Welcome Home

Yes, dear and patient readers, I am (finally) back online, at your service. It has been much too long since my last post, especially in babyland, where even a few weeks can encompass a whole world of changes and development. Hopefully I can cover the missing months with some choice photos -- suffice to say that el Pablito is the same sweet boy -- he just moves a lot faster these days!


Our return to NYC was marked by all sorts of welcomes, including the treat of waking up to a magical white blanket of snow. Snow -- I hadn't seen any for over a year -- I wasn't sure it was even something I would miss. But up here in the northern reaches of Manhattan, a new snowfall feels so peaceful, so optimistic, so gently beautiful; it is the best winter has to offer, and I feel like we got a special homecoming display. (And nicely timed for a couple of days after our arrival; I certainly wouldn't have appreciated it quite so much if it had been my plane that was delayed for five hours.)


As it was, my arrival at JFK could not have been less stressful. Not that traveling with an infant is ever fun, exactly, but Pablo was on his best behavior (which is very good indeed) and spent the entire flight making friends with all our fellow passengers. And then we were met by the incomparable Corina, who escorted us in style back to Jersey City for a fine meal and a night of generous hospitality (they gave up their bed for us! thank you, Corina! thank you, Steele!) before shuttling us all the way back to Washington Heights. And so, finally, home -- my own apartment, just as I left it, only cleaner. Another big thanks due there, to Rachel and Steve, aka The Best Sublettors Ever. (And of course to Michael, my financial manager, who did not in fact run off to Cozumel with the last dime in my savings account. Empty threats.)


I've had both hard and wonderful experiences everywhere I've been during the last year, and I feel full of gratitude for the people who have helped me out along the way. For the community of the Santa Rosa apartments, where I met some women much like myself -- and some who couldn't be more different. Lalla, Nicole, Lisa, Karan, Teresa, Brooke, Helen, Blair... all of you are part of Pablo's story. And then there were my new buddies at the Casa del Antiguo Aserradero -- Ann and Gautam, whose beautiful apartment I inherited, Erin and John, Linda and Ganesh, Rose and Lily. There were my gringo friends all around Antigua: Jenni and Brian, Leif and Cilla, Sara and Karan, Tim and Elizabeth... and there were the chapines, who took care of Pablo and me both -- Gaby most especially, and AnaMaria and Cindy, Sandra and Gustavo, Amabilia... Thank you, ALL.

A small sampling of my Guate friends:

Saying goodbye to my Brit neighbors -- Linda, Ganesh, and the ever-serious Angie.

Brian and Jenni...

...and sweet baby Lena

Gabriela, our most wonderful ninera. Le extranamos mucho, Gaby!

Sandra and Gustavo, our trusty drivers, cultural interpreters, and friends.

Josi, AnaMaria, Gaby, Cindy, and Ignacio

And I'd like to set aside a special place of honor to a family we barely know, the family who cared for Pablo in the very beginning.

Pablo's official foster mother, Lucy, and her sweet son Fernando. Even though he only spent two weeks with them, Pablo clearly holds a lasting spot in their hearts.

Well, it's beginning to feel a bit like the Academy Awards here, isn't it? Appropriate, then, I suppose, to end with a big thank you to my family of origin. I came back from Guatemala to California for a few months, ostensibly to help my mother through her chemo treatments. But in the end she was the one doing most of the caretaking --babysitting, cooking, cleaning, laundry (even my pillowcases were ironed!) -- and I got to forget for a little while longer what being a single mom really entails. And Pablo, naturally, was the object of adoration, from all the extended family. It was wonderful to see them with him, and vice versa -- to know that he is loved as much as any child emerging from my own flesh would be. It was not easy to leave.

But I love being home. In true New York fashion, the snow was quickly gone, of course, but I don't mind. And no doubt I will very soon be just another crabby nurse in the ER, complaining about the understaffing and the overcrowding and the general chaos. But right now I still feel priviledged, a member -- finally -- of that club I've been trying to join for several years now. And beyond that -- a member with special status: the single mom, the adoptive mom, the white mama to the brown child -- the gringamama. I have no idea, really, what all of that will mean in the months and years to come. But returning home, I feel like I am able, finally, to set out on the journey.

And now for the (extensive!) gallery:

The Food Series

The Cheerio. How on earth did parents survive in the pre-Cheerio era?

Teething biscuit in one hand, phone in the other. Unfortunately, these pictures do not capture the absolute gooey crumbly disastrous aftermath of a biter-biscuit breakfast -- but you will note that I have him stripped down to the dipe. Thank you, Tia Sasha.

Foam: more toxic than an Earth's Best biscuit, no doubt -- but much less messy!

Master of the BIG water bottle.

Dinner usually looked something like this:

But occasionally things ended rather more soporifically...

The Tongue Series


The Swing Series
Oh, how he loved his jumperoo.

Off the Cobblestones
Once out of PGN, we did in fact make it out of Antigua for a few short trips.

Here we are relaxing in the sun on our somewhat ill-fated journey to the hippie dippie hangout of San Marcos on Lake Atitlan...

...and practicing our yoga

Pablo also got a bit of Christian education from Tia Nastia and her delectable gold cross:

We went to the kite festival for All-Saints Day in Sumpango (perhaps those kites will get a post of their own someday... they certainly deserve one) with Tia Kristin (and Tio Bill).


One of our last Antigua events -- the first haircut:

Adios, curls :-(

The California Series

First up -- my collection of artsy fartsy dining-room shots:

Next -- some more practical activity in the kitchen:

My little environmentalist (he's organizing the recycling here, in case you can't tell. And no, he has not been dipping into the Pale Ale).

Sometimes even Cheerios, even on a silver platter, are not enough...

...but the dishwasher never failed to satisfy.

Rock climbing in Berkeley:

Lame Yuletide Photography

THIS is the best I could do for Pablo's first Christmas??

Pablo with a tree growing out of his head...

...opening presents...

...playing with present.

Here's the Season's Greetings section (and a pictorial explanation for why no one got a cute Pablo-riffic Christmas card)...

faster than a speeding shutter -- off with the hat!

Somehow these green and red outfits just don't get the job done, especially with a Bay Area "winter" background.

At least he kept his hat on here.

And, finally, some...

Miscellaneous Cuteness

That's all, folks!

Next up: something of substance. Sometime in 2008.

out out out out OUT!

I can hardly believe it, but it is indeed true -- I have in front of me the official word from the Procuraduria General de la Nacion: we are OUT. I got the call on Friday afternoon, long before I expected it (other FTC families have been waiting over 9 weeks; I managed to squeak through in the merest 8 weeks plus 1 day). I believe the tias (my aunt Anne and cousin Sasha) have brought the most excellent karma down to Guatemala -- we've had a wonderful week together, with sunny skies, consistently tasty meals, and now, to top it off, the best news of all. Pablo is freed from house arrest, and we've been galavanting about town this weekend to celebrate. Now we await the completion of the final part the process -- deed of adoption, birth certificate, second DNA, passport, visa, embassy doctor... home. I will be home for thanksgiving.

Thank you, everyone, for your prayers, thoughts, good wishes, and general support. The journey has just begun!

the good-luck tias

The Golden Cage

A month has gone by since my last post, and far too much has happened. The hardest has been some devastating (non-adoption) family news, but things on my Guatemalan home front aren't exactly upbeat.

You may well have heard about the police raid last month on Casa Quivira, a foster home located just outside Antigua. I don't know who is working for the Guatemalan anti-adoption forces on PR, but they hit a bonanza with this one -- apparently the story made it all the way to French TV and Al Jazeera, with stops along the way throughout the U.S. and the U.K. Almost all of the initial stories -- mostly distributed through AP -- assumed a guilty until proven innocent tone, with headlines featuring "stolen children" and the like. In recent weeks, the coverage has evened out a bit, as the home's owners have issued their own press releases, but I would say that overall the damage has been done -- for instance, most antiguenos that I've talked to assume that surely something illegal was going on at the home. For an accurate accounting of the full story -- at least, the story as far as it is known so far -- I refer you, as usual, to Guatadopt.

There are multiple problems with the CQ raid, and they go far beyond public perception. To start with, there is the fate of the 42 children who were ultimately removed from the home -- all of them were in process to be adopted by U.S. families. Their whereabouts are currently unknown. (I considered using CQ myself when I began this adoption journey; I can only imagine what it must be like to stand in those adoptive parents' shoes. It could have been Pablo.) There is the role of the Bienestar (the Welfare department), headed up by the president's wife Wendy de Berger, arch-enemy of international adoption. There is the highly questionable invocation of the 2003 PINA law, which was designed to apply not to notarial adoptions, but to children in abusive families.

Now, what does this all have to do with me? Well, for one thing, Pablo, along with all the other FTC babies, is now effectively on house arrest. We have been advised not to go out in public with our foster children, for fear that we might be subject to police harassment on the streets of Antigua. There have been rumors of court orders for the police to begin checking paperwork on adoptive children -- and we have seen what "checking paperwork" led to at Casa Quivira. My daily walks throughout the city are now solo affairs, my babe left with Gabriela (a wonderful ninera) for a couple of hours every day so that I don't go entirely stir crazy. In some ways, of course, it is easier to cruise around town without a baby in tow -- no formula/diapers/toys to drag along, no late afternoon meltdowns to worry about, no inquisitive proddings. But I miss him, and I resent the circumstances that keep him housebound. Estadounidense that I am, I resent the curtailing of my freedom. It would be ridiculous to say that I feel like my rights are being violated -- I am a visitor in a foreign land; I carry a U.S. passport, with all the privileges that entails; I have had no restrictions on my own movement; and I am not afraid, on my own behalf, of any authorities. But nevertheless, I feel trapped, and anxious, and angry.

Catching Up

July was a bonanza month for visitors -- two! -- although sadly the visits were both much too brief. Tia Kerry, my sister, came for five days, and Tio Rico, my friend of more years than I care to count, was here for a whirlwind weekend. The days, as Calvin would say, were just packed.

For starters, the requisite visits were made to a variety of ruins:

San Francisco -- one of my favorites, in part for the way the palms echo the broken arches, as you can see here. Also for the museum dedicated to San Hermano Pedro (where unfortunately no photography is allowed) which features a multitude of testimonials, his death shroud, and some rope underwear. Creepy in the best way.

All those Saturdays spent at the Cloisters paid off when I was able to explain the instruments of the Passion to my atheist sister (except -- what's that weird Michael Jackson glove doing in there? I have no idea what that is).

Casa Santo Domingo:

Lovely ruins, beautifully integrated with a fancy pants hotel (supposedly the finest in all of Central America). And one of the best all-you-can-eat brunches I've ever had.

Kerry and I visited the back parts of La Merced, perhaps the most beautiful church in Antigua, with its wedding-cake plasterwork facade.

The ruins are charming in their own right; Pablo almost got to take a dip in the perhaps holy (but certainly unhealthy) fountain:

And but for a bit of cloud cover, we got a clear view of Volcan Agua from the back rooftop.

We also got to peek in on the daily life of the school next door (and were clearly not the first gringos to have done so -- n.b. the SOS sign in the window).

Kerry and I also made use of La Merced as backdrop for a highly questionable faux christening photo shoot. You see, we have this beautiful dress in the family, used for generations of baby baptisms. It seems a shame not to make use of it just because none of us are, um, practicing Christians. With apologies to those who (understandably) might find it offensive, or just plain weird, I like to think of it as a post-modern sort of baptism, where the only thing that really matters is the documentation...

Both visitors experienced some gustatory successes and failures, including:

This strange "paterna" fruit, difficult to see clearly in this picture, but don't worry, because it's really not something you want to seek out in your local market. Inside a hard green pod are some hard brown seeds, covered with a white cottony substance. The flavor of the white stuff isn't bad exactly, but the texture is, well, like wet cotton. Utterly uninspiring. The second one remained unopened.

A visit to the fancy Dulce Tipico shop, where there were some hits and misses. Hits: red ball of tamarind-flavored sugar, chocolatey sapote bar, and the shop itself. Misses: candied figs and quite a few other mysterious sweets.

Two meals at La Fonda de la Calle Real, my favorite spot for comida tipica ("Tipica" is an essentially positive attribute in the guatemalteca food world, not a ho-hum sort of designation. More could be said about that phenomenon -- perhaps we'll have a Culinary Roundup post in the not too distant future.)

Tio Rico thought it was just OK. Pablo wants to know when he can have some. But most exciting was when I turned around to discover I was sitting in...

Bill's chair!

I think Pablo is more of an Obama fan.

El P is in general happier going out for a little snack than a full-on dinner. Tia Kerry kept him smiling at Fernando's, my favorite coffee spot, which has a much prettier atmosphere than you can appreciate from these shots.

I miss you both!

Onward Ho!

No philosophizing today, and not much in the way of pictures either. But a very brief update to let my faithful readers know that I've made it through the Slough of Despond, as we finally received Preapproval, and have now set sail on the dangerous waters of PGN!

August 2nd was the momentous date, not that I'm keeping track or anything.

Visitor pictures coming soon, really. For now you'll have to make do with one of His Cuteness, five months old today, and in a mild state of shock at our latest news.

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Progress continues, at the desultory speed to which I have become accustomed -- if not fully resigned. We have made it through DNA, and out of Family Court, and now await Preapproval from the U.S. Embassy. Twelve weeks -- essentially three months, which somehow sounds even longer to me than twelve weeks -- have passed since DNA testing; the Embassy gives a usual time frame of eight to ten weeks. In my case, however, they have requested the resubmission of an essential bit of paperwork (the birth mother's cedula) -- first a routine copy, which my agency submitted for the second time last week, and now a certified copy of the original book version. Apparently this is part of the Embassy's new and improved(?) investigative process, in which they seek to confirm the birth mother's unmarried status. Perhaps it will help cut down on potential adoption fraud. Perhaps it is just more paper shuffling. It will involve, without question, time -- always more time.

My waiting is, of course, nothing compared to that of families with extended cases; I think daily about Cheri, and Erin, and Blair, and everyone else who has been in limbo for months, sometimes with no end in sight. I think about my friend Richard, who has been through not one but two complicated -- at times agonizing -- international adoptions. I think about how ignorant I was while he was in the midst of those adoptions, how, while I was properly outraged at some of the bureaucratic hurdles he faced, and while I had a vague sense of how hard it must all have been -- I didn't in my heart get it. I get it now.

For those who have never experienced at close hand the ups and downs of the adoptive process, I think one of the hardest things to grasp is how real, and how intense, and how early the connection is between parent and child. I think the analogy between the adoption journey and pregnancy can be a useful one; and just as people often fail to recognize the deep pain that can come with an early miscarriage, they may not understand the potential for loss that comes with every adoption. For some prospective parents, the bonding begins at the moment of referral: with a blurry photograph, a date of birth, a name. Others may fall in love on an early visit trip; with Guatemalan adoptions, this often happens when a baby is still a newborn. With domestic adoption, the process may begin even before the baby is born -- and with domestic adoption, a third of all birth mothers decide to keep their children: for the adoptive parent, the risk of loss is great indeed. (Loss is, of course, part of all adoptions, for all the members of the "adoption triad"; but at the moment I am writing specifically from the perspective of the a-mom.)

I have, in some ways, avoided the hard parts of adopting from Guatemala. The problem for me is not the waiting per se; I have no urgent need to return to my NYC life any time soon. Unlike most prospective gringaparents, I am spending these waiting months with my child, not anxiously without. But I am not at home here; I am living in limbo, and acutely aware of it. And for better and for worse, my choice -- to be a foster mother from very early on -- has upped the ante for me. I would never claim to love my child any more than any other parent; but to care for him 24/7, to see his smiles every morning, to watch him grow and learn every day, to feel his sleepy warm body next to me every night -- I am viscerally, painfully aware of what would be missing in my life without him.

The problem for me, and for every other waiting a-parent, is that the waiting comes with fear. The more waiting, the more fear. For many, fear that a child is growing and developing without them; fear that the older the child gets, the harder it will be, for everyone, when they finally do join their adoptive families. For all, the fear -- perhaps never voiced or even consciously examined -- that the child might never come home. Termination -- that which must not be named -- is very rare, but until we are through PGN, the possibility lurks. My anxiety surfaces in the middle of the night: I have never actually dreamed of losing Pablo -- instead, my nightmares feature severed limbs, gruesome ER scenes, family deaths, widespread catastrophe.

Right now, I feel fairly certain that I would not put myself through this process again, even if all goes smoothly from this point forward. Do not misunderstand: I do not for an instant regret where I am or how I have arrived here. I love every inch of my Pablito; I am his mother, and we are on this journey together. For that, I am grateful every day. And perhaps I am like the laboring woman who swears off babies forever during transition, only to reconsider once the contractions have faded into distant memory. But I have to laugh at those well-meaning folks who suggest that becoming a mom via adoption is easier than the more traditional route: I can come up with any number of adjectives for this process, but easy is most definitely not among them.

next up: cheerier times with Tia Kerry!

The Abuelos Come to Town

My first visitors -- the esteemed Aged P's -- have now come and gone, a lovely interlude for me and (I feel I can speak for him here) el Pablito. He got some new faces smiling at him, for one.

He got to go on lots of outings:

heading out the back gate

outside the Museo del Libro Antiguo

shopping on 5th Ave.

lunch at Panza Verde

up the hill to see the view (el P was unimpressed)

keeping fit at Cafe No Sé

exploring the ruins of Las Capuchinas

He got high quality lounging time.

He got the pasha treatment on the changing table.

(Personalized protection from the skylight glare.)

And, best of all, he got some lullabies from his abuela.

Pablo's mama, meanwhile, got to spend some relaxing time with her own parents, lots of help with the daily quehaceres, and some fancy meals. And, best of all, I got to see my parents' joy in their new grandchild. I've never worried, as some adoptive parents have had to, that my child would be rejected by my extended family. They may not have read all the latest sociological literature on the nuances of transcultural adoption, but there has never been any question in my mind that they would embrace any child of mine, however conceived. In fact, one of my mother's first responses to the news of my upcoming Guatemalan adoption was to enroll in Spanish classes. Still, it was such a pleasure for me to see how Pablo charmed them, and to share his ready smile and his sweet nature with those who will call him family. There was more than one pleased exclamation about what an easygoing baby he is: "What! He wakes up without crying? I never had a baby that did that!" -- and much commentary as well on his beauty. I of course, am already thankful for all his fine qualities, pretty much on an hourly basis, but it's nice to have one's prejudices confirmed.

There are also quite a few practical perks to having the abuelos around. For one, I could take a shower without anxiety &/or guilt. (Is that a happy noise he's making out there, or an I'm-going-to-be-screaming-in-a-minute noise?) My dishes seemed never to be dirty. Adult conversation was readily available. And my mother, in her quiet way, did everything to make me feel like a competent mama myself, while making all sorts of useful suggestions about how to make my life easier. "Maybe you'd like to go to the Mercado on your own, while I take care of Pablito?" Lo and behold, the Mercado on my own turns out to be a wonderful experience -- no howling baby, no obtrusive comments, no anxiety! "Maybe we should give his baby bathtub another try?" I had used it once, and he screamed throughout the whole ordeal. (Not that I haven't bathed him at all for 2 months -- but my co-bathing in the big tub, while a fun time for both of us, is also, on occasion, a little scary.) Here are the results:

no trauma noted

She even embraced (or, at least, tolerated without any hint of mockery) my halfhearted attempts at elimination communication, despite a notable lack of success. I'm happy to say that we've made a bit of progress on that front, and recently have even had a few poos on the pot. (Pictures not forthcoming, not to worry.)

My father, while less of a hands-on abuelo, was no less proud of his new relative. Season tickets and car keys have already been discussed (although I'm not sure this mama will ever let el P behind the wheel of the little red Porsche -- no airbags, and no seatbelts to speak of -- even if it does make it out of the shop by the time he's able to drive). And it is thanks to my father, more than anyone, that I am even able to be here; I won't go into any financial details, but suffice to say that he has been more than generous, and I am hugely grateful.

Unfortunately, Pa was headed home on the early early flight (somehow, the typical flights to and from Guatemala seem to involve being awake at 4 am) when we had our fabulous all-you-can-eat Casa Santo Domingo brunch -- followed a week later by our equally fabulous CSD tasting menu dinner. He would have appreciated both, and hopefully will be back to do so at some point in the coming months.

While we did get out to see some Antigua sites, we also spent quite a few days holed up avoiding the rain, as my parents' arrival pretty much coincided with the beginning of the Guatemalan "winter," i.e. the wet season. We are, I'm afraid, a pretty nerdy family. And what we call entertainment often looks something like this:

n.b. battered tome on lap

My father with his Extremely Hard Sudoku, my mother with her Beyond Extremely Hard weekly Listener puzzle. (I'm on the couch, knitting. Or maybe doing Spanish homework.) I'm sure very few of you have even heard of the Listener puzzle; for the uninitiated, it bears a very faint resemblance to the NYT Magazine cryptic crosswords -- but it is a cryptic on steroids. On Barry Bonds-type steroids. (Sorry, Pa -- no personal offense intended -- hope I'm not endangering Pablito's tickets with that comment.) It hails, of course, from the U.K. It has a bit of a cult following, and an unpaid official statistician named Mr. Brown, who at the end of every year sends out an extremely detailed recap of the year's puzzles, including percentage of correct responses, a list of the top solvers, etc. Every year the select few who manage to solve each week's puzzle perfectly are invited to a banquet. My mother claims she would never actually attend such an affair, but it is still an ongoing goal to receive the invitation (I think she's missed it by something like two wrong answers in the course of a year). She goes nowhere without her trusty Chambers dictionary -- a necessary, but far from sufficient, aide to completing the Listener. It accompanied her on a recent jaunt to Burma. Needless to say, it made the journey to Guatemala as well:

The Chambers in action

There are times when I am in awe of my parents' intellectual capacities. My father is an astonishingly successful antiquarian bookdealer -- astonishing, that is, at least to me, for I cannot begin to imagine what it takes to run that business. I am overwhelmed with the sheer scope of it -- the number of books, and the amount of knowledge it requires to find, collect, manage, distribute them. He is brilliant at it, and while I have inherited many fine qualities from him, I did not get that kind of intelligence. I like to think I inherited some of my mother's facility with language -- but it's a rare day when I can solve even one Listener clue (I would never embark on an entire puzzle) -- and a banner day when I can beat her at Scrabble.

Actually, she won this game. But scoring was neck-in-neck (tied at the penultimate play!) And I did pull out one victory while she was here.

Black sheep that I am, I don't get to see much of my family: they're all firmly entrenched in the San Francisco Bay Area, and I've migrated backwards to the East Coast, where I generally relish the fact that not everyone around me looks, thinks, and talks exactly as I do. But now that I'm getting a taste (even if just a tiny nibble) of the true ex-pat life, I particularly appreciate spending time with my flesh and blood. Which of course leads me back into thinking about what it means to be adopted, what it will mean for Pablo to have no "flesh and blood" connection at all to his family.

I find myself wondering sometimes what it will be like for Pablo to grow up in a family with such an introverted, intellectual bent. Of course, he may end up being just as bookish as all the rest of us -- he seems to enjoy Goodnight Moon and Buenas Noches, Gorila as much as the next 3 month old (which is to say, he enjoys trying to eat them). And of course, it is possible that I could have given birth to, say, an extroverted non-reading jock -- but in this particular realm I put enough stock in nature over nurture to find that scenario fairly unlikely. I have no idea what kind of boy el Pablito will turn out to be, and I embrace that; I'm happy, really, to know that I won't waste any energy worrying about whether I've passed on my shyness, my myopia, my complete lack of athletic ability. I'm eager to discover his strengths and his challenges, the ways he will take after me and the ways he won't. I have no need for him to fit into my mold. But I do hope that we will fit together, that he will feel like he belongs with me, and with his extended family.

So far, I have to say, so good.