GringaMama

Welcome Home

2008-02-27T20:54:00.052-06:00

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!

2007-09-30T20:13:00.000-06:00

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

2007-09-10T21:15:00.000-06:00

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

2007-08-10T10:33:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-08-02T14:07:00.001-06:00

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

2007-07-21T14:55:00.000-06:00

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

2007-06-20T12:00:00.000-06:00

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.

"¿Es suyo?"

2007-05-26T12:08:00.000-06:00

"Is he yours?" A question I get on a fairly regular basis -- particularly if I venture into the bowels of Antigua's vast Mercado, where the heat and noise and maternal anxiety level almost invariably lead to a fit of screaming on the part of the infant whose status has just been questioned. The question is asked by a Mayan woman, older -- smiling -- and is often accompanied by an exploratory poke of El Pablito, an admiring coo over his hair, his size, his general beauty. "¡Que lindo! ¿Es suyo?" "¡Que pelo! ¿Es suyo?" "¿Cuántos meses -- es suyo?" I have yet to figure out the proper response, if there even is one; the answer, the true answer, it seems to me, is anything but the simple "sí" or "no" that the question appears to require.

Legally, to start with, no, Pablo is not mine. He will not be "mine" until the day PGN declares the adoption process complete, until a new birth certificate is issued, and my last name becomes his. From that point forward, from the governmental perspective, both Guatemalan and U.S., he will be mine forever. But until then, as much as I may feed him, change him, carry him, kiss him, cuddle him, soothe him, love him, mother him -- I have no right to this child. If something went dreadfully amiss with the adoption process -- something that might have nothing to do with me, or with him, but with a piece of paper deemed insufficient by the bureaucrats in charge -- he could become an orphan, could be placed in an orphanage, could be lost to his first mother, his second mother, any mother, forever. It is unlikely -- it is almost unthinkable to me -- but it is not an impossibility.

It is also true, I remind myself regularly, that things can go terribly wrong with a biological pregnancy. Babies are born too soon, they are born too late, they can be sick, they can have terrible disabilities, they can die. As a midwife, I have watched all of that happen; I have cautioned again and again "there are no guarantees"; I have stood witness to the cruel messages that Mother Nature occasionally sends to remind us that babies are not always ours to keep. I do not know what it feels like to have a sick child, a critically sick child, to not know if my child will live or die. I do not know, as some of my fellow adoptive parents do, what it feels like to lose a referred child. I do know about losing a pregnancy, about the sorrow of a miscarriage. These are all separate pains, individual struggles, unique losses. But there is common ground as well: the truth, the sometimes slap-in-the-face truth, that as parents we are not in control. Perhaps there is something useful in learning that lesson right at the beginning, rather than down the road a bit when our children turn two, three, seventeen. The trick, I think, is learning to deal with uncertainty by loving more, not less. For the potential is certainly there to detach, to hold back, to think, perhaps unconsciously, "he's not really mine" -- to fear the loss, and thus to keep a part of one's heart closed off. But the truth is that the threat of loss -- even, one might argue, the inevitability of it -- is always there, biological or adoptive, sick or healthy. In this sense, Pablo will never be "mine," will never be a static, secure possession, guaranteed to satisfy my mothering instincts. How much better, though, if I can love him purely for the sweet boy he is today, rather than for the son I hope he will be tomorrow.

There is another level, however, on which adoptive and biological parents really do face different challenges in claiming their children. In adoption circles, the concept is often labeled "entitlement"; it is seen as a crucial psychological task for adoptive parents, that we grow to feel that our children truly belong in our families, that we are their real parents. It is a question never asked when the parental relationship is also the biological one. But in adoption, there is an arbitrary aspect to it all -- the match is dependent not on DNA and umbilical cord, but on paperwork, lawyers, timing. The "pick-up" room where I first met Pablo was a surreal little space in the lobby of the Westin in Guatemala City. There must have been five families crowded into a tiny room -- five adoptive families, five babies (with their foster mothers) all experiencing a momentous event in a particularly banal location. The first baby handed to me was -- not Pablo. Another beautiful little boy, looking enough like my referral photo for me not to question his identity. It was only after a few minutes of holding and cooing at him that the mistake was rectified -- "oops, sorry, wrong baby" -- and I received my own gorgeous child. Arbitrary. Surreal.

For some, there is a sense of "love at first sight" upon meeting their adopted child. For others -- for most, I would guess -- there is a process. "It felt like two months of babysitting," one of my fellow a-moms told me, "but every day he crept closer into my heart." For me it has been a little bit of both. There are times when I look at him, when he smiles at me, and I feel connected on an elemental level -- he is mine, I am his. There are other times: particularly, say, when I look at us together in a mirror, and I wonder "Who is this beautiful baby boy? Where did he come from? What is he doing in my arms?"

Because of course, he did not come from me. He came from his birth mother, from the Guatemalan highlands: he came from the world of the Mayan woman at the Mercado, and I have stolen him away from that life forever. I understand, when she looks at me with a smile on her lips but not in her eyes; I understand, or at least think I do, that a part of what is thought but not said is: "Es nuestro hijo." "He belongs to us." I hear it in the myriad responses to his cries issuing from each vendor's stall: "¡quiere pacha!" "¡esta apretado!" "¡necesita aire!" "¡tiene calor!" "¡tiene frio!" "It takes a village," we gringa mamas often grumble to each other, appreciating the comic aspect, but resenting the intrusion nevertheless. It is not always easy, when one is already hard at work internalizing the idea This Is My Child, to be reminded that others might dispute the claim.

"¿Fue regalado, o lo compró?" "Was he given away, or did you buy him?" While I have had a hard time coming up with an answer to "¿Es suyo?," I was completely dumbfounded by this question, asked with the usual smile and appreciative, exploratory probe. My reply was at once grandiose and insipid -- something along the lines of "well of course I didn't buy him -- you cannot buy a person." But of course, from the perspective of the average Guatemalteco, that is exactly what we Norteamericanos do every day; we buy their children and import them, just as we have always bought up the products of the land: bananas, coffee, sugar, petroleum, clothing, babies. It does not help that the urban legend of babies sold for body parts is widely credited here -- even by the mainstream press. It does not help that corruption is well documented, and rarely prosecuted, throughout the adoption system. It does not help that the private Guatemalan lawyers earn thousands of dollars for processing each adoption case, while the birth parents are in many cases struggling to earn enough to keep their other children from starving to death. Payments to birth mothers are prohibited by Guatemalan and U.S. law: no one wants a system in which the decision to relinquish a child is linked to monetary compensation. But it is hard to ignore the irony of a system in which those who lose the most also gain the least; it is difficult, for me at any rate, to condemn those birth mothers who do end up receiving money under the table.

One of my priorities in planning to adopt was to work with a trustworthy, ethical agency, and as far as I know, Pablo's adoption has been entirely above board; I have no reason to doubt either his birth mother's motivation, my agency's process, or the conduct of my lawyer. That said, however, the process itself is still far from transparent, and I will never know exactly where and to whom and for what my money has gone. That is part of the deal with Guatemalan adoptions, and something I have made my peace with. It all stands in contrast to, for example, domestic U.S. adoption, where payments to birth mothers are common, and may amount to several thousands of dollars, although couched in language of "housing and medical costs." And yet, it is international adoption that is frequently criticized, even denounced, as a form of child trafficking. In certain social science quarters, the two are regularly linked, as though it were possible to equate a parent adopting a child with a criminal buying children for slave labor or forced prostitution.

I doubt that the average New Yorker will look at Pablo and me and think that we are part of a criminal conspiracy. I'm sure that at some point he will hear denunciations of the way in which we became a family; he may even grow to share the conviction of some international adoptees that the institution itself is fatally flawed. I hope not. What I brace myself for, in the more immediate future, is the next phase of questions, the full range from curious to invasive to downright rude, that I anticipate once we return to the U.S. -- where it will usually be Pablo, and not me, who stands out as other. Brown boy and white mother; we will face a lifetime of comments and doubletakes, wherever we travel. I can dream of a multicultural society, in which a family of different colors elicits nothing more than an appreciative smile, but I know better than to expect that for my child. What I hope for is a smaller triumph: I hope that my boy will grow secure in the knowledge that he is Both/And, not Either/Or. He will be a U.S. citizen, Guatemalan-born, and together we will negotiate what it means to be a multiracial family. I hope that he will learn to define his own community, that he will belong where he chooses, when he chooses. I hope that he will be able, and willing, to at once embrace his Latino roots, and hold tight to his gringamama.

Guatadopt Q&A

2007-04-29T20:42:00.000-06:00

Yesterday was Family Court day, and I figure what better occasion to do a little Q&A about Guatemala adoptions -- everything you always wanted to know but were too afraid to ask. Or, if the topic bores you silly, perhaps you'll enjoy a few pictures of the hero of our story.

the feet

My friend/cousin/neighbor adopted from Guatemala, and they just went down for a few days to pick up the child. Why are you there for so long?

Most children coming home from Guatemala are 6-8 months old (it used to be more like 3-6 months, but the process has become longer for various reasons). For many adopting parents, it makes logistical, financial, and sometimes emotional sense to wait until the adoption is finalized to join their child, although many do visit before the final pick-up trip. One of the most appealing facets of the Guatemalan system is that most adopted children are cared for in foster homes, rather than in orphanages, and often some contact is possible between the adoptive and foster families during the process. In my case, I had the even more appealing option to act as the (unofficial) foster mother thanks to the policies of my agency, the flexibility of my job, and the beneficence of my parents, so I jumped at the chance to be with my Pablito from a very early age -- I have had the great pleasure of mothering him since he was a wee bit of 2 1/2 weeks.

the chicken legs

What happens during the adoption process? Why does it take 6 months?

The full adoption process actually takes much longer than 6 months, usually, if you start counting from the beginning of the dossier collection -- the often tedious gathering of documents, signatures, notarizations, certifications, authentications etc. that are needed for an international adoption. Ask any prospective adoptive parent how the paperchase is going and you're sure to get some rolled eyes and a sigh. But I've made it through that particular hoop, and am now focussed on the Guatemalan end of the process. That consists of several different steps: from DNA day, to Family Court, to Preapproval, to PGN, to Pink. Details below.

the birthmark

What happens on DNA day?

Well, first of all, I had to get up really early. Before 8. Then we got all dressed up in our Monday best, and packed a spare outfit for Pablo, just in case he spit up all over the first one. (I would have to make do, if it were my outfit that suffered that indignity.) Then Sandra and Gustavo, our trusty drivers, took us into Guatemala City (a ride that ranges from 45 minutes to 3 hours, depending on traffic), where we met Pablo's official foster mother, who then took him to meet his biological mother. The DNA test was done on both mother and baby to ensure that the baby is in fact hers, and is a safeguard in place to prevent the theft and trafficking of children for adoption. It was also the first time his birth mother had seen Pablo since she relinquished him, and was the first of four points throughout the process when she has the opportunity to change her mind. A picture of the two of them together, taken on DNA day, will be perhaps the only tangible reminder Pablo has of his first mother.

the buddha belly

What happens if the birth mother changes her mind?

This happens very rarely in Guatemala, but if it did, Pablo would return to his original family. Of all the worst-case scenarios in the adoption process, this is probably the one with the least horrific consequences -- but my heart would be broken.

the hands

What happens if the DNA doesn't match?

Again, this is quite rare. I don't know the exact protocol that would take place in this scenario, but my understanding is that the adoption would be terminated. I would no longer be eligible to be his mother, and I believe his care would be turned over to the state during the subsequent investigation.

the double chin

Oh my gosh -- are you nervous?

In a word, yes. Not so much about the DNA per se (I should be getting the results any day now) but about the process as a whole I am nervous. Most days I don't have to think about it, and I spend my time instead falling in love with this wonderful baby boy -- but on these important procedural days, I can't help but worry about the rare disastrous possibilities, as I am reminded that he is not yet fully mine.

the profile

What happens next?

The next big step in the process is Family Court. I'm still not clear about exactly what happens in Family Court, but it is essentially the social work part of the adoption. A caseworker interviews the birth mother and the official foster mother, physically inspects El Pablito, and reviews my homestudy and other paperwork. For me the inspection day began with an extremely thorough bath, and then an anxious digging through the piles of baby clothes, for the guatemaltecas are very particular about proper dress for an infant. His usual outfit of stained, unsnapped onesie and possibly some mismatched socks would not do. On DNA day I forgot to bring a blanket for him (this, in weather that ranges from 70-80 degrees), and was duly chastised. For Family Court, he had two blankets. But, shockingly, no undershirt. Once again, duly chastised.

the Spock ear

Well, that sounds pretty thorough -- what else can there be besides Family Court?

Oh, all sorts of things! First of all, there is Preapproval, which is issued by the U.S. Embassy after they receive the DNA results and look over the requisite paperwork. Preapproval is the U.S. government's way of saying "yes, it looks like we'll probably be able to issue a visa for this kid once you make it through the Guatemalan end of the system." Preapproval used to take about a month -- but because of recent "increased scrutiny" it's taking twice that long. Back to the Guatemalan side of the red tape, the next step after Family Court is the big one -- PGN.

the hair

What is PGN?

Ah, PGN: The Procuraduria General de la Nacion. Basically the Guatemalan Attorney General's Office. These guys look over all the paperwork (are your eyes beginning to glaze over here?), and, hopefully, proclaim that the adoption is all in order and proclaim that Pablo is mine forever. By law, this process is supposed to take 3 days. In reality, it usually takes 2-3 months, sometimes more. And PGN is where the dreaded previo, or kickout, can be issued for pretty much anything. And I do mean anything. Perhaps the reviewer prefers blue ink to black on the medical letter that it took me over a month to extract from my doctor back in the States. Perhaps someone has a missing middle initial somewhere, or an inconsistently accented name. Perhaps a page has been dogeared. Or perhaps there is a Guatemalan document that requires a signature by a mayor no longer in office (for details on that particular nightmare situation, visit www.sunflowersandladybugs.com and/or www.jesuswasnotarepublican.blogspot.com)

the smile

So, once you make it through PGN, that's it, right? You get to come home after that?

Well, not quite so fast. PGN is the end of the Guatemalan process; on the U.S. side, there's still quite a few details to be wrapped up. A visit to the Embassy doctor; the issuance of a new birth certificate; the final signing off by the birth mother; and finally, "Pink!" -- an appointment for the final Embassy visit to pick up the baby's visa to the U.S. (so known because the color of the appointment slip is -- you guessed it -- pink). All told, another 4-6 weeks after exiting PGN. But yes -- making it through PGN lets everyone breathe a huge sigh of relief. I very much look forward to that day, but it's still a long way off at this point!

the happy mama

Pablo's Day

2007-04-18T23:04:00.000-06:00

Dictated by El Pablito

Mom won't let me use the computer yet, but she said I could have my own entry today. Finally! I mean, really, isn't this blog supposed to be all about me in the first place? I thought you might like to have an idea of how I'm spending my time down here in La Antigua (most people forget that "La," by the way -- at least it's no longer La Muy Noble y Muy Leal Ciudad de Santiago de los Caballeros de Guatemala -- but I'll let Mom tell you all about that mouthful in some other entry).

So, for starters, this is me, bright-eyed and bushy-haired:

Pretty cute, huh?

And then there's my other half. Half-eyed and bushy-haired.

Yup, that's Mom. Not her best time of day. So far, I've managed to get a smile from her every morning -- I think that may be because I've been pretty good about sticking to our bargain: I let her sleep until 8 or 9, and she lets me do basically whatever I want. That works great for me, because, frankly, sleeping in is one of my favorite activities.

As is sleeping out.

Or on.

Or beside.

Or under.

Or between.

Or pretty much anywhere.

But, lest you think that my day is entirely without excitement -- check THIS out:

Every day we have to negotiate this treacherous flight of concrete stairs to go get my first morning snack. Mom hasn't dropped me here YET -- but let's just say she hasn't earned my complete confidence either. There have been incidents. And morning is not my mother's optimal operating hour (cf above).

After breakfast, the day begins in earnest. First, a brief postprandial snooze:

(I objected mightily to the inclusion of this picture, as I think it makes me look like a driveling idiot. Mom says I look cute, and it's her blog, so too bad. Hmph.)

Then Mom takes a shower, while I meditate on the bathroom tiles.

I love my tiles. I get all excited looking at them -- sometimes so excited that I wriggle right off my towel onto the floor.

Those other tiles I'm not so thrilled about.

Then there's the laundry. I do my part:

Mom does hers:

Then it's time for a little internet interlude. Mom has a couple of tricks for that: first she tries to distract me with some kind of new-fangled baby book -- all the pictures are in black and white! She says all the infant development people gave it rave reviews. I say it's just OK.

Then she gives me what I really want: my pal Mr. Target.

Sometimes Mom tries to be clever and gives me Weird Mr. Whoozit instead:

But I let her know what I think about that.

At some point in the afternoon, we usually get up the energy to do something in town. Mom says it's important to get out of the house every day -- even if it's 5 o'clock by the time we do. I'm not sure what the big deal is -- my favorite stuff is all inside. For instance, in addition to the tiles, we have super cool ceilings:

and lights:

and my bouncy seat. Now I know some have called it derivative -- but I say, Pollock never did butterflies, now did he?

But sometimes it's fun to go out and be sociable. Here we are at Cafe No Se.

And here we are out and about with Sonja, another adoptive mom we met down here. Sonja's a Yalie, just like Mom -- she lives in Maine, and she homeschools her two-soon-to-be-three kids! Mom's going to have to work pretty hard to match those hipmama credentials. Anyway -- I'm sorry I don't have a picture of Sonja's daughter, Lola -- she's a hottie!

Occasionally we even do the big guatadopt group thing -- here's a bunch of us at a brunch party:

I got to hang out with Alex -- someone my own size, for once!

But some of our best times have been just relaxing at home with our next door neighbors. Here are Lalla and Ben:

And Ben's big sister Olivia. Olivia is a fabulous kid -- even if she did toot on my head that one time.

And here am I again, lounging around with Mom.

By nighttime, we're usually pretty exhausted from all that activity. Some nights, if Mom isn't feeling too tired, I get a bath:

And after that I might get a full-body massage. Mom says it looks like I'm trying to escape in this picture -- but I quite enjoy my massage. Really, Mom, I swear! I'm just a wriggler by nature.

When I'm not resting, that is. Back to sleep, I'm always the perfect model.

Phew! That was a lot of work, just getting through an average day! I think next time I'll let Mom do the blogging, while I await my next photo session. ...Oh, Mr. DeMille?

Semana Santa: The Procesiones

2007-04-18T14:14:00.000-06:00

It would be a mistake to leave you with the impression that the beautiful alfombras are the pinnacle of Antigua's Semana Santa celebrations. While my pictures can't even begin to do them justice, I'll try to convey a sense of the sombre procesiones that wind through Antigua for hours, sometimes deep into the night. The procession tradition dates back to the colonial era, when it was imported from Spain, and has evolved into a world-reknowned spectacle of religious observance. Central to the processions are the andas, large (and heavy) floats depicting Passion-related scenes and figures, which are carried through the cobblestone streets by cucuruchos, lay men and women belonging to various religious fraternities. Up to a hundred people are needed to carry each float, and participating for even a block can lead to aching shoulders the next day. The cucuruchos march in formation -- two steps forward, one step back, so that the figures atop the floats seem to glide and sway their way through the mourning crowd. Figures of Christ and other notable male saints are carried by the men in their purple or black robes; black-veiled women, many in cobblestone-defying heels, bear the Virgin Mary. Marching with the floats are brass bands playing loud lugubrious funeral marches, and incense bearers wafting thick clouds of scent into crowd (we always knew when a procession was approaching by the aroma that drifted over the walls of the Santa Rosa).

The streets are packed during Semana Santa, with cucuruchos (in Lenten purple), pilgrims, and tourists quietly negotiating for space on tiny sidewalks.

On Good Friday the dress changes from purple to black, and here you can see a few tall pointy hats and masked faces. I'm not sure about the significance of that costume, but it certainly creates an effectively grim atmosphere, even apart from the KKK resemblance. The trident to the left in this picture is used to lift electrical wires out of the way for the floats; the banner announces a particular religious brotherhood.

Roman soldiers form another significant contingent in the processions:

Here you see the cucuruchos in formation:

A few shots of the floats themselves:

One of the smaller Good Friday processions had individual floats commemorating scenes of the Passion. We could never figure out exactly what was happening here:

But this is clearly Veronica, one of my favorites:

Apparently, I've learned something from all my visits to the Cloisters, as I was able to explain the apocryphal story of the "Vera Icon" to some of my companions. That was about the extent of my theological usefulness, however.

Gruesome, but requiring no explanation:

When night falls, the generators that have been pulled behind the floats throughout the day come into use, and the procession becomes a glowing, smoky, almost eerie event.

Unfortunately, I didn't have the vantage point of these two.

But, I did get my own private performance:

Next up: more of el Pablito, I promise!

Semana Santa: The Alfombras

2007-04-11T20:17:00.000-06:00

I don't consider myself entirely naive when it comes to organized religion. I may be an avowed atheist (or, at best, a vague sort of agnostic with some Buddhist tendencies) but I have spent a bit of time with the Orthodox Christian crowd. And I've generally thought that if one wanted some good old-time religion, Orthodoxy was the way to go -- icons, incense, 4 hour middle-of-the-night services, no sitting allowed -- the real deal. Well, I can now say that, when it comes to Holy Week, the Orthodox got nothin' on the people of Antigua.

The celebration of Lent is an all-out affair here, and to appreciate it, at least from the gringa tourist perspective, requires nothing more than stepping out one's front door. No need to venture into a place of worship, for during Holy Week it is the streets of the city that become the venue for the veneration of the Passion, the Crucifixion, and the Resurrection. For me, the most stunning aspect of the worship is the alfombras, or "carpets" that the Antiguenos create to line the streets before each of the many procesiones that wend their way through the city on each day of Holy Week.

The alfombras range from the simple:

to the beautifully intricate.

Pine needles, sawdust, or sand can serve as the base layer, while the decorative elements are typically comprised of colored sawdust:

flowers:

and other natural materials, including the eggs and seed pods seen here:

The work is meticulous and time consuming, employs specialized tools such as sifters and stencils

and generally involves the entire family.

Dry winds can be a problem, and the carpets are regularly hosed down during construction.

And although it is said that the rainy season never starts until mid-May, alfombra-makers this year had to contend with some unexpected showers, letting their creativity shine in some unplanned compositions.

The subject matter ranges from purely abstract decoration:

to representations of the natural world:

to specifically Christian motifs and exhortations.

Sometimes sawdust is used to achieve a pictoral effect:

And sometimes the real thing is employed.

Occasionally some surprising elements find their way into the carpets, such as dixie cups:

And then there's Barbie.

But no matter how elaborate or how sacred, like mandalas the alfombras are ephemeral works of art, trampled and destroyed by the processions in whose honor they are laid out. Days later, there are only sawdust traces amongst the cobblestones.

One Month Old

2007-04-09T10:00:00.000-06:00

El Pablito, aka "Sweet Baby" (n.b. the personalized onesie) turns one month old today. I've known him for 15 days now, none of them quite long enough. It's been a happy adventure so far, as I've travelled down to Antigua to foster my new baby boy during the long and unpredictable journey that is today's Guatemalan adoption process. I may be here for six months, or twelve, or ...? but at this point the long timeline stretching out in front of me feels much less important than the hourly questions: is it time to eat? to sleep? to have a diaper changed? to be picked up? to be put down? Luckily for me, Pablo has made all of those just about as easy as possible for a new mom to answer. He is a sweet, sweet boy, and appears to have a remarkable amount of patience with his experimentally minded mother.

Of course, even the best temperaments have their limits.