Flying Solo

I was doing well. I had just dropped Patrick off at the airport for his vacation home. I gave him hugs and kisses, and drove off focusing on the fact that now I had Patrick’s home-coming to look forward to… and shortly thereafter, a visit by my mom. I thought about the goals I had for the week ahead, the opportunity I had to deepen my relationship with my son thanks to new one-on-one time. I was being positive and upbeat, fighting down the sadness of once again saying goodbye and looking into the next 10 days of being alone in Haiti with a tiny child.

I pulled up to a stoplight, still lost deep in thought. A man in the car next to me waved and signaled to me that I had forgotten and needed to lock my car. He was concerned, and he reached out. I didn't know him, hadn't met him before, and yet, he was concerned about my safety. I responded by locking my doors and thanked him with a smile and a wave. The tears came as I turned the corner.

It is intimidating being here without Patrick, not because I'm afraid of getting kidnapped or of other bodily harm, but because there is any number of unforeseen problems to solve in a given day here. Patrick and I have worked out a good system of figuring it all out together. So the prospect of tackling a week filled with the unpredictable nature of Haiti while flying solo with a baby shook my confidence. But as always, Haiti reminded me in a moment of fear that I have people all around me, a community of strangers, acquaintances and new friends that are willing to help, willing to protect, willing to be reach out and be supportive. The little gesture from the stranger at the traffic light was a powerful reminder of such a community. Solomon and I are going to be ok.

Home Away From Home

I’ve had a magical time during my visit home. My first stop was Denver to meet up with residency friends who had organized a weekend in the mountains together, to hang out, eat together, ski and go snowshoeing. I appreciated buzzing straight by the hustle and bustle of the city and into the mountains Saturday morning, falling instantly into the comfortable conversation that happens when in the company of old friends. Oh how I’ve missed the grand Rocky Mountains, the crisp, clean, sharp air flavored with pine, the dramatic skyline of white peak against blue sky. The mountains showed off their majesty, their clean natural state. Everything seems so pristine, so fresh, so pure. And I reveled in it all. For two days I patted around a beautiful cabin talking with friends, catching up on the events of our lives and thoughts they elicited, snow-shoed through a forest, catching my breath both with the sudden altitude change and the beauty of my surroundings.

From the Colorado peaks, I drove to the plains of Kansas to spend a week on my family’s farm. My brother drove down with his family and we spent a week of riding tractors and 4-wheelers, jumping on hay bails, checking for new baby calves, eating, drinking, talking, laughing, resting, and reveling in the funny antics of my nephew Conor and the newborn cuddliness of my new nephew Caden.

Friends came in to celebrate St. Patty’s day and others for a vacation on the farm. I was able to relax in the atmosphere of the my family’s home, in moments spent on the deck looking out to the prairie at sunset, in the tranquil peace that seems to rise up from the dirt roads, in the wheat fields newly green with sprouts of spring, and in the prairies with their yellow and brown grasses waving in the afternoon wind. My eyes drank in a vista of broad-stretching fields greeting a distant horizon, night skies blanked with stars, unpolluted by city lights or burping pollution. At home I finally exhaled. I didn’t even realize I’d been holding my breath.

After time on the farm, I headed to Kansas City where I celebrated new pregnancies, new births, children growing, reunions and catching up with the best of friends. I spent the evenings at my brother’s house, being Conor’s faithful playmate, and Candy’s occasional relief to the needs of infant Caden. I got to reconnect with my brother in the eventings after everyone had gone to bed. I had the honor of watching him teach Monday when his school resumed, amazed at this professional side of my brother that seemed to command attention and respect from his students. I had the chance to be button-popping proud.

It is easy to sink back into the comforts of home, the love of family, the joy of friends, the fun of reconnection, shared moments and story-telling. I avoided heading out in public since the crowds, the shops tended to bring on a strange sense of anxiety; my body craved simpler places. As long as I was with family and friends, the world made sense, was inviting, was healing and perfect.

Anticipating going back to Haiti was difficult. Patrick and Solomon were the pulling magnets there, but from my vantage point of my brother’s home with clean water pouring from the sink, plentiful showers, and faces that I love and cherish, the foreign, dirty streets of Port-au-Prince lost their luster. Each new goodbye as the week came to an end brought a new rush of emotion, of questioning, of aching lonesomeness.

But the minute I sat myself down in the waiting room for the flight to Port-au-Prince, I was reminded why this culture of people has captivated me so. The room quickly became a buzz with a group conversation about “the problems of Haiti” and ideas of how to make things better. Everyone took part in the conversation, whether stranger or friend. I was pulled in when it was clear that I understood a little Creole, and I was commended for my fledgling grasp of the language. I had to smile. The contrast of the waiting rooms in the Ft. Lauderdale airport filled with Haitians and the Chicago airport filled with Americans was stark, funny, and interesting. I enjoy both cultures in different ways, and certainly some days desire solitude rather than being puled into random conversations. I too like connecting with people via text and e-mail, but the know-no-stranger mentality of my Haitian flight-mates was a warm and welcoming reminder of the community I was going home to. My home away from home.

After I walked off the AA flight into the warm tropical air, the scent of burning fires riding the breeze, I smiled. A baggage handler greeted me by name as I emerged from the airport, my luggage teetering on a cart. “I’m a friend of Pastor Patrick.” Bigger smile. He lead me straight to my husband waiting in the shade of a mango tree, cradling an alert and happy little boy content in the arms of his Dad. Ah, home. I have arrived.

Going Home

I sit on a flight to Denver... finally. I am heading home for the first time since our departure to Haiti. I've been looking forward to this trip for so long that it seems surreal to actually be here listening to the stewardess give directions in English about emergency exits and oxygen masks.

Yesterday I awoke, and for the first time since our first few weeks in Port-au-Prince, felt anxiety. I hadn’t realized that the last months in Haiti have been essentially anxiety-free. Frustration? Yes. Exhaustion? Yes. Moments of depression? Absolutely. But no anxiety. Not since the first week of clinic and the first month of trying to navigate around the city who spoke a language we didn’t understand. Suddenly, unexpectedly, getting ready to fly back to the US brought that twist of the stomach, pounding of the heart, racing thoughts and emotion.

The anxiety wore so many faces. Separation anxiety: worry over my family's safety while I went away, worry over Patrick’s first challenge of single-parenthood with a baby and his every-three-hour feeding needs. Anxiety about heading home and my possible reaction after living all this time in Haiti. Worry about how time would be allotted to each friend, each family member--would it be enough? Would I seem changed to them? Would I want to abandon ship and stay in the US?

I have been worried about and anticipating the dreaded phenomena of reverse culture shock. Yet on my first trip home after nearly 5 months in Haiti, I won’t have time for it. Too many people to see, too many places to go. In order to try to de-escalate the emotions that come from a drastic change of scenery and lifestyle, I’ve worked on visualizing life in America. In my mind's eye, I've taken drives down the highway, have walked the isles of Target, played in the park with my dogs, had conversations about houses and cars, new hairstyles and the latest reality TV shows. I worked on remembering all the details of what a day in the life in America looked, smelled and felt like so they wouldn’t suddenly shock me after being away for a while.

This trip is the first time I’ve been away from Patrick in 5 months, the first nights I’ve spent away from him. What a turn-around we’ve done! Our lives in America had no such regularity of face-time, no such dependency on each other during a daily routine. I was constantly on call or we were taking separate trips due to our very different schedules. Add to all this a goodbye to Solomon after a heart-swelling week of falling deeply in love with him and thus sets the tone behind my anxiety as we drove to the airport yesterday.

I remember the US being easy, functional, and punctual. With every blunder that happens in Haiti, Patrick and I often turn and say, "in the US we could do this in 15 minutes." Funny how quickly we forget how imperfect situations happen even in a country whose language you understand, whose systems are familiar, whose culture is your own. On re-entry, when my plane was 2 hours late leaving Port-au-Prince, I missed my connecting flight to Denver. My bags were in limbo, I had to give away my gifts purchased from duty-free because of bomb risk, and I couldn’t find a phone. My Haitian cell phone didn’t work, and the quest to find a pay phone was like a hunt for a new model T. Communication is one modern convenience Patrick and I haven’t had to give up in Haiti, and in sudden lack of it, I was shaken. There I was, in the Miami airport feeling cut off, scattered, disappointed and alone; the challenge just to call someone broke my composure. The anxiety of the day melted into the exhaustion and disappointment of the turn in events, and all got the better of my sense of humor. I was the girl walking through the airport with tear-stained cheeks. And honestly, I think the experience helped balance all the beautiful, organized, structured, plentiful things about the country around me.

The airlines flew me to Chicago in efforts to get me home faster. Despite promises, my bags didn’t follow. At 1 am, I stood outside the airport bag-less, tired, shivering in my flip-flops in the cold night air waiting for the hotel shuttle. The cavernous Chicago airport was virtually empty at 1am; such an odd experience in comparison to the hot, crowded Haitian streets. I had considered sleeping the short 5 hours in the airport but knew a bed and a shower would likely benefit the kick-off to vacation in Denver. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed a hotel more. The bed was a cloud, the warm shower with excessive water renewing. Carpet seemed the stuff for kings. After being cold on arrival to the windy city, the hotel was a warm, comfortable, welcoming oasis.

Now in the air, after a short but luxurious night's sleep, I am finally back on track. My perspective has returned and despite the break down yesterday, I’m glad for what it taught me.

My first experiences back State-side have not been as shocking as I feared. Maybe meditation has helped to dissipate the shock. Instead, I have been happily surprised at re-discoveries. I had forgotten how many lights light up our cities in the night. Flying over Chicago last night looking at an earth covered with tiny lights was awe-inspiring. I had fogotten how clean and sterile the air smells. I have delighted in how helpful people have been, everyone from the shuttle driver to the airport security guard who actually looked pained having to take my 5 star rum away from me. On the shuttle this morning, the neighborhoods we passed seemed so tidy, so put together. This morning, sitting in the waiting room waiting to board the flight, the seats around me were filled with a room full of fellow travelers. However none of them talked to each other; each person was deeply tucked into to their solitary world and were texting, talking on the phone, working on the computer, reading. Everyone was plugged in. So many people in one space, yet interactions weren’t happening with the faces of neighbors, but with people in places far away with their own phones, receiving their own texts, at the other end of the e-mail. It was strange to be in a room full of people and experience a sense of solitude, to hear a shushed air. I have become accustomed to being in public and being engaged in conversation. In Port-au-Prince, we can’t even drive down the street without greeting many of the street vendors and street children who’ve now become familiar. In fact, our home is our refuge because it is the one place quiet dominates. I’ve gotten used to the community banter. And the odd silence in a room full of people struck me as strange.

In this moment, I sit in the quiet airplane, now an observer of my own culture. I revel in the beauty and the strangeness of it all rediscovered, refraining from judgment, but taking note of differences, of blessings and shortcomings, taking stock in each moment. Life will likely fly by in a blur of activity with family and friends, reunions, and laughter in the next stretch of days. I intend to take note of every moment, soak in every hug, and embark on a new experience of a long-familiar place. Home.

A String of Unfortunate Events

I always wonder about days that seem to have more than their fair share of hardships. Do bad things really come packaged together by the cosmos? Or is it just our awareness that changes, our ear suddenly tuned to the negative and tragic.

Yesterday--the last day of our groups’ visit--a camera got stolen out of a girl’s lap as she rode in a van, window open, enjoying the view. Then Patrick had his lunch stolen from the seat of the car. A few hours later, police arrived at the school to arrest a construction worker who’d been working on the roof at CONASPEH for 2 weeks because he had been caught stealing building materials. And then, when the day seemed destined to be cursed, we got news that one of the children of the school had been hit by a car and killed on his way to school that morning.

The news came as a sobering blow to everyone at the school. Stolen cameras, sandwiches and concrete blocks are drops in the ocean to a stolen life.

In a country where people survive so many agents of death such as disease, starvation, and political upheavals, accidental death feels all the more unfair. This 7 year-old child had survived childbirth, poverty, hunger, childhood illnesses without access to healthcare, and had on top of it all started an education. The sum total of such accomplishments is miraculous. And for all to be lost in a screech of tires seems such an obscene waste.

So pray with us for this child's family, for the unfortunate driver of the car, for the accidents and tragedies that happen all over the world, robbing us of the well of possibility that is contained in one life.

Motherhood

I can’t help but feel simply honored, overwhelmed with surprise at my luck to have Solomon in our lives. His smile is worth a million sleepless nights; his coos engross and entertain. When he snuggles into my chest, tips his head into the crook of my neck, time stops for a while and I’m completely content, peaceful to the core.

I like being responsible for his life, on call 24-7 to his needs. I like the new element of care-taking he allows. I welcome the protective instinct he has ignited. What I’m happily surprised about is the way in just a week’s time, Solomon has enhanced our experience and subsequently our attachment to Haiti.

Solomon’s charms aren’t for us alone. He draws people to him. Children at the school flock around him, the teenagers vie for holding him, the staff leave their desks to come kiss him, greet him, hold him or rock him to sleep. Questions about how he came to be our child are detailed, frank, but without the bite of judgment. Just curiosity. And our story seems to be accepted and understood.

The most common follow-up question after talking about Solomon’s story is, “will you adopt me?” Young and old, the employed and the unemployed ask this with a smile, partially in an air of humor, but with a thread of honesty woven through.

We meet strangers in the market and on the street because Solomon is in our arms. The community we’ve observed for 4 months is now wrapping its arms around us in ways for which I didn’t even dare even hope. The shyness and reservation we used to encounter from strangers here is erased with this little brown-eyed child. Today two women who I've seen begging in the street many times approached me, reached for Solomon, and while they held him told me about their own children, their ages and what they are doing now. Our previous encounters looked more like the poor asking the rich for money. Today we were just a few moms bragging on our children.

What a week it has been. We've taken Solomon everywhere with us, integrated him into work, enjoyed him in play. He sleeps in the back of my clinic, hangs out in our office with Patrick, teaches class with me, or gets loved on by one of many staff, teachers or students who are eager to "help" us with him. :)

The way the students and staff of the school are encircling us is incredible. All beam when we arrive with Solomon in our arms, advice and help is offered up from everyone. I'm overwhelmed by the acceptance. I didn't expect it. Not to this degree. I supposed I had anticipated the worst, wondering if we'd be greeted with suspicion and resentment as a white couple adopting and "Americanizing" a Haitian boy. Maybe our co-workers know how much we appreciate Haiti and its culture; maybe they understand we aren't out to change Solomon but bring him up the best we can in his culture. Or maybe all are aware of the desperate situation so many of Haiti's children find themselves in and they are simply grateful that one child found a home that can provide food, education and healthcare. Whatever the reason for the universal acceptance, I have become re-enamored with the Haitian culture, its people, and their capacity to love, to accept and to nurture.

I used to think our timing was off... that we were starting the adoption process this too soon after coming to Haiti, but couldn't help it because we'd fallen in love. After only 6 days, I know that we were meant to meet Solomon and that the timing is perfect. He introduces us to a level of cultural immersion we'd never have known without him. Haiti honors and values the family, holds up its children with pride. The fact that we, too, celebrate the children of this country and have endeavored to raise and care for one ourselves has made our friends here happy. “God will bless you,” they say. He already has.

The part of Haiti I love the most--the community centric approach to life--is rising up around us. Because of that, Solomon has made our lives easier, more interesting, filled with a new purpose.

I feel more peaceful, more centered, more certain, more grounded than I've felt in a long time. I am still, however, working on feeling "ownership" of Solmon. The fact I refuse to ignore or to wish away is that Solomon has a mother, a mother that loves him. She loved him so much she risked giving him up in hopes he could find a home that could give him the opportunities she could not afford. I imagine with time, with a million bottles and diaper changes, with his first words, first books, and all the beautiful milestones of childhood, I'll start to feel like his own. I can't ever replace his mother but instead will become his second. What a lucky child to have two mothers that love him.

For the moment, I allow myself to just be in awe of him... so proud to have the privilege to be able to cuddle, kiss, love and take care of him. And I still can't believe it when he picks me out of a crowd, when coddled and held by one of his many admirers, he sees me and locks his gaze on my face. I feel like the uncoordinated kid on the sports team that suddenly, surprisingly, with a shocking turn of events, gets chosen first.

In a few days I will embark on a trip home, a trip I've been looking forward to for months, a vacation long-ago planned. Suddenly, leaving is going to be harder than I ever dreamed. My heart is pulled in two different directions. Instead of visiting home with Patrick, we have divided our vacation in two parts so one of us can stay behind with Solomon. Unfortunately this will be the pattern of our visits to see family and friends for the next several years as the paperwork and the legal process of adoption unfold. How to tear myself away from this new attachment to this country, to this place. It will be difficult, but I imagine it will make coming back all the more filled with joy.

First Day at the Office

March 09, 2009

The week starts. In a matter of days, our family has expanded by one, and life keeps on going. Once again this morning I woke up with a few nerves: first day of school. Patrick and I have had many a conversation about how we would incorporate Solomon into our lives, how we'd juggle being parents here while still attending to the jobs we've been assigned to. Our schedules are such that our alternating office time allows for one of us to be available to care for a baby while the other is teaching, in clinic, or in the midst of meetings. When Solomon gets more mobile, we'll have to come up with an alternative solution to taking him to work, but today the three of us headed to CONASPEH together.

Solomon, upon entering the school, was immediately embraced by all within… an instant hit with students and staff. We’ve fielded a lot of frank questions that go along the lines of, “Is this your child?” “Where is his mother?” “Where is his father?” “Can you make babies yourself?” “Do you love him?” For which we answer that we found him in an orphanage where his mother placed him because she could no longer care for him, that we are currently taking care of him and are in the process of adoption, and of course we love him. When we state the latter, smiles universally spread across faces, and acceptance is palpable. Questions from Haitians are always very frank and without reservation… especially from the children at the school. I’ve long since gotten over feeling taken back by the straight-forwardness. In fact, I find it refreshing. And when we tell Solomon’s story wrapped into our own story, understanding and support floods the faces of the people we’ve informed. They validate us, and I'm so grateful for their welcome and acceptance.

So today, after introductions were made, Solomon came to hang out with me in clinic. One by one, he fielded visitors who laughed and tickled and held him high; the janitor came up and insisted on feeding him and rocking him to sleep. Solomon napped amidst the singing and shouting and reverberating sound of the school in session, not at all bothered by the raucous activity around him. He fits in well.

So another big "first" accomplished. And once again Haiti has unabashedly shown its hospitality and acceptance. After becoming parents in a flash, and having our world suddenly and beautifully changed in an hour, we feel fortunate that our Haitian friends and partners adapt easily and embrace change with welcoming grace.

First Church

Sunday March 08, 2009

I'm sitting in our "office" listening to the chimes ring in the Sunday afternoon breeze, and there is a little baby laying on my chest completely cashed out.

Today we had our first church together. I have to admit, I woke up early this morning with nerves fluttering in my stomach. I shuffled about the dark apartment while the boys slept getting everything ready, making sure Solomon's one "nice" outfit was clean and dry (have to hand wash his clothes at night) to wear to church, started worrying about our first public appearance together as a family. I packed a diaper bag, but knew we'd have to leave it in the car. Solomon would have to eat before and after church only... no need flaunting fancy diapers and bottles amongst children of the church, some of whom wouldn't get more than one or two meals today. I was nervous largely because I was afraid how we'd be perceived.

I've always cared a little too much about what people think. Despite the fact that I've never felt so sure of anything as I have of this little warm body on my sleeping on my chest right now, I struggle with encountering a public who might not know our intentions or understand know our heart.

I admitted my worries to Patrick when he got up. He was worried too. "First days" are hard at anything.

A group is in town; they arrived last night. Its our first group of teenagers. Of course they went crazy for Solomon last night meeting him for the first time. He was wildly popular and the girls' first glimpse of Haiti. I'd like to believe he made a good impression. At least a lot of love was declared for his chubby cheeks and dark brown eyes.

Church, despite all my fretting, was beautiful. I was aware of stares as I entered with Solomon in my arms. I tried to exude as much compassion and love as I greeted the church-goers upon our entry, hoping my own attempts at bridging barriers would be received well and would help dissipate distrust in a white woman toting around a tiny Haitian baby. Thankfully today we visited a church Patrick and I had been to before. The pastor knows us and is on the CONASPEH board. We introduced Solomon to him, told him that we were "taking care" of this baby, but hoped to adopt him some day. The pastor accpted our news with a smile and welcomed us in. Solomon then sat through an entire 2 1/2 hour church service looking around with his big brown eyes, being passed from one teen girl to the next, taking in the music and the noise and the prayers and all the holding and touching as if it were just another day at the office. Not even so much as a peep of discontent.

I felt emotional at church... likely from a morning's worth of relief flooding off my shoulders when we weren't met with hostility but rather love. After I settled the needless worry and relaxed, I became immediately aware of all the Haitian women behind me smiling at Solomon and nodding at me.

The most bizarre moment of the day came when a woman behind me reached forward and shared her bible with me during the scripture reading. I thanked her graciously, and looked down at the page she had marked. But no enlightenment was to be had for me in that reading... at least not from her book. The bible was written in German. I'm guessing her own bible study has been a bit fruitless with that book, likely a gift from a well-meaning soul. I wondered if she was even literate... wondered if she had any idea that her bible was written in a language most around her couldn't interpret. I could write an entire blog on the significance of this observation, of the way it represented so much of the outside world's best intentions on "helping Haiti" yet is often done in a way that isn't sensitive to what Haiti needs. But I will save that post for another day.

So today marked our first public appearance, one of many such encounters. And I pray Patrick and I will get better and more confident at it as Solomon becomes more and more our own. As much as he can be.

The little king and I bowed out of the afternoon activities with the group today. He slurped down a bottle, did a lot of talking to me and has finally succumbed to sleep. He was only down for 45 minutes when he started squaking... was looking tired, but making the "my tummy hurts" cry. So I cuddled him a bit. He then proceeded to explode with great gusto something mighty in his pants. He then, feeling much better, promptly fell asleep curled up on my stomach. And here I sit, with a dirty pants project to anticipate. I was warned how glamorous motherhood can be...

A change in the routine

March 7, 2009

My little king is cashed out in my spot on the bed, his new daddy curled around him.

Our first night was good. We are in the process of feeling out Solomon’s needs and his schedule. I'm so curious what his feeding routine was in the orphanage; the children are not undernourished, but there are so many. I am only more amazed at the herculean efforts of the women there who care for all those children day and night. Surely they HAVE to feed the babies often, but I wonder how often when they get to be 3 months of age. The women are so outnumbered. In Solomon's room there were 7 babies under 6 months (one 20 days), and the rest of the room of 40 "infants" are under the age of 2. There are 4 of 5 women who work in that room. Some of the older children occasionally come in to feed or play with the kids, but SERIOUSLY! Yesterday Patrick and I were juggling bottles, mixing formula, and we were two on one! I have a new respect for the women who have nurtured Solomon for his last 3 months of life.

I have to admit, I already felt like a failure as a mom last night. I woke up to hear Patrick coming back into the room with Solomon in his arms and a bottle in his hands. "Did he wake up?" I asked. "Yah, he was crying." Oh. Neat. I SOOOOOOO didn't hear him.

Apparently I've been off a call schedule long enough that my eagle night-ears have dulled. Or maybe its my adaptation to sleeping in Haiti with a million different sounds going on in the evening and early morning. But I felt like such a failure. :( Mommy didn't hear her baby crying. I used to hear Duke-dog scratch at the door at 2am when he had diarrhea. I would wake up with a start.

So I'll work on focusing my thoughts on hearing him, being alert to his sounds as I fall asleep. I remember training myself to do that with the pager. If anyone slept through a page, there was hell to pay, and shame to carry. But no comparison to a baby's cries going unanswered.

No maternity leave for us. We didn’t even have time to consider it. Life will proceed on with a baby in tow. And like everything in Haiti, we’ll adjust to what we have. We have another group arriving today... a group of teenagers. They are quite unaware that we have a baby, so should be an interesting surprise.

I'm so happy. And yet I still have this nagging fear that soon someone will come and pull the rug out from us. "just kidding." I don't know why. It just all seemed too easy, given life in Haiti. I mean Wednesday my entire work and post-work errand day ended up in accomplishing NOTHING because it was just one of those days. And I spent HOURS trying to accomplish A LOT. After those kinds of days, I come home mad and grumpy. Amazing how despite how our hearts hung in a balance wondering if he'd really come home with us, Solomon was all the pick me up we needed last night. :)

And today I sit, looking out the window, waiting for my brand new family to wake up so that we can have our first breakfast together and forge ahead into this bright new day. Happy me.

Homecoming

March 6th, 2009
Well, the journey begins!

Everything feels so surreal. Last night, Patrick and I sat looking at each other, wondering if it was really our last night alone. We were flooded with such a mix of emotions: excitement as we dared to hope, nerves as we questioned if we were ready for it all, fear about being good parents, hopeful about the possibilities, and overwhelming anticipation. Today we received news that Solomon’s mom had signed the papers to put him in our care, and that tomorrow after a few documents were finalized, we could take him home. Could the “waiting” process be done so soon? We couldn’t help but wonder when the floor would fall out under us. But it didn't.

He is HERE!!!

Today after work and a few errands, we showed up as instructed to the orphanage. After talking to some people, we signed papers agreeing to care. And with that, the social worker told us everything was done; we could take Solomon home. Numb shock. Now. Today. The journey begins. And as much as I wanted to jump and sing and dance, we still found ourselves in the orphanage surrounded by children still waiting.

We went into his nursery room, and saw him sleeping in his crib. A new phase would be happening in his life, and we took a while to take it all in.

The women of the nursery fussed over Solomon, waking him up, changing his diaper, and insisting on changing him into a "going home" outfit of little plaid overalls and a cute shirt. They put him in a "real" disposable diaper and took some pictures with him. Emotion started rolling over me as I hugged his nurses and one of the orphanage workers thank you.

And then, before I knew it, we were walking out the orphanage doors with no fanfare, buckling Solomon into a car seat in our car, and pulling out of the orphanage drive. There were no fireworks, no marching bands, no balloons or theme music playing in the background to celebrate this grand moment in our lives; but Patrick and I felt the shift our lives were taking and celebrated with faces full of smiles. I couldn't keep the tears out of my eyes. And all the while, Solomon just gazed at us, snug in his car seat, taking it all in.

We arrived home, gave Solomon the tour and ran to see who we could share this moment with. There are certain times in life when the joy, the elation, the moment itself has to be shared. There is too much emotion for 2 hearts alone. Thank you Skype. We found two friends online on Skype and called them… their shock, their squeels of delight as we held Solomon between us in front of the camera helped us realize it all wasn’t just a dream; the pinch we needed was our family witnessing this sudden growth of family.

Our first night at home we spent initially staring at Solomon, talking to him, making him smile. We made our first bottle of formula and he drank it without complaint. We changed our first diaper and then let him sleep off the milk. After a short nap he was up, so we decided to give him a haircut. Picture Patrick cradling Solomon in his arms, a towel around the baby’s shoulders, and me, with scissors, gently cutting along his scalp and peeling off his little fro to even out the 1/2 Mohawk into a short, smart do. Looks cooler too. And we discovered a little cradle cap underneath; so happy I cut it after all. Again, the baby (maybe as in shock as we were), didn’t squirm, didn’t fuss. I think he was happy just nestled in Patrick’s arms, no matter what I was doing to his hair.

Then it was time for the first bath since he had little hairs all over him. That was hysterical. We had a little tub that we filled with warm water, undressed him, and I soaped him up while Patrick held him tight. Of course the "rinse" was a bit chilly... couldn't "warm up" that water. And all Solomon did was give us a genuine look of surprise, but not a squeak. I'd worry he was deaf and dumb if he didn't give us so many happy coos and laughs. Just a laid back little guy.

Two of our co-workers stopped by for dinner tonight. They go to a class near our house, and pass by our house nightly. We made plans for them to come in, meet Solomon and have dinner. I made spaghetti. Solomon woke up from another mini-powernap to entertain them. The women fussed over him like crazy. They offered plenty of advice, which made me happy; I can see that raising Solomon will be a community affair and that makes my heart swell. Because it is community that defines Haiti, and we’ve been taken in.

We just waived goodbye to our friends, and laid Solomon down for a much-deserved sleep. I wonder what his dreams will look like tonight.

I just wanted to tell you about my first hours of being parents. Feels surreal. Not sure the full force of emotions have hit us yet. It has all happened so fast, so incredibly effortlessly fast. At the same time, it feels so natural, feels like we've been needing to do this for a long time. I love seeing the immediate transformation Patrick has made into a new Dad. He's in love, and doesn’t even attempt to temper those feelings. I have two cuddly males on my hands. :) And I couldn't be happier.

A new adventure commences in the midst of one already begun.

lapli ap tombe (the rain is falling)

Mornings are quickly becoming my favorite time of day. Today I sit with a steaming cup of Haitian coffee beside me, a cool breeze blowing in the window. I look out on a panorama of palm trees blowing in the wind, watch the sun kissing pink the tips of the mountains awake, and hear the calls of vendors and shoe shiners heard from the street below.

This week has introduced the first part of the rainy season. Every evening before the sun goes down, a sky full of clouds roll in. The nights are filled with the sound of rain tumbling out of the sky, washing the tin, the cement, the dirt... knocking the dust and pollution out of the sky, sending rivelets down the rocky and eroded streets. The nights cool, and the mornings are left clear.

Of course for us, in a 3rd story apartment, it is a welcome relief. But certainly for others the rain brings new problems.

We visited the home of one of our new Haitian friends this week. She wanted to introduce us to her children. We drove to her corner through twisting, rocky streets. We eventually had to get out and walk along a walkway in between cement block houses. A stream of water was running through, and barefooted children played in the water. One woman sat outside her house braiding her daughter's hair, another was bent over a large wash tub washing the family's clothes. We walked through busy life lived out doors. But the signs of the water were clear. One man was sweeping out water from his porch... likely it had found its way inside too.

We've heard that parts of City Solei already flooded. After only 5 days of normal rain fall. I can't imagine what a mess hurricane season makes of the lives here.

Today on my drive to Carrefour, the usually dusty drive was instead a obstacle course of mud-ponds and sticky clay. The trash that had been washed from higher places in the city lay muddy and scattered all over the side-streets, blocking up the water ways. The mess didn't seem to stop life much, but the landscape had certainly changed.

Such a dicotamy. On a very selfish level I'm greatful for the change of season, the cool nights it brings, the fresh-quality of the air, new vibrant green that replaced the dusty, thirsty version to the plants. But our neighbors in Haiti are having a very different experience, battling mud, rising water, likely leaking roofs and sleepless nights. Yet another way our experience of the world is so vastly different from that of the poor.