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.

"¿Es suyo?"

"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

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