Happier Days

If you need a reason to smile, check out the CNN footage of our friends Jean, Ross, and little Alexander over in the left margin ("The Orphan Crisis"), THEN visit this linked blog article with photos --  it will be a bright spot in your day  .  .  .  http://thatschurch.com/2010/06/28/when-it-rains/

Enjoy!  (We sure did.)

(The photo is property of the blog, "That's Church.")

Clover Clarification

Upon doing a quick net search of "four-leaf clovers," I was able to learn that Hunter's first find is not of the historic, official "good luck" species; yet, still fun and exciting.  The second, however, has all the tell-tale signifiers -- leaf shape, leaf pattern (white lines), and the apparent characteristic of the fourth (mutant) leaf being smaller than the other three.  The fourth 1-in-10,000 leaf (stat per Wikipedia -- take with a chunk of salt) represents luck or God's grace -- depending on your religious/philosophical leanings. 

Really.

Tonight, in the town of Macon, Illinois, at his little sister's softball game, Hunter Cluver found another four leaf clover -- that's two in one week. 
                       
Maybe the big guy is tellin' us something?

Food for the Soul

Prancing in her church shoes, Miss Baylor waits on me.  She presents her Princess Tiana cookbook (with scrumptious pictures) as a menu and with assured poise she takes my order, climbs the stairs, and prepares in her toy room an array of dishes.  Keeping in character for over an hour, Bay writes and stirs and delivers and inquires, "Do you like your food, Ma'am?"

She knows that Beatha likes to cook, for real, and amid all of the work of family adjustments, we three ladies will undoubtedly have some kitchen fun together.  I imagine that Beatha, if typical of older Haitian children, will have an ingrained sense of responsibility toward the younger children, and it will be Chad and my job to teach her that here, in a family home, she can be a child.  We will worry about the things to which parents tend and she need only be concerned about her 12-year-old on-goings.  No small task to help her (and Jameson) learn these roles.  Nonetheless, Baylor will relish the attention of an older girl, who I predict will do some doting on the little one.

Assertive as one can be, Bay is also a kitten in the lap of affection.  It's been a difficult five months for us, to say the least, and it will soothe us all to have everyone gathered at the same table.

Tender Heart Cluver's Four-Leaf Clover

As I click open my blog site on this Summer Solstice, Tracy Chapman's "Spring" starts up and the lyrics of hope greet me, "Like the first of spring  .  .  ."  Interesting that my 10-year-old son, Hunter, shared teary-eyed with me two days ago (Saturday) as we walked through Wal-mart that he misses Beatha and Jameson, "I miss them, like I know I haven't met them, but I want them here.  I could just see them at the parade today picking up candy with me, you know.  It's good we're at the store, otherwise I'd be crying right now."  He's my softy -- funny with friends and tough with persuasion, but tender toward everyone, particularly animals, babies, and people he believes deserve better than what they've got.  The very next day (Sunday, Fathers' Day) he was on the golf course with his Dad, Uncle Rennie, Pap Cluver, and 7-year-old sister, Baylor.  In tropical heat upon the Central Illinois links, his ever observant eyes spotted a four-leaf clover  .  .  .  his report to me later that day was "Mom, you know you always think you see one, but then it's just another leaf from a clover behind it; there's always just three leaves.  I can't believe it!" 

The hope and luck of spring in a summer of waiting.

(Yep, that's a photograph of the real deal.  We are currently pressing/drying it to frame for Hunter.)

It Was Too Big to Write

Writing is my therapy, but until now, I couldn't really do it.  I've made personal appeals to politicians in carefully constructed letters, shared information with loved ones via email, and set up my blog to prepare for sharing our new family life once our kids come home.  But, I hadn't been able to write about "it" -- the quake -- not really.  It had been too big, and while the intensity of it pushed out into regular headaches, I needed time.  I owed to my students a solid finish to the academic year, and then there were the sign-ups and kick-offs for all of Hunter and Baylor's summer camps, programs, and lessons.  Always with a project (or two or five) underway, I've got no shortage of things to do, but with a looser structure to our days I've retreated to my home office for hours at the computer -- watching January news footage on Youtube and checking out recommended blogs.  And crying.  Breathing.  Healing.  As my nerves lie bare in this process, I am admittedly intolerant of excessive noise and am presently quite horrid at multi-tasking.  I don't know how many times I 've said to my children this past week, "I'm.  Doing.  Only.  One.  Thing.  At.  A.  Time." 

I need to slow down to let it out.

I wonder where are the elegant, youthful Haitian waiters from the Hotel Karibe where Chad, Hunter, Baylor, and I visited with Josianna and Wendy in August, and then my mom and I with the kids, again, in December.  Calm and pleasant, one fellow smiled widely in great appreciation when I nudged Josianna, "Di 'Merci'."  (Say "Thank you.")  Are they alive?  Or injured?  Do they have gainful employment?  Food?  We'd heard that January 12th destroyed the Karibe -- the nest in which we nurtured the children we were prepared to have join our family; our safe haven in a foreign land about which we learned much, yet still knew too little.  It had seemed untouchable -- the metalwork through which the tropical air flowed in the lobby, the wave-patterned, wooden wall panels near the elevators, and giant mirrors nearby in which Josianna and Wendy stole glances of themselves with giggly eyes and self-conscious smiles.

Humble homes by numbers uncountable were crushed, and I blush sheepishly, knowing that fine hotels symbolize to many Haitians the gross imbalance of wealth in their country.  How can some dine on fine French cuisine and sleep in air conditioned rooms beneath eiderdown comforters while over 80% of the population toils in poverty  .  .  .  so very many good and talented people starving and dying?  I am sheltered and weak.  Spoiled and silly. 

Despite my sociological studies of Haitian culture and my indignation and concern about the heavy load that burdens the Haitian people, the seemingly trivial news of the Karibe stuck to me like a bur.  It was personal.  Looking for beach towels in a cabinet at home earlier this week, I came across a little turquoise and green bikini and size 5 swim trunks.  Josianna and Wendy's pool attire.  To say it gave me pause would be an understatement; I tucked them into my large keepsake trunk.  The Karibe is where I swam for four days with those babies.

I know I have to give myself permission to feel all of this, but I also have a deep, personal need to take small bites of the unimaginable horror of the quake across the mountainous island nation and mourn the enormous collective loss.  After weeks of 'round the clock CNN, you'd think I'd seen just about all one could have viewed of the trembling and of the aftermath, but when already nauseous, shaken, and numb, I couldn't absorb it all.  At some point the brain just can't take any more.  It just won't.  So, now, I go back to those days to take another look; rather than deep down where it tried its best to kill my soul, I want it out in front of me where I can register with my conscious mind, where I can look at it, turn it over and look at it some more.

A blog entitled "Haiti is Such a Strong Word" has really knocked my socks off and touched me deeply.  An American physician's assistant working in a field hospital in Port-au-Prince, "Barbie B." is as "on the ground in Haiti" as one can get, and her writing is downright moving.  In her post "City of the Sun" she is affectionately honest about the reality of providing medical assistance in Cite Soleil, arguably the most impoverished and dangerous slum in the world.  She mentions as a matter of context that the humanitarian parole program for adoption-bound, provably orphaned children made available a now-empty orphanage as a field hospital.  In "5 Weeks Out," however, the P.A. describes her therapy work with a newly orphaned little boy who sings mournfully to himself, "Mama, Papa dead  .  .  ."  Oh, how my heart pains for this child, and to realize he is only one story of so, so many.  And in her "Looking Up" she describes the kids who hug her tightly, and it flashes me instantly to December 20th when I arrived at BRESMA to pick up the kids for our visit.  Wendy's little muscled body clenched snugly around mine; there was a seriousness on his face, and he wasn't letting go.  Now, he is with his first Mama, and his Papa, and we pray that he won't ever have to let go.  Sweet child.  Sweet children.  Oh, thank you, God, that they have their parents, and a "Manmi" and "Papi" who wish them well from America as a bonus.

It was the entry "The Depths" that brought me to my knees.  The blogger shares a first-hand account of her journey with a female patient back to the woman's crumbled home, under which were crushed three of her children.  If you feel even the least bit inclined, I urge you to read her account for yourself; it is indescribable intensity, spirituality, pain, and humanity.   (barbieboots.blogspot.com)

And I realize that I need to cry my own tears, but how lucky am I?  How damned lucky am I that all of my children are alive.  Uninjured.  Healthy.  Whole.  I've written numerous times about the resilience of the Haitian people -- their ability to survive and to carry on, but this mother took me to a whole new level of understanding.  Even then, only the degree of comprehension that can be attained from the outside; God willing may I never gain full wisdom on this topic.

"Love," her first post, describes a field of patients joining in a robust song of blessing one evening -- a blessing upon the medical staff.  The injured lie in shock, grief, and pain -- tissues torn and bones crushed, but as a group of people, they would not be broken.  In their time of greatest physical vulnerability, they muster spiritual strength and share it with those who came to their land with the intention of being the healers.  The whole camp is in song. 

In a sea of physical agony and national devastation, how does a person carry on?  Child after child, mother after mother, uncle after uncle?  Hunger.  Amputation.  Death.  Hands held out for food, and cries beckoning for help. 

The medical missionary quotes Mother Theresa:  "If you cannot help everyone, help one."  The small is important alongside the big.  In fact, it may be the only thing that can matter.

And I wonder about the one Haitian-American woman my mom and I met at the Embassy in December.  She wanted to adopt her 14-year-old nephew, and had flown down to Haiti to sort out some paperwork in person.  We talked during our lengthy wait in our row of plastic chairs.  Was she back in the States when the quake hit?  Where was her nephew?  Are they joyfully united?  Or  .  .  . ?

I question why I was worthy of Wendy's last hug to our family.  Chad couldn't travel over the holidays; he looked after Hunter and Baylor while I represented the whole of us in Haiti.  I am saddened that he didn't get to see the kids, again, as we had intended for March.  I am selfishly anxious for another update on Josianna and Wendy, but also respect their parents' perspective; I don't know if we will be welcome as unofficial extended family to the four of them or if we would be a reminder of their time of chosen separation and difficult decisions.

I try to convince myself that all of the bigger perspectives should make my dealing with the uncertainty and extended wait for Beatha and Jameson seem perfectly manageable and low-stress.  But it doesn't.  Because we're still in the middle of that very real and present worry, and it's still too big.

God, forgive me my selfishness and short-sightedness, the human limitations of my mind, and the weakness of my heart. 

Watch over Josianna, Wendy, and their parents, Josue and Tadeline. 

Comfort Beatha and Jameson, instilling in their hearts and minds a confident wisdom that the Mama and Papa they met in Pittsburgh five months ago still love them and work daily to bring them home. 

Hold in your hand the Mamas who visit the graves of rubble that swallowed their children and the babies who survived what their parents did not. 

May we all do what is right for the Haitian people, do these things for the right reasons, and do so in the right way.

With humility, that's what I've got for now.  Amen.

(The photograph of the woman standing amid the rubble of her home is property of the blog "Haiti Is Such a Strong Word."  The Haiti heart image and the candle picture have been borrowed from the inter net.)

   

Don't Be Shy!

To the few dear people out there who check in on the "Cluvercrew" every now and then, please FEEL FREE to add your comments; we look forward to hearing from you!  : )

Lamaze Class for Adoptive Families

It had been my intention to share with friends and family the tidbits Chad and I have learned about parenting adoptive children so that everyone feels in the loop.  Those were my plans for after my end-of-December Haiti trip -- my first task for January -- but you know what transpired instead.  So, as we await the next phase of our journey, we attempt to balance the superstition of not getting the cart before the horse with the need to be prepared for the sake of the children.  Here, I shall offer my meager best so that when new Cluver kids come home, we are all positioned to make the transition as well as is possible.  The daily job of supporting the kids will be challenging, no doubt, but as I tell my students ad nauseum -- knowledge IS power  .  .  .   Let's see, where to begin?  Well, at the start, I suppose  .  .  . 

The first three months comprise, typically, the cocoon phase, much like when a newborn comes home, except that adopted children usually have had previous life experiences that taught them to fend for themselves and not to trust the permanency of parents.  So, not only do the kids need a "sensory bath" of their parents and siblings -- what Mom and Dad's faces look like, how they smell, what they sound like  -- until the familiarity intertwines with their own being, but due to a long history of transient adults (aunts, nannies, missionaries, etc), it is also critical that intimate touch from/with the kids (hugging, lap-sitting, cheek-kissing) be shared only with their new parents.  Unfortunately, widespread affection with many people could inhibit the all-important child-parent attachment for these kids -- it would reinforce indiscriminate(empty) affection.  The child-parent bond is primal and primary if healthy relationships are to follow with extended family, later with peers, and eventually, with their future spouses and their own children.

The next three months (3-6 mo.) is reportedly frustrating because at this point the human adults (parents included) are prone to feel (note: FEEL, psychologically) that things should be "normal," but there is yet much learning to accomplish.  Imagine becoming aware of the way a different family does things, a new set of norms for a given community, and then amplify it by factors like crossing international borders, changing social class, and the on-going work to trust and refine the behaviors of permanent, healthy family life.  It's culture shock and family shock all at once.  There will be times when behaviors might be observed and interpreted one way (jockeying assertively for the last cupcake, appearing to be greedy), when it may be due to a different causative factor altogether (having been accustomed to competing with 50 other kids for food at the orphanage).  There will be times when we will have to do things differently than we have done before so that we can parent all of the children appropriately and effectively; please feel comfortable asking us questions and talking with us out of earshot of the kids, and PLEASE know not to take anything personally (like the possibility that we may sometimes have to turn down invitations or cut visits short, as examples.)

As for after the initial 6 months of adjustments -- a new "normal" usually begins to take shape, and lifelong processing continues, revisiting earlier childhood hurts with new levels of sophistication  .  .  .  birthdays may be difficult rather than a time of frivolity, a graduation may be a reminder of those back home without access to education, the birth of his/her own child will likely recall deep feelings about his/her own birth parents  .  .  .

Attempting to relay all the details we've encountered in our training would surely bore away whatever few readers see this blog; so, I shall refrain.  And to pretend that some seminars and a short stack of books have taught us all we need to know would be foolhardy to say the least.  Thus, I'll leave it at what we've got above, hoping that I've given you a general feel for things and have provided an open door for you to talk with us privately about anything you wonder.  

Now, if we can just get them home.

(A special thanks to Dr. Karyn Purvis' webinar and the insights of friend Jill Lear.)

What I Have Learned

Our adoption experiences have been life-changing in countless ways already, and all of this before we even have new kids in our home.  I've been asked by several folks, "What have you learned about yourself," and "How has this changed you?"  The number of new people in our lives from the personal level all the way to federal officials has been mind-boggling, and the process incredibly complex.  With the wait becoming increasingly difficult to bear, I've decided to begin trying to digest what's come into our lives since January 12th.  I'll put myself out there with one caveat, take my reflections at face value.  This work-in-progress is comprised of generalized thoughts stemming from a collection of observations over months of time  .  .  . 

What I Have Learned (or at least reaffirmed):

• You can love desperately children living far, far from your home.
• When there is trauma, there is not room for pride.
• But integrity still matters.
• People you barely know can look you in the eye and "get it."
• A few friends might not.
• Your soul can survive more than you can imagine.
• Sincerity is obvious.
• A person's depth of knowledge isn't always.
• The truth really is complex.
• Being comfortable with vulnerability is a strength.
• Humor helps.
• Just because lines become blurred doesn't mean you should cross them.
• No matter what your network, at the end of the day, the buck stops in your own house.

To be continued  .  .  .