I remember that day so well. We were so excited. We just got back to Cheboksary from our 10 day stay in Samara, where we stayed with some new friends who went to the same seminary as Chris. We had really enjoyed ourselves during this time. (Russia requires a 10 day wait after the judge grants the adoption on the 2nd trip. Many folks opt to go back home and make a 3rd trip. We stayed. Oh, on that court day 10 days prior to "gotcha day" when judge granted our petiion, it was Mother's Day in the States because it was still Sunday. In Russia, that Monday, it was "Family Day.")
We went to pick him up from the Baby House, as they call it ("orphanages" were considered the house where the children go after they turn 3 years old). They took just me to where Anton was at that time, (while Chris waited towards the front of the House), to the potty room where most of his class of 13 kids were sitting on plastic potties on the floor, waiting... (no reading material). They were all a different make and model of potty and you reckon they were donated. But that doesn't matter. All the women had on white nurse coats. The lady motioned to me, ordering me, to put on a white jacket (now). There was just one and it was probably an extra small size. I'm a ladies "large" in a jacket. (I have these football broad shoulders that I'm a little self-conscious about, I've always wanted to be petite, but that is the least of my worries at this point.) And I'm REALLY nervous. Is he going to like me? But most of all, I feel so incompetent as a mom!
Anton was one of the few who was washed up and sitting in the little lunch room. They had made some soup with meatballs. The nurses ordered me to feed him. Yikes. I've never been good at getting fussy kids to eat, the few times I've tried. He didn't want to eat his soup. They ordered me to do encourage him to eat. Well, he doesn't want to eat, how do I make him eat, I thought. Do I do the airplane thing? Do I talk nice? Do I use a stern voice? (and I can hardly move in this jacket.) I had no effect on him. They were able to get him to take a sip. Oh, no he doesn't respect me already. These ladies don't respect me. I'm such an idiot.
Then after a few sips, they motioned for me to hand over the clothes I brought. So, we went to another room to dress him, to a small narrow locker room. Anton had his own locker with a few clothes assigned to him. They wanted the clothes he was wearing. I gave them my bag what I had for him. It contaned a disposbale diaper with cars on it. They adored it for the technology, and it had cars on it! And the tee shirt had these old fashioned race cars on it. Like, how did I know he like cars so much? Their countenance was changed and not so stern. I don't know if they were just acting to encourage Anton that this was divine providence. And of course, it was. But it encouraged me that I had done something right.
We left the orphanage with him in my arms. He was not scared. He did not cry. We got in the car and I still held him. Child safety seats were not required and few people had them. I would have liked that, of course, being the new cautious mother I was, but I was glad to hold him and trust that God would take care of us on the crazy ride back to the apartment we were staying in.
As soon as we got to the apartment. He looked at the building and started crying. I think he may have thought he was going to a doctor, or something. We quickly comforted him and he stopped immediately, and that was it. He did not mourn in an obvious way to us being away from his friends and caregivers, although I'm sure he missed them.
When we got to the apartment, I wasn't sure what to do. I had already asked the host family previously what did most families do when they brought their children there for the first time. Most of them had other children and handled it with confidence (this was my first). They said I should give him a bath and check him out to see if everything is visibly OK. I thought that would be awkward to ask him to strip down as soon as we got him. Looking back, this is so funny. So, we gave him a quick bath. I think that went OK. Everything looked normal, and no skin infections. He was just really skinny! But he looked reasonably healthy considering. Then we tried to get him to eat.
Oh, the night before I had made a fruit salad with yogurt. I was able to find some fresh fruit at one of the stores. Most families didn't buy a variety of fruits as we do here in the states. The hostess family cautioned me against this because in Russia, they don't feed children fresh fruit. They believe it is bad for the children's digestion. She felt confident sharing with me her concerns since I had expressed previously a willingness to be coached. Well, this is where I felt I was right, that he was missing out on a lot of vitamins and minerals from fresh fruit. But she was also right, in that he got diarrhea. I still felt it was a good thing, it was just that one time and he has no allergies to fruit (must have just been that it was new food to him).
That night he slept with us and everything went pretty well. The next day he challenged me on bedtime and ran around having a blast, showing me in an impish way that he wasn't going to bed, and to catch him if I could. I played the game for a while. But I wanted to assert our loving authority position. And it was bedtime. "Spot" I said, that means "lay down." No, no, no. Well, without going into further explanation, I won, and he was hugging me in the end, ready to go to bed. He felt secure that someone cared for him, and to know what is best for him. I think this episode helped in our immediate "bonding and attachment." During the whole trip in Russia, there was a trust in us, that we could take care of him and guide him.
The biggest problem we had after that was putting him down. He clung to me like a Koala Bear and I didn't want to let him down. This was an issue for the first year, but a good issue. :O)
We really don't do much for "gotcha day." Whenever we discuss with Anton that he is from Russia, he doesn't take an interest in that he came from a different place. Maybe that will change later. We talk about our love for Russia, and our interest in his home country with interest, as we truly love Russia. Before we left, I bought him a matryoshka (stacking doll) that was painted in a distinctly Chuvasian style (the region of Russia where he is from). But he has never held a fascination for it. The other day, he was cleaning his room and took out the doll and said that it belongs with a collection of items I have from museums that I keep on a bookshelf. I reminded him again, "this is from where we got you." No interest. He doesn't ask questions about his birth mother. He doesn't want to know. And that's fine with us. I imagine he'll be more inquisitive later and that may be around the time we can take Russian language lessons together.
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