Happy Gotcha Day, Rowan!

I pondered what to write on the anniversary of our fifth gotcha day.  Nothing was coming to mind or rather nothing was sticking, which meant it wasn’t a good idea.  Then the idea came to me to start at the beginning.  So I will.

2004, 2005, 2006, and 2007, each of those years, I was blessed to have a baby in my arms, but I was sort of over the whole newborn thing, so when Sasha was sent to her forever home, I asked my SW to match me with a baby around Sasha age.

A few weeks later, I got a call about a six-week-old baby girl named Adrienne.  Six weeks was still the newborn stage, but let’s be honest, it’s me and if you call me about a baby, I’m going to say yes.  So I said, yes, I was interested in Adrienne.  I began thinking of names I could name Adrienne since I was no longer fully feeling the Daphne thing, then the phone rang.  It was the adoption matcher asking if I was interested in a five-month-old girl. 

Hmm, five months was a lot older than six weeks, but sure I thought, I’ll pursue both little girls and see what happens.  I was feeling Adrienne a little more than the five-month-old because the idea of having a newborn around was sounding more and more appealing.

My adoption matcher advised me to not get too invested in Adrienne; she wasn’t getting a good feeling about the possible match.  I wasn’t too invested, so I turned my focus onto the five-month-old and I asked my SW to make sure there were no undiscovered, uncontacted relatives, uninformed adoptive parents of half or full siblings.  I wanted this adoption to be as drama free as possible.  Oh, how the angels must have laughed at that.

Three weeks later, I was late (shocking) arriving at some far away Department of Children and Family Services’ office to learn all I could about this now six-and-a-half-month-old I was going to meet later in the day.  Imagine that, there’s really not a lot of info on people who have only been alive for six months.  I was shown some pictures of the baby.  I thought the baby looked awight.  I was given a colored photocopy of the pictures and then we were off, me, my adoption matcher, and the baby’s adoption CW.

We made decent time getting to the Southbay foster home.  We walked inside a nicely decorated home, where I met:  the baby’s foster mother, foster grandmother, the foster mother’s two-year-old son, her soon-to-be adopted five-month-old daughter, her two-week-old foster daughter, my SW, the baby’s CW, and finally the baby, we all came to meet.  My adoption matcher, the adoption CW, and myself all said quietly to each other, no one told us this baby was part Asian.  Ah, gotta love the system.

I sat on the floor and we all chatted.  My adoption matcher told the baby’s CW that I was and had been teaching my two-year-old son sign language.  The CW said, I read that children who are taught sign language are delayed in speaking.  Oh snap!  Yeah, this wasn’t the start of a beautiful friendship or a drama free adoption.   Crap.

Then the foster mother, Angie, asked if I wanted to hold the baby.  She handed the baby to me and my first thought was wow, she’s heavier than Sasha.  Chunkier too.  And the baby went from being the baby to being my Daphne/Rowan/Ava/Zoe.  You sat in my lap so calmly.  You didn’t cry.  You just chilled and looked around.  You didn’t seem to mind when I ran my fingers through your hair, cause really that didn’t last long.  It’d be another year before you got any hair.  I listened to the conversation going on around me, not really a part of it.  I couldn’t believe it.  I was holding my daughter with all these people around.

God is always working.  Here you were growing up in a loving foster home with a mom, grandma, and big brother the same make-up as your forever home was and neither of us had any idea.  Well a forever home almost like your foster home, God bless Angie with five kids under the age of three.  Her three-year-old daughter missed the fun because she was at pre-school.

I watched as the two-year-old boy was running around a room full of women talking, playing, being rough, being a two-year-old boy, your foster mother assured me when her son was running around she had you and your Irish twin in the playpen away from him.  I listened as she talked about taking all five of you to the movies, to restaurants.  I was in awe, she ventured to restaurants and movies with five kids.  I hadn’t been to the movies with Jory since he decided at ten months to show how loudly he could talk/babble with his bottle in his mouth while I was trying to enjoy Serenity    Sure, he was all silent during Mr. and Mrs. Smith, but becomes Chatty Cathy during my beloved Joss Whedon movie.

I’m still in awe of her and her mother.  I can count on one hand the number of times the four of us have been to a movie together and you guys are older than the bunch she was taking.  And on the rare occasions we do go out to restaurants, I wonder if savages raised the three of you, by the middle of the meal.  But back to the story.

My adoption worker encouraged me to ask questions and I couldn’t think of any besides what size you wore.  Angie said, she was buying you 12 – 18 months.  12 – 18 months, how was that possible I thought?   Was I going to be raising the next Attila the Hun?  Good grief.  No wonder you felt so solid in my arms and on my lap.  I was used to babies that wore the size that matched their age.  At six months, Jory and Sasha were wearing six month clothing and six to nine month clothing.  So I had to go buy you a new wardrobe, got it.

Then Angie shared what you liked to eat, your daily schedule which had you in bed and asleep by 7PM.  7PM?!?!  What baby is asleep by 7PM, I wondered.  I had heard of such mysterious children, but I had never seen one, never raised one.  How could one even go to bed that early?  The night was just revving up at that time in our house.  But I nodded, like that was cool and doable in my world.

Your foster mom showed me your room and the Lifebook she had created for you, but hadn’t started yet.  I looked at Angie, at her mom, around the house, and it was very clear that you were very much loved and well taken care of while in their care.  You were part of their family. 

It was decided that you wouldn’t go home with me on that Friday afternoon, but that you would stay and spend one more weekend with your foster family.  Angie gave me your formula and clothes to take home so I wouldn’t have so much to take home on Monday, when I came to get you.

We said our thanks and our goodbyes.  I handed you back and walked out the door.  My SW, my adoption matcher, your adoption CW, and your CW, and I stood outside for a few minutes discussing how the visit went and how I felt.  It was all good.  How could it not be?  I had just spent the last hour and a half holding a delightful little baby.  I drove home wondering what to name you.

The weekend passed and it was Monday - - D-day.  I met your CW at the foster home and since I already had all your stuff, your foster family hugged and kissed you, then handed you to me, wishing us all the best and saying they would pray for us.  I thanked them for the well wishes, prayers, and for all they had done for you.

I buckled you in and maybe it was then that you sort of felt like mine.  I was buckling you into your car seat in our white Ford station wagon.  Your car seat in our family car.  You were going to be part of this family or something.  Imagine that.  That awe never gets old to be entrusted with the life of a tiny, little person.  While waiting for your CW to gas up her car, I did the best three out of five and you officially became Rowan.

When we got home and I showed both you and the CW around, then she left and it was just the two of us.  I did for you, what I had done for your brother and sister before you.  I took you into the bathroom and I washed your face and hands.  I’m not sure why I do that.  Maybe to brand you guys, to make you smell like me, like home. To make you smell like the Tide, Downey, Bounce mix that our washing machine and dryer serve up so well.  I kissed your chubby cheeks and those precious little lips.  Then I changed your clothes and surprisingly you fit into one of Kayla’s 6 month outfits.  It was a little snug, so I knew you weren’t going to wear it long, but at least I knew I wasn’t rearing a baby who was going to turn into the size of the Marshmallow guy from Ghostbusters.  I figured Angie must have bought a line of clothing for you that ran small.

With your new outfit on, I put away your stuff and tucked away your Little Einstein backpack for you to use when you got older.  A little piece of the past to hold for the future.  I took your clothes and put them in the washing machine in our old kitchen.  As I was sorting the clothes, Oma surprised us and walked around the corner.  I jumped.

“Oh, you got another one,” she said.

“Yep,” I answered, as she walked out of the kitchen.  I was annoyed by her comment.  Like really?  Really?!  But as you know that was, is, and always will be Oma.

 She loves you and your siblings like there is no tomorrow, but she doesn’t get adoption.  As you will find out and realize, Oma sees the world in black and white.  She thinks every man should rear his own child.  I agree with her in a perfect world, every man would be rearing his own child.  Then I remind her about a man, a woman, a piece of fruit, and a snake.  That does little good.  I tell her that God gave everyone a gift and having the heart to adopt is a gift.  Not everyone has been blessed with it; your Oma wasn’t one of them.  She completely concurs and I’ve even heard her tell others that adoption is a gift, one she didn’t get.  So stuff does sink in.  She’ll never get adoption, though she was adopted into the family of Christ, but she definitely and happily reaps the rewards of adoption. 

Your Oma is a complex, the glass is half-empty interesting woman, 100% of the people on this planet can’t be trusted (though Uncle Mort says she only distrusts 90% of people), who is never satisfied; but she loves you, love us, more than anything.  And she will do whatever she can for us and will always be there for us, never forget that.    When we go on our trip in February, she’ll stop at a gift shop in the Fort Lauderdale airport looking for a gift to buy you, Jory, and the baby.  I’ll remind her that she just saw you guys like six hours ago, and she’ll ignore me and search for just a little something to buy her three precious grandchildren.

Oma moved on and asked your name and age, and then she left to go get Jory.  We hung out some more, watched a little TV.  You were quiet, friendly, until the man walked through the door.  When you heard his voice and saw his little two-and-a-half-year-old body, your face lit up.  I saw the real Rowan.

I introduced you to your new older brother.  He smiled.  You smiled.  Just like the song, “One boy, one girl/Two hearts beating wildly/To put it mildly it was love at first sight/He smiled/She smiled/And they knew right away/This was the day they’d waited for their whole lives/For a moment the whole world/Revolved around one boy and one girl.“

Later in the evening, he said, “Mommy, look at Sasha.”

My heart stopped.  Was he confused?  Oh my.  Did he think- - “Jory, this isn’t Sasha.  Remember.  This is Rowan.”  My heart was pounding.  My poor hurt baby.  Then I saw the twinkle in his eyes and the slow, growing smile on his face.  He wasn’t confused.  He was being funny.  My nearly three-year-old boy thought he was a comedian.  I had to chuckle at that one.  And chuckle later when people, namely Uncle LC, did think you were Sasha.

At 6:50, your eyes were closing, your head was dropping, you were officially nodding off, but we were just finishing dinner and we hadn’t even gotten to bath time.  You tolerated the change to your bedtime schedule with grace and finally a few hours later, I’m sure, I laid you in your new bed.

And that’s the story behind our first meeting and your very first gotcha day.  It has been an interesting, challenging, eye opening, learning curve five years and I wouldn’t change a second of it.  Not even the stage when you cried for forty-five minutes any time I told you your shoes were on the wrong feet or your turtleneck was on backwards.  Only by God’s grace did we live through that and that I can write that and laugh.  Really forty-five minutes over a backwards top?  Really?

I am not sure of all my purposes while I’m on this earth, besides serving and obeying God, but I know for sure two of them are being your mommy and loving you endlessly.  I love you, big girl.  And I thank God for the gift that is you.  Happy Gotcha Day!

Look at this face
I know the years are showing
Look at this life
I still don't know where it's going

I don't know much
But I know I love you
And that may be
All I need to know

I don't know much
But I know I love you
And that may be
All I need to know