The Event Horizon

Four years ago today, Moonpie was declared our daughter by the court in Kazakhstan.  It seems, in some ways, a lifetime ago, someone else's lifetime, because there was no life, this life, before her.  And in some ways I am still there, waiting to hear if Katrina wiped away the Gulf Coast, waiting to hear the judge rule "yes," holding my breath that my life was about to irrevocably change.

Time in the orphanage left it's mark on Moonpie, in ways she probably will never be able to verbalize.  It took three years and months of therapy for her to be able to eat.  Just sit at the table and ... eat.  She and D now delight in daring each other to try new foods, the grossest looking food, the spiciest food, the newest, most exotic looking food.  She eats asparagus.  Artichokes.  Brussel sprouts.  Okra.  Everything, in fact, except for meat loaf and zucchini.  She steals tomatoes from the garden and eats them like apples.  My sugar snap peas disappeared raw off the vine, munched away by a barefoot czarina in overalls. 

I am amazed by the resilience of children, at the ability to put away the horrors of deprivation and neglect and just be four. 

I am not so resilient.  I still wake from nightmares of dark water washing away New Orleans and everything that was my sister's life, of bureaucrats laughing at my distress while Moonpie screams in pain.   I will always, in some fold of time, be there, in those desperate moments, terrified for those trapped after the storm, terrified I would spend the rest of my life trapped in red tape, terrified most of all that I would lose Moonpie as soon as I got her. 

I hope, conversely, that I will always be here, too, in this moment with Moonpie, with her bringing me a basket of fruit she has collected, washed, and decorated with a bandanna ("But I am NOT playing Little Red Riding Hood, I am just bringing you fruit").  I want to snuggle in the bed with her four-year-old self forever, eating strawberries, savoring the feeling of her dry little hand playing with my hair while we talk about movies.  ("What was your favorite part of Harry Potter?" and her reply: "I like that it was PG.")

But instead she pulls away, rolling her eyes at me like I taught her to do back when she was little and it was funny, and runs off with an arm full of apples to share with the boy down the street.   And I realize that I am going to lose her anyway, the same way my mother lost me, the way mothers always lose their children.  I am losing Shug even as I help her take her tentative, two toothed first steps.  This job, that I fought so hard to get, is ultimately to make them not need me anymore.

Today is an anniversary of full of emotion for me, of gain and loss.  Today, four years ago, I gained a child.  Today, four years ago, I lost the burden of infertility, let it go as I held Moonpie for the first time officially as her mother.  Most of all, though, four years ago today I lost my fear, and I gained a surprisingly irrepressible sense of purpose and optimism. 

It's annoying, this optimism.  Even through the dark days in Petropavlovsk, even through the loss of Tron, I believed deep into my bones that everything would be alright.  Maybe not perfect, maybe not what I expected, but somehow just ... alright. 

How wonderful, sometimes, to be right.

Comments

[Elle]

It is so nice to be right.

[Ruta]

Gorgeous post, even more gorgeous girls.

[Kelly]

Ahh, sisters! So sweet and you are so right.

[Jen]

What a beautiful post--and what a sweet picture of your girls together. Congratulations of four years with dear Moonpie.

[thalia]

congratulations on four years of being a family. Lovely to hear your reflections.

[Jill]

Oh, look how sweet they are.

[Tine]

*weeping*

Thank you for a lovely post.

[Michelle H.]

Snuffling over here. Beautiful post.

[maggie]

beautiful

[Katie]

Sending you guys hugs and congrats!

[Erin]

Just beautiful. Congratulations on four years with Moonpie and very happy that there are so many more ahead of you.

[Sue]

What a beautiful post. Thank you.

[stacey]

That was so nice. I wish I had your knack for words. The most I can come up with is "Yes, I suck".

I know, I need to come there, but alas, I suck.

[Alexandra/Infertile Gourmet]

:) These stories...the way they unfold and forever tug at our hearts.

[allison]

ok, now you almost made me cry....loving those pics :)

[Lut C.]

4 years already?! Congratulations!

[Jennifer R]

Incredible to read this. It reflects my experience completely. In every way. Infertility. Kaz. Etc. Thank you.

[Cat]

wow - four years! i remember reading your story back then, hoping and praying and wishing for you and your family as my husband and i wrote our own infertility/adoption story. while we've never met or corresponded, i thought of you several times over the last few weeks. my husband and our two daughters and i were in turkey for three weeks on vacation, and each time we were in the airport, i'd see listings on the departure or arrival boards for almaty and i'd think of a woman i'd never met and the daughter she'd journeyed around the world and back for. congratulations on four years with your girl!

[baggage]

Wow, has it been that long. I remember reading then. I love the pic.

[Natalie]

I read this post this morning (foolishly linking around from Amalah's blog -- never a good idea when you are at work and have like stuff to do)

...and then I went back and read ummm pretty much your whole archives...

your story is amazing and tear-inducing and wonderful

[liz]

Now I'm sobbing. This is such a beautiful post.