Hot cheese

Natalie celebrating her shared birthday with my Dad

We have been discussing differences of late.

Last night Natalie dug into a bowl of leftover macaroni and cheese, and I sat with a glass of wine, watching her. Natalie calls mac 'n' cheese "hot cheese." It's her favorite dish.

She swallowed a bite and looked up.

"Fahd does not eat pork," she said of her classmate. I nodded.

"Fahd is from ... near China."

She looked at me expectantly, as she does when she comes to an unfamiliar word while reading aloud.

"Afghanistan?" I offered.

"Yeah, there." She took another bite, chewed.

"Some people eat pork. Some people not eat pork."

This reminded me a conversation we had last week, after a boy asked why I was white and she was brown. ("Some people dark, some people brown, some people light. Everybody different," she said.)

Natalie was quiet for a moment as she chewed, and then added:

"I eat hot cheese."

Those questions

Natalie was running to meet me at the playground gate, right past the little boy who sat at the base of the tree and shouted to her:

"Hey! Why is your mom white?"

She didn't hear him, or she ignored him. This child has been unkind and aggressive to her and others before, so perhaps she smartly tunes him out.

He tried again. But this time to me.

"Why are you white and she's ... brown?"

I followed my daughter's example and ignored him. I took Natalie's hand and as she skipped along I asked whether she had heard that boy and what he said.

She hadn't, so I repeated it. And told her he was rude. That people ask questions when they don't understand things and when they see something that doesn't match what they have in their own life.

"Yeah. Some people dark, some people brown, some people light. Everybody different," Natalie said. She raised her eyebrows and shrugged for emphasis.

"My Green Team friends never say that to me," she said of her kindergarten class. The offending boy was in another class.

So as we drove home we talked about China and her birth parents and how she came to be here with us. And she listened to the story for the hundredth time and asked questions that she knows the answers to but loves hearing anyway. And then, she was all done with it. The conversation turned, as it often does, to Baby Miss Ann, who didn't want to take a nap that day despite her mother's urging.

Yet I was left to think. About how all those questions, until now always aimed at me (What's she mixed with? Where'd you get her? Is your husband Asian?), are now going to be directed at her. About how it's hard to be different. And about what do I have to draw on from my own life, except being an odd child who spent an inordinate amount of time alone, in snow forts and trees and didn't quite fit in with the rest? At the end of the day, a woman who looked like me picked me up from school.

I thought about seeking out more families like ours. I thought about making her strong and sure of herself. About coating her with a Teflon confidence to repel rude questions and comments.
But I have a feeling she will be just fine.

I caught Natalie's eye in the rear view mirror.

"You're smart and you're kind and you're beautiful," I told her.

"Yeah, I know," Natalie said. "Mama is, too."

Norway

On the way to school this morning, after we'd taken turns singing princess songs and moved on to another favorite topic, all of Natalie's babies, I asked:

"Is Mimi Chinese?"

Natalie and Mimi at DisneyWorld, 2008

"Nooooo. Mimi from Norway."

I think she said Norway. Norway?? How would she know about Norway?

"What, honey?"

"Mimi from Norway, same as Baby Miss Ann."

"Oh. I did not know that," I said. "Did you go and get her?"

"Yyyyyep. When she was one. Really, really small."

Hmmm. This story sounds familiar.

We have a match

Five years ago today the adoption agency called Natalie's Daddy at work to tell him we had a daughter. Matt paged me, and I called him back from a payphone at the mall, where I was having lunch with a coworker. My heart beat so hard I was sure my shirt was fluttering.

He was elated; I didn’t know what to think. I said nothing to my coworker when I hung up, and didn’t hear a word he said as we walked back to the office.

By the time I returned to my desk, an email from Matt was waiting for me. He had researched her town and the meaning of the baby’s Chinese name.

“So here's everything I know,” he wrote.

“Her name is Ling Wan Hui. Ling is the equivalent of a surname, usually given to the babies by the orphanage. Wan Hui is her first name. Wan means gentle/gracious, Hui means bright/intelligent. I think it's pronounced sort of like "won hway".

Her birthday, or the estimate at least, is May 17. She's from the city of Shangrao, in Jiangxi Province. Basically southeastern China. I believe that's just a little inland from Guangzhao, which is where we'll go to get everything finalized at the US Consulate. I looked online and saw there's an orphanage in Shangrao; that's probably what they mean when they say that's where she's from.

We will receive all the info and the photo on Saturday; they are sending it without requiring a signature, so we'll get it even if we step out for a while. They hope to get our travel dates confirmed in two or three weeks; right now they're estimating we'll go by the middle of May (if so, it would be just in time for a birthday party).

I know you were hoping she'd be a little younger, but the lady at Holt said she is "very beautiful." My guess is that's why that's why they matched her to you. Combine that with gentle, gracious, bright and intelligent... it sure sounds like your daughter to me!"

Two days later her photos came by Federal Express, along with her medical records, which we scrutinized for an afternoon on the couch, the dog asleep at our feet.

She was healthy, happy, and developing normally, it said. (We later found that not much of that was true.) She responded to her name being called, played with toys and laughed. And she was in foster care, which meant she was with a family, receiving much more contact and stimulation -- and most importantly, bonding -- than she would in an orphanage.

The photos clearly were months old. She had to be younger than six months. She was bundled up, in the Chinese way of layering on children’s clothes to ward off the cold – even in warm weather. She looked like a tiny Michelin Man, immobilized by the layers that made her arms stick out straight. She had big, brown eyes and a little rosebud mouth, rosy cheeks and a delicate nose.

Matt was in love. I was still waiting. I’d read that this was supposed to be The Moment, when the love for your new child just washes over you. At least that’s what it said on the adoption message boards that I checked every day. “I’m head over heels!” these soon-to-be parents would gush.

But to me, it was just a picture. I kept thinking she’s just some kid. Some other woman’s child on the other side of the planet, who some faceless bureaucrat decided, for God knows what reason, would be my daughter. It seemed so random. And I was just supposed to go along with it.

This whole process, begun a year before, had been a long lesson is relinquishing control. Inviting strangers into our personal lives, our finances, our medical records, allowing ourselves to be judged, and ultimately, approved for parenthood.

I stared at the pictures. One, and then the other, and then back to the first.

“She’s just some kid,” I said to Matt. “How do you feel?”

He smiled. “I feel great. She’s beautiful. I love her.”

I slid lower on the couch. “It’s ok, Lizzie” he said, gently taking the pictures from me. “There’s no script we have to follow.”

Two months later, we were in China, and Natalie was finally in my arms, her sweaty little head on my chest. She'd stare into my eyes as I gave her a bottle, wrapping her fingers around my thumb. And she watched my every move from her crib.

And then, like Matt, I was in love, too.

Not a last resort

At times I have been approached to be a spokeswoman for adoption. Not an official spokeswoman. But a resident expert. A friend of a friend who will answer questions and share advice.

Often, the pitch goes like this:

"My sister-in-law/cousin/coworker/niece's best friend has been trying to get pregnant for 2/3/5 years and has gone through 1/2/3 unsuccessful attempts at IVF and has gotten to the point where she's thinking about just adopting. Can I give her your email address?"

At which point I say sure with an exclamation point and hope the person never writes, while privately making finger-down-the-throat puking gestures.

Or, friends will say they are going to start trying to get pregnant. But, if God forbid - God forbid! - they can't have their own child, they won't have a problem adopting.

Wow, how big of you, I think, while smiling and thinking "God forbid" is for terminal cancer, a car crash, the death of your mate. God forbid you will do the greatest thing I've done with my life. And I'm doing the puking thing again.

Because:

1. Adoption is not a last resort.

2. Adoption was not my last resort.

3. No child should ever be a last resort.

Even if it is your last resort, don't say it. Don't tell people you tried everything else first. Don't tell people that the wait time is almost like a pregnancy, which it's clear you would prefer. Did you marry your husband because you couldn't find anyone better? I'm sure not, but if so, you probably don't say it.

Respect the parent you will be, the child you will have, and all the families made possible through adoption. Think about your life with this child, how others may consider your relationship lesser than theirs with their birth child, despite your not being able to imagine a deeper love or stronger bond than yours. Think of your teenager. Will you tell him you couldn't have your "own" child, so you settled for him?

And please don't say or think "just adopt." You are talking about me and Natalie and your child, who, once you hold her in your arms and she one day says Mama, won't ever be "just" anything to you.

My child was born half a world away, and I have God, Fate, or the Red Thread to thank for bringing us together, and for guiding me. I knew she was out there. Our hearts were connected, and always will be so.

She was never a last resort.

So if you want to adopt, commit to it. Forget everything else. Don't settle for this path.

Choose it.