Little Ones

and unexpected journeys

The Record: Gifted

I walk around with my new daughter strapped to me. We go to an orphanage, a state-run one, not an American farce, and suddenly there are children everywhere. They run after the car, they surround us as we step out, they beg for pictures to show the rest of the world that they’re still here. 
 
Waiting. 
 
As we enter the building where the younger kids sleep, I pass the baby to Brian.
 
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. In one room, painted blue, there are ten beds. In another, painted pink, there are sixteen. The kids climb all over the bunks, showing off their home to us. 
 
I leave that one in tears.
 
I walk from room to room, and in one I find something I do not expect. There is a girl, maybe twelve, sitting on the floor. Six beds. A woman sits in the room with her, chiding her. The girl stares at nothing. In passing, I tap my hand on top of her head, a throwaway gesture. A gesture that says, despite my tears, I only sort-of care. 
 
But she’s hot. She’s so hot that it makes me stop. The girl is burning with fever. I can feel it in the couple of inches of air above her head. She starts to cry. The woman scowls. 
 
I am helpless. I can’t give her money; what would she do with it? I look down at my hands, at my right. I wear a silver Tiffany ring, a couple hundred bucks. It’s my favorite. I take it off and slide it onto her finger. I feel as if I’d give her anything if she were to ask. 
 
I squeeze her hand and walk out the door, taking the baby from Brian and shutting the car door behind us.



The Record: 10:22

It starts when I’m seven and never stops.
 
I roll over in bed and look at the clock. 10:22. 
On a hospital show, they call the time of death. 10:22. 
Email time stamps. 10:22.
The expiration date on my credit card. 10/22.
My car odometer, 102,256.
 
It’s everywhere. Everywhere.
 
The day before we formally adopt her, they tell us that her birthday is October 23rd. But when we arrive at the state office, we find out that it was a mistake.
 
Her real birthday is on October 22nd. 
 
For a long time, I wear the weight of this fact around my shoulders. I assume that in the world beyond there is some plan for the two of us. Surely, it is now my job to raise her right, to teach her what I know. 
 
Then, in a rough moment, a friend tells me that maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe I’m supposed to be learning from her. 
 
Okay, so that’s better. I can be open to learning. 
 
Teaching is where I get tripped up. Closeness.
 
The therapist says it’s my fault. Everything. 
 
Shame courses through me because part of this is true even though I rail against the idea. She’s so cruel as she smiles down at my daughter and then looks up at me again. I see the blame in her eyes. 

I write her a check for her time, and when we finally leave her office, we never return. 





The Record: The Wheels on the Bus

The boy is fifteen months old. 
 
We are not allowed to take him outside of the orphanage unless he is wearing a hat. I don’t know how to read a Celsius measurement, but it’s damn hot. Still, we wear long pants and nice shirts to show our respect. 
 
And we ensure that the baby does not leave the building without a hat. Ever.
 
We escape the rooms filled with desperate children and retreat out back to pick wild raspberries. We give him some of these. I wear him on my belly like a tourist’s backwards backpack. I let him grip onto my forefingers with his little hands as we walk around the small grounds. 
 
I’m scared to go too far; there’s a reason we’re not sleeping in this town.
 
Brian picks up on something that I miss and comes around to my front. At first, I think maybe he’s lost it, and I’m irritated. I’m serious and nervous, trying to do everything right that I’ve learned from books and television. I’m not used to seeing this man put on a show for a toddler. But he starts a round of sneak-attacks that result in him tickling the baby’s tummy.
 
I am uncomfortable, but I don’t know why. 
 
But then the boy does something I don’t expect.
 
He laughs.
 
We take a video, and when we get back to the apartment that night, we watch it again and again. 
 
The laugh is quiet and tentative, and suddenly we are certain…
 
It is his first. 
 

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Dear Readers,

These are the three essays that rose to the top this week. Becoming a new mother is not for the faint of heart, and doing so in a country all the way across the globe is borderline insane. Now, so many years past these experiences, we can say that we are world travelers. And I suppose we are. 

Posted here is a picture of us and our beautiful son on the day he officially became ours. And then there is another of our amazing daughter. Things haven’t always been easy, but in the end, it has all been worth it.  

More soon.

Jen