The Stockings Were Hung. . .

More than ten years ago I was in Russia, driving through a desolate orphanage in a rural and impoverished region, far from hope, opportunity, and a future.  The image in my head is as clear now as it was in that moment; somehow I would help those children.  At the time, the idea of adopting a Russian child was a far-fetched dream, as my own life was about to go off a cliff, seemingly removing my own hope, opportunity, and future.  But I’ve kept that dream, tucked away in the background and when Bard and I were dating we talked about having children.  He said he thought he wanted two.  I said I wanted three, two biological and one adopted.  He said, okay, domestic adoption.  I said, international. I said from Russia, he agreed.  The pattern for our relationship was set J

From then on it was just a waiting game.  I wondered what gender we would adopt-not knowing because it would be based on the gender of our first two children.  I felt strongly about adopting a little girl, as I knew that most girls who age out of the Russian orphanage system become prostitutes.  But we talked about a little boy as well, joking that his name would be Nicholas, a name that I loved and Bard did not care for at all!  After a year of marriage, we became pregnant with Evelyn.  The dream of having children became a reality, overnight.  While a biological child was growing inside me, a Russian child was growing in my mind and I dreamed of what our family would look like in the years to come.

Our first try at getting pregnant after Evelyn resulted in a miscarriage.  I experienced the loss of that child on every level-physical, spiritual, emotional, relational.  Although I had known intense pain and suffering before this experience I had always been able to see how my life was better because of it, how God had woven beauty through ashes and how even with the pain, there were no regrets.  This was different.  The grief of losing a child never leaves, it becomes part of you.  Even after becoming pregnant with Cecilia, I still missed my second child.  I would never think of Cici taking the place of that child, that is not a consoling thought, in fact, it is a little sickening.

Cici’s pregnancy was healthy and by the time we arrived at her gender ultrasound, I was excited, fairly sure that she was a boy, which would mean we were adopting a girl.  Yes, I was thinking about our adopted child then, and probably every day since then.  I experienced two ultrasounds on that day.  As I lay in bed that night, my little boy became real to me.  I remember the exact moment I realized I would have a boy, as Bard snored beside me!  What would his name be?  Nicholas, like we had joked?  Or would it be Pavel, like my favorite little student from my first Russia trip?  Would he have blond hair, like many Russian children, making him look just like our biological children?  Sometimes in my mind he had blond hair and sometimes it was curly brown hair, with big brown eyes.  I planned his room, a surfer them for Bard and wondered what our bonding would be like.  Bard and I lugged all our Russian books up from the basement and started relearning the language, teaching Evelyn simple phrases like school and bye bye.

We set a time frame, wanting the children to be spaced a few years apart and since we knew the adoption would take about a year, we decided to start the process around the time Cici would turn two years old.  This past fall we started researching agencies, finding some that actually adopted from the very area I had spent time in!  We talked to the girls and Evelyn was excited, all her family pictures now have the smiling face of her “baby brother from Russia.”  Our plan was to sign with an agency after the New Year, probably setting in place bringing the baby home some time next fall.  Due to Russian constraints on international adoption, the child we would adopt would likely be a year old.  All Russian orphans are on a national registry for 9 months-no American is allowed to see them until Russian families have had the chance to adopt them.  Once the children have been rejected by Russia, then they are available to families around the world, or condemned to a childhood of institutionalization (due to extreme Russian stigmas against orphans, there are virtually no foster care systems) until at 16 years old they age out and are welcomed into the open arms of the mafia where they become prostitutes, drug addicts, and often end up in prison or dead.  But I am getting ahead of myself.  All that to say, that if our plan was to bring home a child home next fall, the odds were that the child had already been born. 

Evelyn opens "Cheburashka" for her baby brother.

A few weeks ago, as I was pulling up in front of our house, Christmas plans running rampant through my mind, it suddenly hit me-this was my baby boy’s first Christmas and he would spend it in an orphanage, half way across the world, away from me.  I almost couldn’t bear it.  So, I did what I had done for Christmas while pregnant with my other children.  Hung an extra stocking and bought presents for the child I was waiting to bring into our family.  Five stockings, hung by our chimney with care.  Evelyn knew the stocking was her baby brother’s and told anyone who asked, or didn’t ask!  I bought two children’s adoption books, one of which was about a little Russian boy. And I researched Russian toys, purchasing a little stuffed animal that actually says Russian phrases. I dreamed of taking the little toy with us, when we first met our baby boy. On Christmas the girls “helped” to open their baby brother’s Christmas presents and on the day after Christmas the Russian Parliament voted to ban US adoptions of Russian orphans, effective immediately. 

The girls open baby brother's books.

Bard and I spent 2 days waiting to see if Putin would sign the bill into law.  But on the 2^nd day, with my little boy’s stuffed Cheburashka sitting on the dining room table, I began researching other options.   I looked at several other Slavic/former Soviet countries, many of which have a high Russian population, but due to a variety of reasons, there are not a lot good avenues available to us.  And besides, I can only put so much energy into that research because the rest of my energy is sapped from grief.  Grief from the loss of another child. Grief from the loss of a ten year dream.  Grief for the dozens of families who had already met their child only to have that child ripped away from them by petty political posturing.

You may be thinking, why should I be so upset?  After all, we haven’t even signed with an organization, let alone met our child!  I don’t believe in “ifs” or “Plan Bs” but as sure as the girls playing on the floor in front of me right now, somewhere in Russia is a little boy playing all by himself.  A little boy that was mine.  And while losing my second child was a terrible sorrow, I can comfort myself, somewhat, by believing that child is up in heaven, playing with angels.  But my little boy, playing across the world will continue to play all alone.  His future has been ripped from him as surely as he was ripped out of my waiting arms.  A miscarriage is a terrible thing, unnatural and painful.  But with a miscarriage, it is not purposeful.  Someone is not deciding to take your child from you, it just happens.  And although the terrible randomness of it is one of the hardest things to come to terms with, in a strange way, it helps with the grieving process.   My grief is mine.  Please do not thump scripture at me that I am not ready to hear yet, or tell me that some other child will be blessed to be in our family.  Although well meaning, that is not helpful.  Just grieve with me.  I am bleeding because someone aborted the child who was growing inside of my heart.

This is what the Lord says: "A voice is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more."

Jeremiah 31:15