October 8 and 9- Getting Eden and first day

This is from Matthew from the day he got Eden and then through after lunch the next day.

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It’s incremental. Life is incremental.

Yesterday was one of those days in life you know you will never forget. I could say of the day, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

“Ten to fifteen minutes away,” said George, my guide and translator. Is she in this silver car? Is she in that rusty old van? The sun shines through the leaves of my shade tree, now above the tall buildings. I take a picture, trying to focus on something other than my beating heart. I can be calm. I’m usually good at that. Then a car pulls into the small parking lot and George looks at me and smiles, but doesn’t say anything. I can’t see much in the backseat. 

The adults get out, and so does a little girl, but she is facing away from me. Could it be her? Finally I ask, “Is that her?”

“Yes!”

It’s her! What should I do? Scoop her into a hug? Shake hands? Smile? Cry? I remember my wife who cannot be here. I hand George my phone and ask, “Will you take a video?” Pictures too, I try to take pictures. 

“Ni hau.” I can’t say much else she would understand.

“Wo ai ni.” Does she even hear me?

She stays close to her caretaker, so I give her time and space. Relax, it takes time. I feel very awkward though. I am usually awkward anyway, but especially today. Everyone speaks Chinese but me. I’m going to be, am, her father, but she’s never seen me before. She’s scared. I’m scared! She talks but I don’t know what it means. I fumble around with hello. I stand to the side. I should act like her father, not a bystander. But to her I am.

Now we drive toward the photo center. We are to have our picture taken. Once inside they tell her I am her “baba,” as I strangely pick her up for the picture with the red background. I am too tall so I must hold her up higher, they say. She does surprisingly well, not fussing much during the pictures with the strange, tall man. She holds a toy truck I have given her. It’s the kind my son Edmund liked when he was her age. She throws down the other one I offer.

We drive back to the welfare center. I try to touch her hand, to show her I am supposed to be her papa. Maybe it’s also to convince the others I really do want to be her father, even though I don’t know what to say or do, for now. 

She doesn’t push away my hand.

This has gone on long enough, time for the secret weapon. I pull out a snack from her new red REI backpack. My wife lovingly packed everything for us. This trip would be a disaster without her.

I hold out my hand and she leans forward. I feed her a piece. Then another. Then many more. I am finally feeding my daughter.

They tell me how smart she is. I can see that right away. A piece falls on the floor and, in a room she has never been before, walks over to a dustpan waiting quietly in a corner, and places it in. We all exclaim about the intelligence of this girl. My daughter.

After signatures, fingerprints, and a final gift, we begin to walk outside to the car. This time she reaches not for someone else, but for me. I hold out my hand to walk her out, but she reaches with both arms. I gladly pick her up. As I carry her she leans against me with that wonderful heaviness of trust, even if it’s just growing.

This is going better than I expected, but the day isn’t over. We are back at the hotel, riding the elevator up to the eleventh floor. As the room door closes behind and I set her down it all becomes clear to her tat she is not going back the orphanage, her home.

She cries.

She yells.

She refuses toys, food, and English conversation.

I don’t panic. This is to be expected. But this is not fun. I wish my family were here.

She cries less when I pick her up, so away we go to walk outside. We walk, and walk. 

I expected this time to be challenging, but this is really intense and hard. I remind myself that it won’t always be like this. I can’t get tunnel vision. God is with us. 

I notice her tired eyes. What a day her poor heart has had already-everything changed in a couple hours. I take her back to the room for her nap, hoping she’ll take one. She doesn’t want down, but she does want me to hold her. I feel good knowing that if nothing else, she wants me to hold her. I may not be to her like her caretaker yet, but she feels better in my arms. I’ll take it.

I pace back and forth in the room like I remember doing with my son. I know how to do this. I am in my element!

Pace. Quiet. Pace. Stillness. Pace. Calm. Sleep.

I lay her in the crib. I am emotionally exhausted but eager to take pictures of her. My brother lured me into black and white photography. He says the images have more feeling in them. I’m glad he convinced me. I take black and white pictures of her sleeping and love the way they turn out. I eagerly wake up my wife with pictures and updates.

The afternoon calm darkens. The day gets worse. She wakes up crying, which quickly turns to screaming. What do the others in the hotel think is happening in here? I can’t help but wonder if someone will call the police. If I heard such screaming, I might consider it too. But she needs time. 

Then, like beams of sunshine in my darkening day, I think of it - bath time! She immediately loves the water, and actually has fun for the first time since coming back to the hotel. We will make it. After she’s dressed I walk her in the room. I can at least hold her and walk. She doesn’t scream when she’s being held.

She looks tired.

I am exhausted too, but she needs me to walk her. I close the curtains, turn out the lights, and pace. Eventually I am too tired to walk anymore. I take my chances and sit on the edge of the bed, and she doesn’t fuss! I get greedy and attempt to lay down. She lets me! I feel grateful that I can lie down and let my body rest. We lie here like  two exhausted soldiers who have fought all day.

Finally she falls asleep.

She’s smashed next to me, actually. All night she doesn’t let me move much. I am all she has left.

This morning she is constantly checking for me. How am I supposed to brush my teeth or use the bathroom?

Breakfast goes alright. I carry a plate at a time in one hand and her in the other. She samples things. I repeat, “Hau ma?” “Do you like it?” for everything. She nods, shakes her head, or turns away in disgust.

Less crying.

A hint of a smile.

More walking.

I set her down in the hotel room. She does not cry. I even walk across to the other side of the room to throw something away. She lets me. To someone else, it may not seem anything to write home about, but it really is. 

 Now I feel adventurous . I want to eat at a local noodle shop with no translation and with my new daughter who doesn’t understand me either. She likes the noodles, and so do I. We can do this!

Now, I will woo her with ice cream. Success, always success with with ice cream! We play games and she smiles. She laughs as she knocks the animals over the side of the bed. We make a game of it. We say the Chinese word for “down,” and push the poor animals to the ground. We both laugh. I laugh because it’s funny that she thinks it’s funny.

Now I sit here in the dark room while she sleeps smashed up against me, wondering at the miracle of adoption. The miracle is in the increments. It’s a little trust here, some fun there, and providing for her needs throughout the day. Sharing life leads us, little by little, closer together.