In adoption circles, many families refer to the day they meet their children as "Gotcha Day." Others object, saying "Gotcha!" is something you say when you squish a particularly annoying bug. Many in that camp prefer "Family Day" or even "Metcha Day."
What it's called will be the last thing on my mind the morning of Sept. 17, when we're to meet our new Who at the Civil Affairs Bureau in Nanchang.
She will have traveled from the only home she's known, to meet a stranger who looks funny, sounds funny, smells funny. She and I, we won't know what to make of each other. I'm trying to expect the worst -- screaming, crying, withdrawal, rejection -- so I can view anything less than that as a blessing. But I know it won't be easy, for her or for me.
Our first Who was stoic and curious when we met her -- which explains why our tender moment of union as a family quickly dissolved into video of the ceiling when she grabbed the video camera. We didn't even try to recover. She rode quietly on the bus as the babies around us cried, content to look out the window at the world passing by. We marveled at her calm demeanor.
Only later, when we watched the video back home, did we notice how haunted her eyes were.
This was a child in shock.
Only later, when we thought about it, did we realize that when she did finally cry, she was crying "Ayi! Ayi!"
She was crying for the only caregiver she'd ever known.
I hope I'm more attuned to Who III's initial reaction. I hope I remember the words to the children's songs I know, instead of singing verses from the Gilligan's Island theme song, as I did for Who I. (She got a rousing rendition of the Beverly Hillbillies song, too.) I hope she lets me help her, that she quickly finds comfort in a soothing voice, a warm embrace, in knowing that if she is wet, if she is hungry, if she is crying, her mother will be there for her.
Sleep well, my sweet. May your tummy be full and your dreams be happy ones.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment