In Over My Head

Adoption from Mgazi’s home country actually requires stays in two different countries in Africa. I’m extremely pleased, relieved, and excited to say we’ve completed part 1 in our first country and arrived yesterday tired but still excited in Country #2! This is an immense relief to us, because it means we are one step closer to seeing our family again.

But I’ll miss the people I’ve met.

Pastor, and his wife, Siphiwe, and children, Nokuphila and Siphamandla have become dear friends of mine and I plan to know them for years to come. I will never be able to thank Pastor enough for all that he did for me while I was in-country.

Tony Santos was so good to my mother and me and even after we moved from his guesthouse to another, we stayed in touch. I visited often and he and his wife joined Luyanda and I for dinner one evening.

Liz Ward, the proprietor at the second guesthouse checked in on me almost daily and I am very grateful for that. My neighbor, Mari, is a sweet soul who came calling after there was a nearby explosion to assure me that we were not being attacked. (The explosion was not related to the crazy fire behind my cottage… a truck had been in an accident less than a mile away and apparently, it exploded.) The cleaning staff (Cindy and Estelle) at the guesthouse were very fond of Mgazi. They gave her plenty of attention while we were there. More importantly, they gave me hair advice… actually everyone has given me hair advice because I have boldly decided to go where I never dreamed I would have gone in the world of hair.

In fact, let’s talk about that.

Several weeks ago, I met a woman named Pam. She was one of the first to adopt from Country #1 and her daughter, Thula, is absolutely adorable. Thula had these 1 ½ inch long twists in her hair that added to the adorableness. “Twists” was the word that Pam used when I asked her about the hairstyle. She said, oh, it’s easy and proceeded to give me simple instructions. She also told me that Maureen, the housemother at the orphanage, is the one who told her how to do it.

Mgazi hated to have her hair combed, although I was as gentle as possible. It was a simple matter of two people having the exact opposite idea of how the next 5 minutes should be spent. I wanted to come through her hair. She wanted nothing of the sort.   Picture me trying to gently comb the hair of a two-year old practicing a boxer’s duck-and-weave. It wasn’t pretty. When I started to lose more rounds than not, I decided to try the twists. 

To be clear, it wasn’t a decision I made lightly. First I asked Russell. “Huh? Um… Okay, I guess.” Pause. “Why are you asking me?”

His reaction didn’t bolster my confidence. Didn’t he know that once I went down this path there was no going back? If I screwed up, I’d have to shave the kid bald and start over!

I’ll confess a fear that I’ve had since approximately four days after we decided to adopt from Africa: I fear that women everywhere, regardless of race, color, or creed, will take one look at the head of my child and know, just know in their gut, that she’s got a white mom. That’s how seriously I do not want to screw up the hair thing.

So, I decided to do the twists. The process is such:

Step 1: Put a small amount of soap in a damp washcloth.

Step 2: Rub the washcloth in a circular motion around the child’s head. Pick a direction and stick to it. Pam was very clear on this, she said, “You must commit!” I committed to clockwise.

Step 3: Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that there was no step 3 until I completed step 2. Now what? Luyanda had some very cute and tight curls in some spots on her head and other areas were just clumps of matted hair.

Pastor came to pick us up, took one look at child and asked what in the world I was doing. He pulled Luy toward him, licked his thumb and circled it around in the hair near her temple, trying, I believe to massage one of the clumps into submission. Instinctively, I slapped his hand away. (He was circling counter-clockwise!)

Thankfully, Cindy and Estelle came to my ego’s rescue.   They knew exactly what I was doing! And they applauded the effort! And each day, they assured me I was getting closer and closer to the final look I was after. I wished I knew what that final look was supposed to be. Luyanda’s hair is much shorter than Thula’s. In fact, I’d be guilty of exaggeration if I said the twists were a quarter inch long. But they are what they are, and I think they (and my child) are adorable. So, while I’ve been working on this every day, I’m not sure I’ll know when I “get there.”

I have been able to thresh out some of the details that should go with the instructions, though:

Step 1: Choose a washcloth and agonize over how wet it should be and how much soap should be left in. (One woman on the street told me that I wasn’t using enough soap, her hair was too soft. Maureen told me her hair was too dry. The fear I mentioned above? It's now a reality.)

Step 2: Rub the washcloth in a counter-clockwise circular motion around Luy’s head.

Step 3: Panic as you realize that you are rubbing the wrong way!

Step 4: Rub the washcloth in a clockwise motion around Luy’s head. Agonize over how big the circles should be.

Step 5: Search and destroy the little clumps that have a mind of their own and refuse to yield under the circular motion. Agonize about how much pressure to apply to those suckers.

I followed the above ritual religiously every morning and slowly my confidence came back. Until I met the lady at the wine shop. She picked up Luy and started a private conversation with her. Women do this in Country #1. They pick up your child and wander away… it’s up to you to follow, they don’t wait -- you are no concern of theirs. So, the lady picks up Luy and starts talking to her in their native language and the only thing I hear is “rasta.”

Gulp.

Rasta means…

No… it couldn’t be. Surely, I didn’t…

Or maybe I did!

I don’t know it for sure – I need someone in the know to confirm this for me. But I believe I may have unintentionally started Luy on the path to dreadlocks.

I’ve considered taking a close-up photo of Luy’s head and posting it here for opinions. But then it would look like I’m obsessed.

P.S. Anyone know how to get playdough out of dreads?

Crank Calling in Africa

So, it’s been five weeks. Five really long weeks and I so want to be home. But, I’m not and that kind of thinking doesn’t gel with the “roll with it” attitude that I’ve committed to. So, to put myself in a better mood, I’m going to relate this funny story that just happened about four minutes ago.

I was in the kitchen, sitting at the counter tryng to do a little bit of catch-up email for work. Luyanda wandered into the bedroom. I hear her pick up the guesthouse phone and say, “Halloo?”

There was a pause and then she said, “Ngiyaphila (I’m fine)” as though someone had asked her, “How are you?” Then she prattled on for a couple of minutes.

It occurred to me that this would be a cute session to record on my iphone but I knew if I went into the bedroom she would stop her pretend conversation. So I picked up the phone in the kitchen to see if I could hear her and possibly record her that way.

Imagine my surprise when I found that there was a person on the other end of the line, actually talking with her! I started laughing, Luyanda started laughing, the mystery person started laughing. Luyanda said “Bye bye!” and so did mystery person and they both hung up.

I wonder who she called. More importantly, I wonder if the call was long distance.

I’ve since unplugged the phone, but it hasn’t stopped her from periodically going in there, picking up the receiver, “Halloo?” Her phone sessions are shorter, though. I’m assuming that this is because she tires of keeping up both ends of the conversation.

------

Oh gosh, oh gosh… you are NEVER going to believe it. During the time I typed the above, Luyanda has had perhaps four or five pretend phone conversations with the unplugged phone. And so I think, you know, I’m going to go take a photograph of her talking on the phone to put up with this blog. SO, I’m rummaging through my bag looking for my camera and I hear a tentative knock on the door. (This just happened, literally 30 seconds after I typed the last line to my blog entry.) I opened the door to find a staff worker who seemed to be embarrassed to be there. He says to me “they say, downstairs, to stop letting children play with the phone.” Then he bows, and walks away.

I’m abashed, because here I am about to encourage her to play with the phone so I can get a pic and  apparently the phone connection was still intact! So, the conversations weren't shorter because  Luyanda got bored of talking to herself, it was that whoever she was talking to was sick and tired of talking to her!

Where's the Fire?

Something exciting happened three nights ago. There was a fire. In and of itself, that’s not so exciting. Fires happen here all the time. Every day I see at least a dozen or so in the miles surrounding town. Farmers burn patches of land in order to make it more fertile.

But this fire was special because it happened about 50 yards from my cottage! I guess that someone’s intentional fire got out of control, or there was a stray spark or something, but at about 3 am, three nights ago, the property next to this one had a pretty raging brush fire.


The staff here has their own water system for just such emergencies, but the water pressure was dismal and the dousing was only just a dribble. (I’ve been told that the nearby swimming pool is an integral part of the back-up plan.) Boys from a neighboring carepoint came to help as the fire was getting uncomfortably close to a Petrol Pump that is stationed between my cottage and the edge of the property.

Guests even poured out of their lodging to beat at the flames to keep them back.  Finally, amid lots of shouting and alarms, the local fire brigade arrived.

Or at least, that’s what I’m told.  Luyanda and I slept through the whole thing.

(Photos of smoking embers two days after the fire.)

Did I Hear You Correctly?

I'm sorry. Did you just ask me if I'm adopting because I can't get pregnant?

Written Friday Morning, Posted Saturday Night

So, I’ve chronicled my technology woes: couldn’t find adapters; power cord on Mac not working; power cord on Mac working; no internet; slow internet; no internet.

I’ve been in the midst of a no-internet period and it really dampens my spirits. Having no easy access to my family, friends, and work simply brings me down. I have a harder time staying positive and my sparkling personality has a hazy sheen. Even Pastor has noticed.

Four days ago, we lost internet again, and yesterday it popped back up. I spent 2 hours answering about 15 work emails.

This is why it took 2 hours:

Load email in browser (45 seconds, wait expectantly)

322 emails… gre-at.

Open first email (30 seconds, wait patiently)

Read it (15 seconds. Eek! Urgent response needed!)

Ht reply (30 seconds, mind wanders)

Darn, who was it I’m replying to? (30 seconds is a long time when you are just sitting there.)

Hit back button (10 seconds)

Oh yeah, it's the President of my Board, wouldn’t want to forget him, heh heh. Hit forward button (10 seconds)

Write response (34 seconds – short and sweet)

Hit send (60 seconds, staring at the ceiling, practicing my multiplication tables)

Return to inbox (30 seconds)

Open second email…

You get my drift? It’s infuriating. But not as infuriating as not having any connectivity at all. So, I was happy to have it back. But this morning, it’s gone again.

I can’t even post this blog entry.

Not-So-Obvious Rules for Surviving an Adoption in Africa

So, I’m only about halfway through the adventure that I’ve dubbed “Bringing Home Luyanda” but I think I’ve learned a few important things already. So, I humbly, and somewhat proudly, present some of the

Not-So-Obvious Rules for Surviving an Adoption in Africa


Note: These rules may seem obvious, but if they are so obvious, then why did I only think of 3 out of the 9 before I got here?


1) Bring presents – the smallest gesture is super appreciated here. Okay, not the smallest… the 3-pack of chocolate covered macadamia nuts is too small. But a relatively small gift, like the can that has at least 12 nuts inside, can work wonders. Bring more than you think you will need. It gives me a funny feeling in my stomach when I find myself debating if some new person I’m about to meet is nut-worthy.

2) Don’t count on the Internet – It’s funky, unpredictable, and SLOW… at my current guesthouse I am not able to Skype with any consistency. It was agonizing trying to introduce Luyanda to Russell and Zaffron for the first time. All she and I could see were faceless stop-motion blobs that spoke stilted non-words like “hi…. yanda… ant wait… to… eet you.” I bet she's super excited to meet daddy now!

3) Get an International plan for your phone - I counted on Skype… now I don’t talk to my family nearly as much as I had hoped. And this has made things harder emotionally for me and for them.

4) Don’t count on the ATM – It might be because I’m using a debit card, but I can’t get cash! I got what I brought with me and it better last.

5) Don’t bring just one credit card – I brought three and each has been turned down at least once (and I did call ahead).

6) Learn some of the language –

a. Greetings - People (store clerks, bank tellers) are constantly laughing at me as I practice on them… but they also remember me the next time I come in to do business. And I think they appreciate that I try.

b. Phrases your children will use – I can’t tell if Luyanda is saying she’s thirsty, hungry, sleepy, or she has to pee… it’s an important distinction that would make mothering a whole lot less frustrating if I had practiced ahead of time. “Thula phela, sisi… Don’t cry, honey. Mommy thought you wanted a drink, I’m sorry you wet your pants.”

7) Be humble – Some people have mixed feelings about foreigners taking “their” children away. I can’t say I blame them.

8) Don’t be surprised when other people pick up your children – Oh it happens, and it happens a lot. And it can be quite disconcerting. (Talk to me later, I’ve got a whopper of a story that I don’t dare put on the blog! One of my less stellar "mothering" moments, but entertaining all the same.)

9) Expect the Unexpected – Such a trite little rule that is literally impossible to accomplish, but try anyway. No matter how many books you poured over, how many experts you consulted, how many returning families you grilled, you will get taken by surprise during this adventure. I’d bet my last box of Mac Nuts on it.

The Roller Coaster Metaphor Just Doesn't Cut It

First, I apologize for not posting in a while. I had a few days where I saw a lot of sad things and I just didn’t feel like posting. I like posting the happy, frustrating, and funny, not the sad. And lately, I’ve been encountering a lot of sad.

There is a little boy at the orphanage. I’ll call him V. He’s amazing. He smiles constantly. Without fail, he greets the cars, opening the doors before the car hasn’t even come to a complete stop. He’ll take whatever you’ve brought and run it into the house. If you’ve come empty handed (shame on you), he’ll take your hand and take you into the house instead. He’s awesome, a breath of fresh air.

He’s mute.

And that makes me so mad!

Besides being the orphanage’s exceptional doorman, he loves to ride this plastic motorcycle that is too small for him. He rides it around and around and around the concrete and dirt yard. I arrive at the orphanage a different time each day and every single day, at some point during my visit, V will abandon the group of kids doing whatever they’re doing to go ride this plastic toy.

I took me several days to realize that V wasn’t actually “riding” the motorcycle -- he was dragging it. One of the back wheels was mangled and would no longer rotate. I thought about the effort this must have taken. He puts his whole weight on the thing, then uses his legs to push it forward a few inches, repositions, and then starts the whole process all over. All with the same gigantic smile plastered on his face.

On that particular day, I didn’t feel like rushing home to post my observations. And I’ve had a few days just like that, where the joy and sadness intermingle in a way that I don’t feel I can articulate.

So, that’s why I haven’t been writing. And, of course, because I now have a two-year old occupying my time! Yep… she’s with me! She’s with me! I can’t believe it but she’s with me! (And she doesn’t care for it one bit when I’m on the computer.)

I got the surprise news on Wednesday morning that I could bring Luyanda “home” on Wednesday afternoon. Problem was I was also scheduled to move from my suite to the cottage (where I’ll be staying for the duration) and the cottage wasn’t ready. And, there was one particular place I wanted to visit on my own, without Mgazi… the hospital where she was abandoned.

And I went there before I picked her up. And it broke my heart.

But I don’t feel like it would be right to post my visit to the hospital on this blog. Even though it was my morning… meaning, I’m the one who experienced the visit, it still seems like Luyanda’s story. Perhaps she wouldn’t want me to broadcast details of her upbringing that she may someday feel unresolved about. Blogs sometimes feel personal, and they are, to a certain extent. But they are in no way intimate. You are indeed, telling a story to anybody and everybody who happens to wander into the room. This story has elements that in some ways I wish I never knew.

So, let’s move on to the more joyful part of my day! Bringing Mgazi “home!” I keep putting “home” in quotes because until she sets foot in our house in Hawaii, with her sister and her father right there with us, she’s not yet “home” to me.

After the unsettling visit to the hospital, I had a hurried move between the suite and the cottage. Between my mom and I, we had four suitcases when we arrived. Two were filled with personal items for ourselves and Luy. Two were filled with items for the children at the orphanage. Those items were delivered. Mom has already left… so why is it that it took four people and eight trips to the car to move what should have been one suitcase worth of stuff to the cottage? I honestly do not know.

But it was frantic and it was cold and I was anxious and sad and astounded (really, where did I get all of this STUFF?) all at the same time.

An aside: I’ve referred more than once to this trip as a roller coaster ride. I need a new metaphor. First, roller coasters are predictable… even if you’ve never ridden a particular coaster before, you can still get a general feel for the ride while you are waiting in line.  Second, you are only doing one thing at a time when on a roller coaster. You are:

• slogging up the hill, with trepidation or anticipation
  
• teetering on the very peak of a hill, thinking, why did I think this was a good idea? OR, alternatively, Wow this is AWESOME!!
• speeding down the hill,screaming in terror or joyfully throwing your hands in the air
• hitting the bottom dip, trying to catch your breath, having just lost your scream to the wind, only to have to gather your wits, regroup, and do it all over again.

This experience isn’t anything like that. In this experience, you are doing all of those things, feeling all of those things, ALL AT THE SAME TIME. It’s exhausting.

So, here I am, freezing cold, wanting to cry from both sadness and joy, and trying not to jiggle the Pepsi Light as I transfer it to the car… nothing worse than flat pop in a foreign country, this I know.

I want to believe that I’m really going to go get her… bring her home… live happily ever after, but I’m wary. At the same time, I thought it was a good sign that the day was September 9th. Russell will have to verify, but I think we met on September 9^th, also, way back in 1994. (Another aside: Before we married, Russell made quite a big deal about wanting to wait 12 years before having children. We waited 10 before having Zaffron. Now, 14 years have passed to get child number 2! If you average that out… 12 years, on the nose! You’re welcome, Honey.)

When I arrived at the orphanage, everyone was inside. V wasn’t running up to the car ready to escort me in. And he wasn’t in the yard, riding the new motorcylce Pastor and I brought him the day before. It was just too cold! The kids were all in one small bedroom just hanging out. Luyanda greeted me warmly. I tried for the umpteenth time to get her to talk to me. She has never said a word directly to me. I think it has become a game. I’ll tickle her and jiggle her, while asking, “How are you? How are you?” in a silly, sing-song voice. And she’ll just stare back at me, holding back giggles. I’ll keep going, “Say I’m fine! I’m fine!” And at that point, where I’m begging her to tell me she’s fine, she’ll laugh and laugh. Today was no different. She just cackled in response to my cajoling and tickles. I think she thinks my attempts at her language are funny.

She was all smiles and cuddles until I started to change her clothes. She got very quiet and she resembled the Luyanda I met on day one more than the giggly kid I had gotten to know over the last few days. She was nervous. Something was up.

We stayed for about ½ an hour, asking last minute questions, saying goodbye to the kids. Luyanda never smiled. Mgazi wouldn’t even look at the camera during some hastily arranged group shots. 

Finally, after a teary farewell (on Maureen’s and my part) we drove off. Luyanda seemed sad looking out the car window, silently waving her little hand, so I nuzzled her neck and gave her a little jiggle and tried our standard game.

 “How are you? How are you?”

This time, and I’m so thankful for this, she said in a tiny little voice, “I’m fine” BEFORE she broke into a fit of giggles.

And that broke the silence. She’s been talking ever since. Of course,  I can’t understand a word she’s saying.

Every once in a while, I think I recognize something… “something something somethingJESUS! Something something HALLELUJAH! Something something BANANA!”

It’s music to my ears!