too late for our boat ride, she finally appears, apologizing as she declines my refund request.

At last we leave for McDonald’s, Oleg holding my hand. Soon he is dragging me, and as we fall behind, I start hyperventilating behind my mask. I close my eyes and let Oleg, gentler now, lead me. Translator Irina and chaperone Svetlana see this and ask if I’m okay, demanding it when I ignore them. Svetlana digs into her purse, where she stores a mini-pharmacy she now attacks with the vengeance of a paramedic on call. Dousing a cotton ball with a pungent potion from a brown glass bottle, she holds it under my nose. I am immediately alert, incredulous that the bottle’s contents hold their own against the stench of the smoke. When she’s satisfied I’m better she proffers the cotton, issuing orders in Russian to sniff it. Irina sacrifices her water, which I guzzle. From up ahead, Zulya notices I’m lagging, and she insists the group wait. When I catch up, the cotton’s powers and the water have revived me, and I feel peachy, except for a stout headache.

After lunch, we meet Dima back at the hotel and pile our luggage into his van. Next, we find Love, who now has the keys for both flats. She greets me with an embrace to soften a bombshell. “Only one flat is air conditioned,” she moans. My mind refuses this. I hate her cruel joke, but she wails she’s serious. The heat alone makes it distressing, but realizing I’ve moved sixteen people to an unpaid-for place, wasted all day doing it, and crushed hopes of salvation in the process catapults my horror to the stratospheric. Love asks which flat I want. It feels selfish consigning the kids to a hot, smoky place, but I don’t relish telling the families they’ve moved for naught, either. Finally, not knowing which flat has the air conditioner, I opt to house the kids, who need more space with ten in their group, in the larger flat.

In updates prefacing the trip I caution families to expect inconvenience in Russia. The flat charade is maddeningly typical, leaving me grateful I’d issued the warnings. When my despondency fades, I grudgingly realize the families derive cultural value from the episode as a quintessential Russian experience. Still, the owner’s lame defense, a repairman removed the appliance and never returned it, seems delivered with almost criminally minimal self-flagellation.

Entering the kids’ place, a cool breeze hits me, leaving me comfortless, knowing we’ll get the hot flat. Their flat is beautifully maintained and modern. When the kids are settled, we venture with heavy hearts to our place, about one mile away, literally around the corner from the Kremlin. If we weren’t here to spend time with the kids, the location would be stellar, in the nerve center of Moscow. Our flat is toasty, but bordering bearable, on the building’s sixth floor. Each party has private space, and while air conditioning isn’t included, free international phone calls are.

Dropping our bags inside, we scurry back to the kids’ flat; freshening up would be futile. We redeem our rat race of a day at the circus, arriving late, as usual. A stir ensues as we block the aisles while the usher goads people planted in our seats to move. This production is made laudable by her persistence, even if it deeply annoys those whose view we obstruct at length. After the show, the kids are abuzz over the tigers. Mirroring every trip, they point to plastic trinkets as we exit, vainly hoping we’ll buy.

When I stumble into my shared home, it’s late, but I spend hours talking with my friends, enjoying the luxury of free calls. My last is to fellow Lighthouse Project coordinator Elaine.   As I unload my woes in a diatribe taking thirty minutes, she makes no comment. When I finish, she offers no acknowledgment; finally, I realize she’s not there. I find the exercise a strange balm, even without an audience. Later, she tells me all she heard was “Hello.”

The windows of our rooms are well situated, and a decent, if stinky, breeze wafts through the flat. As I drift off to dream world on a fold-out loveseat, today seems a loss. With three days left, I hope the rest of the trip looks up, and that hearts can be won in the compacted time remaining.

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Sharing

The kids sleep late the morning after their arrival. With eight bunks in their room, we are one bed short. The first day, I held up a sleeping bag, and asked sheepishly who would use it. When all hands shot up, some waving to increase their chances, I realized apologizing for the lack of sleeping bags would have been more appropriate.

Host dad Simon is very hip with his hair spiked; Igor is smitten with the look. Walking up to him, Igor utters an inflected “Um,” points to Simon’s head, and runs his fingers through his own hair. Simon helps Igor and two other boys coif their hair like his. Igor, especially, is proud, and I don’t see him again without spikes. At the end of the week, he asks Simon to give him the gel.

After breakfast, Irina sequesters the kids in their room while we ready our gifts. When they return, we question them about their lives. Igor enjoys singing, so I ask for a song. For once, he acts bashful. “We shall support,” Ekaterina encourages him. It’s sufficient inducement, and he obliges with a haunting melody about a chained eagle. Zulya tells us Lora, her aunt, nicknamed her “Pelmini,” after Russian ravioli. Alexandra likes to sing, but cannot be cajoled to do it now. My first glimpse of her personality comes when she glows, speaking about her friends. Alexander, safe in the certainty of already having been chosen by an adoptive family, divulges a few tidbits about himself, then adds in a small voice, “What else do you want to know?”

Several of the kids are in foster care, just for the summer, to give them an experience with a family. I wonder, but don’t ask, why these families don’t care the rest of the year. All the kids have farm jobs with the families, which none appear to object. Igor smiles, noting that when he finishes helping with the hay, there’s always cake on the table awaiting him. Ekaterina and Zulya dream of going to America. Asked what he wants to be in the future, Igor deadpans, “A star.” With his personality, it’s hardly far-fetched.

When the kids query us, one horrifies me with, “If you had to take one of us to an island, which one would you take?” There are more kids than adults, and I warn the families not to answer. We’re asked about our houses, if we live in apartments, and if we have our “own children.” Zulya wonders if we’re waiting for great-grandchildren. When they ask about money, Trevor offers to show them a US dollar bill. It is the most excited the kids get the entire trip, and the hosts decide to give each child one to keep.

After more than an hour of questions, the kids get their gifts. Much energy is spent sorting through their bags, comparing contents, and displaying the loot. We derive as much pleasure watching their joy as they get in receiving. One Virginia family I’ve spoken with for over two years sends a wrapped gift for each unhosted child, along with a card. The kids know they should open the card before the accompanying gift. Each asks Irina to read theirs to them, and they listen with rapt attention.

By the time we leave for lunch at MuMu, the 10% chance of rain Moscow meteorologists predicted has become a 100% chance. There aren’t enough ponchos to go around, so Igor and Vladimir share. After eating, we find the Ferris wheel commemorating Moscow’s 850th anniversary operating, even in the inclement weather. It costs about $8 for one revolution, but we enjoy a view of Moscow its birds would envy. Unassuming Alexandra is so giddy to board that she pushes Joyce, her host, through the turnstile. She wears a nonstop grin the entire ride that Joyce claims was worth the cost of all our tickets. With the child so hesitant to assert herself, I am thrilled we did something she enjoyed.

After the ride, we visit an old park next door built to exhibit the agriculture and industry of the Soviet Union. Now its eighty-odd pavilions mainly house small shops, but it’s still a weekend destination for Muscovites. At the Friendship of the Peoples fountain, sixteen gilded maidens, each dressed in a costume of a different former Soviet republic, circle sheaves of wheat. The fountain, on a list of the ten most beautiful in the world, aimed to honor the bond of friendship between the republics, united under the glories of communism. While the fountain isn’t running today due to rain, and the union it celebrates has collapsed, we still find it worthy of its top-ten billing.

Some of the kids have a few rubles for the trip. I don’t know where they got them, but assume they’re from the summer foster families. Zulya is itching to spend hers, and after the Ferris wheel we pass carnival games. A man is chanting into a megaphone, though we’re the only ones here. Zulya pulls me aside and insists on playing his game. I think it’s a waste, but when she wins a Russian-speaking stuffed cow, her joy is boundless, and she shows it to everyone. The last day she is still clinging to it, and even I must admit the happiness she’s derived exceeds in value whatever she spent to win it.

Back in the metro, Simon is clutching Sergei’s hand. Inside, an elderly woman, box at her feet, holds a corrugated cardboard sign. As the rest of our band moves toward the escalator, Sergei pulls Simon back. Simon counters, wanting to stay with the group. Sergei resolutely refuses to budge until he has reached into his pocket, pulled out his rubles, and dropped some in the lady’s box. Simon is very moved by Sergei’s generosity. Though little in this world is his, he fights to share what he has. His teacher extolled his “nice soul”, and it’s shining through here.

We eat dinner at the hotel, then some of the kids ask to play in the rain at a playground. Every fiber of my being screams “Nyet!,” but when they ask me to take them, I hear myself agreeing. Igor marks the way with sidewalk chalk, so we won’t have trouble finding our way back. Both my compassion and my skimpy Russian restrain me from telling him it’s unnecessary, as I have a very good sense of direction. Two cats watch us out a screened window along the way; I love cats and instinctively call, “Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!” several times, mesmerizing the kids. The next morning they tell Irina and insist I demonstrate my cat-calling prowess to her.

When we’re done at the park, I retreat exhausted to my room. Exhaustion is reassuring, like a report card, that I poured everything into my mission today. It’s been a profitable gleaning of insights into the kids’ personalities, details I hope will help me help them. Sinking into sleep, I revel in how Sergei’s kind gesture in the metro enriched us all.

I hope he is repaid a thousand-fold.

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Desperate to be Wanted

Monday morning the train arrives with the kids, and my nerves don’t allow me breakfast. The host families and I take the metro to meet them, ending at a station commemorating the contributions of the Communist Youth League. We are early.

The arrival of our kids is at once the most exhilarating and stressful event of the trip. While it is unspeakably awkward, meeting the kids is the culmination of several months’ labor, and it’s a thrill to finally see those for whom I’ve passionately advocated. Pacing aimlessly, I worry about the hosts. They’ve committed themselves, both financially and in effort, to travel halfway round the world based on my promotion. While they banter, experiencing emotions mysterious to me, I’m praying they’ll be happy with the kids, and not disappointed they came.

Seeing the light of the approaching train, we hurry down the platform. Russian trains seem interminable, and the kids are near the back. As the train grinds to a halt, passengers begin to disembark, crowding the platform. Still too far off to recognize by face, I know it’s our group when I spot several kids walking with just two adults, since a Russian family with more than one child is a rarity. Even in this bustling depot, it’s a telltale sign. Closer, I see two kids from the March trip, and then recognize Irina, the lady who translated in court when we adopted our kids. Faith, our long-time Lighthouse Project translator, is not here this trip, an unnerving first.

The children are small, and they mass when they see us. While I am still wondering if anticipation or fear prevails in their internal tug-of-war, Ekaterina remembers me from her interview months ago and tackles me with a constricting embrace (Aching for the Right Soul, 12/10/09). Alexander is back from last time to spend more time with Trevor, his dad-to-be. Alexandra stands tentative, and I’m transported back to meeting her, so demure in her orphanage room. She’ll always hold an oddly sentimental place in my heart as the first child I met on my first orphanage visit (Mission: Never Accomplished, 2/10/10). Zulya and Lora are here, too, and I feel an immediate connection. I’d never promoted kids as fervently as I did them, or cared as deeply if a child found a family. As Zulya sweetly counters my smile with a grin that makes her look Asian, I know I failed them, even if she doesn’t. No one here came to meet them, and she’ll never know the prayers and care that went into the effort (Her Lora, 4/9/10).

Our Russian coordinator, beloved by all our adoptive families, is with us. She leads us to the metro, which feels abandoned compared to usual, and rides with us for our return to the hotel. The kids adore her, taking turns hugging her. Sergei, winsome in freckles and dimples, sinks into a corner, and ignoring the din around him, falls asleep. He is difficult to rouse when we approach our station.

Back at the hotel, we scare up lunch from leftovers, then leave for a Moscow River boat trip. After temperatures above 90° my first two days in town, it’s now a struggle to reach 60°. The chill is exacerbated on the water, and we have the boat almost to ourselves. The kids ride in the back and pose for incessant pictures as pounding music thwarts conversation. It’s my first trip outside winter so I’ve never cruised here, and I am surprised at the proximity of all my favorite Moscow architecture to the river. The Kremlin, St. Basil’s, the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, and a few of Stalin’s seven skyscrapers form the changing backdrop for the on-board photo shoot. Simon, one of the host dads, attracts kids like the Pied Piper his wife claims he is, and he ends up in most of my pictures. When the cold finally forces me inside, the boat’s bobbing promptly lulls me to sleep. The cruise is a stellar first outing, as it keeps the kids corralled before they’ve really paired off with the families.

When we disembark, I suggest McDonald’s. The kids don’t understand until I pronounce the ubiquitous chain’s name “Mac-dough-nald’s”, garnering a chorus of animated da’s. At the restaurant, wildly popular in Moscow, I’m delighted we can finagle sufficient tables on the second floor without going through heroics. This is crucial because our present translator lacks any of Faith’s legendary brass. While the kids hold our places, I order twenty cheeseburgers, ten fries, and a combination of drinks and milkshakes. The cashier thinks he misunderstood my Russian, but eventually realizes I want as much food as I ordered.  It tastes like any other McDonald’s, but the kids are overjoyed with the fare. Though they’re all older, several eat only one sandwich, spiriting the other away as a treasure to be savored later.

After dinner we attend the Nikulin Circus. Passing through the distracting gauntlet of plastic trinkets vying for the kids’ attention makes us late. Groping in the dark toward our seats, we merit the disapproval of several spectators whose views we obstruct. The show is the same as in March; a few times, I catch myself just before playing the spoiler. Overall, the circus is a hit, with the tigers especially favored, though their act feels demeaning, which depresses me. When it’s over, the children helpfully point out the toys again, hoping in vain we’ll buy some.

Zulya and Lora, for whom I had worked so hard, are precious. Lora has an independent streak, but hovers around Simon, showing him things as she chews an omnipresent wad of gum. She is cute, smart, and funny. Meanwhile, Zulya circulates, walking arm in arm with several of us in turn. After traipsing around the city in new sandals my first two days alone here, my feet are blistered and burning, hardly appreciative of the added weight as Zulya literally hangs from me. On the metro, she fingers my bracelet and watch and rubs my hands. Her desperation is palpable, and equals the fervor with which I promoted them at home. I fear, though, that as this truly needy girl smothers everyone with her abject desire to be wanted, she is pushing us away. It will take someone with deep emotional reserves to parent her, and there is so little time left to find them. Her anguished hopelessness makes my heart ache.

If only I knew what more I could do.

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Mission: Never Accomplished

Yakov, a shriveled goatherd wrapped in an ancient camouflage coat, tended his meager flock along the road to our first orphanage, and seemed more surprised than flattered at our stop. Our driver, having given too little thought to risking our lives behind the wheel, was sufficiently obliging for several photo stops; besides the goats, we posed with the sign at the outskirts of town, and shot the hamlet church and its ten napiform domes. Thousands of miles from home, but within minutes of our target, I was stalling with the dread of a mourner en route to a funeral visitation, pregnant with purpose, but reluctant to consummate. Conversation sputtered minutes from the orphanage, in a dichotomous aura of anticipation and foreboding. While I’d been to an orphanage before, it was to pick up my own kids, not to see the need.

Outside the institution, gas pipes a foot in diameter skimmed the ground, then rose up, forming an unsightly bridge over the dirt road just beyond. Sheep freely wandered as geese rested warily in the street beside their pond, framed at its far end by a motley village. The orphanage, white and red brick, was the most auspicious building in sight, seducing me with sufficient curb appeal to briefly sweat the ethics of past depictions of orphanages as bastions of hopelessness.

Faith sprinted in, with a swelling group of kids shadowing her, and I had to hustle to avoid being lost in labyrinthine stairwells and halls. Young and old welcomed us unprompted with formal hellos as they saw us. Several paired children, each lugging a handled cardboard box holding a meat carcass, greeted us with a pleasant self-confidence that said they had no inkling how squeamish their burdens made us. I wondered if this friendliness was standard for all visitors, or if it was reserved for those from America, who might get them out.

We’d come to see Alexandra, a retiring thirteen, who’d earlier said she wanted a mom and dad from the Lighthouse Project. I’d seen the results of a hundred orphanage interviews before, but mystique surrounded their creation. Since interviews are the deciding factor in a family’s child selection prior to a trip, I always imagined discussions of why we were here, what things we would ask, and what answers would be advantageous, before we rolled.

We invaded Alexandra’s room, a spartan space she shared with one mentally impaired girl, at naptime. Underdressed in pajamas, she self-consciously tugged at them in a futile attempt to cover her knees. Faith greeted her, wordlessly turned on her camera, and started questioning. This minute action evoked a barrage of dissonant emotions: relief at the uncoached purity of the interview mingled with horror at the lack of preparation in her appeal for a life, letdown at the loss of the interview’s mystery alongside hope in sharing nascent steps toward a future, empathy for her losing battle for modesty but delight at her desire, and prayer for her success with a yearn to flee because of her discomfort. Oddly, the interview dredged up a strong and haunting reminder of the first euthanasia I witnessed as a student, prior to being numbed as a veterinarian. I’d anticipated these seemingly disparate events with dread and awe, but found them disturbingly similar, each process lacking the drama to portend the weight of the result.

The interview lobbed a few softballs as I willed Alexandra to excel. We gleaned that she likes red, roses on bushes, cats and dogs, and pictures of foxes. She does not study English, since her school has no teacher. And that was all: these few, unpretentious words encapsulated a petition I worried couldn’t be enough to induce a family to take her. Faith earned a smile when she gave Alexandra a purse, then I awkwardly offered a handful of gum and a hug. Leaving, we popped in to see a boy awaiting his Wisconsin family.

Our whirlwind visit left Elaine and me plenty to ponder on the road to our next stop. In an orphanage with one hundred children, we’d entered two rooms, each housing two children, but focused all effort on one resident. How could the others know that we also cared about them, but that their circumstances would not permit adoption? Did they wonder what heroics garnered Alexandra and the Wisconsin boy American attention? Did Faith’s childish shadows pray she might notice them, and lament our determination to visit just two rooms, with hardly a glance their direction? Did Alexandra puzzle why strangers would bounce in, ask a few questions, and go?

How deflating to realize the humble chance we’d given Alexandra was the only glimmer of hope we’d left at her orphanage. Other souls, equally needy and with futures as bleak, were relegated to barely supporting role status, remembered only for the atmosphere of generalized desperation they helped create.  In one stop, one orphanage, ten minutes at most, my optimism abandoned me.  Our mission would never be fully accomplished.

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