Heaven on Earth

Today marked our second visit to a fire station since Daniil got home. It's right down the street and I imagine we'll quickly become regulars. Last week, at a station in Dennis, Daniil got to sit up in the cab, the top of the world for a little boy. After the fire fighter gave me a subtle high sign that it was time to climb down, Danya gripped the seat as though it was the last safe harbor in a storm, and I had to resort to tugging and ripping him out. He would've curled up and established a little nest for himself in the fire truck, I'm sure, if given the chance. (Camera still AWOL that day. But there will be zillions of other photo ops in fire trucks, this is one thing I can count on.)

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If heaven is anything like a fire truck, Danya will rest in blissful peace. For me, I hope that heaven is like the Grizzly Lake Trail above Aspen, high up on the alpine tundra on a July day, thousands of wildflowers in bloom. Or perhaps the short but utterly satisfying Lower Hadlock Pond trail on Mt. Desert Island, a narrow path that winds around a resevoir, up and down through pine and deciduous forest, over roots, soft beds of pine needles, lush green moss, dripping with water after a rain. Or perhaps live music in a small venue featuring a kick-ass fiddler, guitarist, banjo, and upright bass player who knows just how to drive the time.

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Don't you love how there is so much heaven right here, right now? Even in the difficult moments with Danill, like when I'm completely exasperated that he says he wants juice or soup and then refuses to eat it, I come to discover that all of the tension can fall away if I just let go of my expectations, find the humor in the situation, and remember to cherish that strong will in my boy. He's simply playing out the entire human situation: craving and aversion, craving and aversion. Ya gotta love it. What else is there to do?

Hello Popcorn

Hello light
Hello dark
Hello stairs
Hello walls
Hello railing
Hello ceiling
Hello kitty cats
Hello truck
Hello pieska (penis)
Hello bopka (bottom)

Only a partial list of the things Daniil greets every morning, unprompted, in his newly-acquired English. He says goodbye to all of these things too. And yesterday he uttered his first full sentence, apart from "I love you" (which he spontaneously said to me outside the American Embassy in Moscow). Here was yesterday's exchange.

Mama: What is it?
Danya: It's a truck.

Enough to make a Mama cry, as though her baby boy had taken his first unaided steps. The day before, Daniil would have answered "truck." Where in the world did he pick up the sentence construction? I love how language gets acquired through immersion, constant use, repetition. And I agree with Noam Chomsky that language also must be hard-wired at some level into each of our brains.

Listening to Daniil master rudimentary English is like opening suprise gift after gift. Tonight I wanted to get Daniil to bed early so that I could pay my bills. Oh, what a hard time we had with mighty testing of wills. He finally fell asleep, but woke up an hour later and unconsciously, blessedly, prompted an entire do-over so that we could get bedtime "right." And right we did, complete with his first popcorn, dancing to Emmy Lou Harris, and hilarious repartee about "poop," Daniil's current favorite word, along with "umbrella." Crossing our language divide in both Russian and English, we sat in a small pool of light at my kitchen table and cracked each other up. "Do you poop, popcorn?" Daniil asked as he devoured his bowl. "How silly!" I replied, in role as popcorn. "I don't poop. But Daniil does! And Mama poops too!" The conversation continued along this vein, typically of any 3 year old, as we introduced other characters into our poop investigation. This was the first instance, I think, of our playing off of one another's responses with humor--and as equals in some sense. Mama wasn't the teacher, Daniil wasn't the student: we were two human beings thoroughly enjoying one another's company. God, I can't wait until my child is fluent in English. What fun we'll have with words, and I can't wait to hear his ideas!

Relationship set to right, Daniil feel back to sleep with arms around my neck. I then crept out of bed to wring out some more time for myself. It's now 1:06AM. Time to shower and join my boy in rest. I'm sleep deprived these days, but taking this time to write is worth the trade off. Writing grounds me. And these blog entries are one of the few things I now get to do that are strictly for me. In other words, this blog serves multiple purposes, including restoring Mama to sanity.

The Playground

Thank heaven for playgrounds where Daniil can burn off some energy. We discovered a great one today in West Dennis that has some kind of soft "flooring" underneath a wealth of well-designed-for-kids' play structures. My boy was outright gleeful! Danya ran and ran and climbed and climbed and must've slid down the slide 20 times. His little cheeks were bright red from all the physical exertion--and exuberance.

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My friends Beryl and Haakon were visiting from Cambridge. Beryl astutely pointed out that Daniil is fearless, but not reckless. He tackled all sorts of challenges, climbing up precarious rungs, for instance, but always paused, before each next step, to consider whether or not he had what it took to continue. He gauged right each time. What to call this? Wise boldness? Prudent daring? I will do my best to make these two qualities conscious to him so he can cultivate, draw upon and strike this winning balance throughout his life.

Keepsakes

I simply don't have the time to do justice in writing to the countless great moments Daniil and I have had during our first full week together. Would that I could expand and expound and let my mind roam and freely associate, as I love to do. Instead, I've been jotting down notes when I think of it in a little notebook with kittens on the cover that I bought for Daniil in Russia. I keep it open at the end of my kitchen counter for this single purpose: to not let all of these discrete and dear moments get lost in the fast blur of all that's being demanded of me right now as a single mom.

Here are some snapshots, short notations that hopefully later on will help me recall the richness of these first days with Daniil.

~ Soon after we got home, Daniil discovered a little American flag I'd bought at Job Lot around the 4th of July. He marched in circles around his room, waving our flag and singing God knows what in Russian. So appropriate: my Russian-American son.

~ "Let's go, Mama!" I taught Daniil to say this from his little car seat behind me before I start the car. Sometimes I prompt him: "What do you say?..." But after three days, he's saying this all on his own once I climb in front and close the door. My response: "Okay! Let's go Daniil!"

~ Speaking of car seats, 4 days after his Cape Cod arrival, Daniil called to me from the back seat: "Mama." "Yes, Daniil," I answered. "Mama," he said again. So I turned around to see if there was something I needed actually to see. And there was my boy, giving me googly eyes, raising his eyebrows up and down with a knowing little smile. I completely cracked up, the heartiest laugh I've had in ages. I turned around again to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me. Nope. Once again, Danya mischievously raised and lowered his eyebrows, looking straight at me, like a man coming onto a woman from the end of a bar. Yes, indeed, I will fall for you, my son. Again and again you steal my heart.

I will add to this posting, drawing from my many jottings, as I can sequester the time. Right now it's midnight. The only hours I have for myself are after I put Daniil to bed. I bought a baby monitor--best investment yet--so I can go downstairs without panic in the pit of my stomach and do the dishes, feed the cats, clean up the detritus of a day with a three year old, and then, finally, open my computer and have a few minutes online in a world far, far away from mommyhood. Of course, I'll drop everything if I hear Danya wake and call for me. I guess that for the rest of my life I'll have one ear attuned to my boy... Life will never be the same. Blessed be.

Boys and Trucks

Just what is the fascination? If an ambulance, fire truck, even a humble jeep rolls by, it's guaranteed one of these "machinas" will trump absolutely everything else going on in Daniil's world. Playing second fiddle to a steam shovel isn't all that bad, I guess, especially when I consider the conventional "girlie" alternative: Barbie.

Bath Time = Joy

Humanity

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After five testy days, Simon and Daniil have made friends. On Daniil's terms, as per photo. The cat exhibits remarkable patience and, odd as it might sound in this context, remarkable humanity. These two have travelled a long way from the first morning they laid eyes on each other when Daniil promptly and literally spat at Simon, cat-like, and then whipped a toothbrush at his head.
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It's after midnight and Daniil is fast asleep in my bedroom next door. I've cherished these past three hours to myself, tidying up, reading email, scheming how to create a picture chart that illustrates our morning routine so that maybe, just maybe, I can lend Daniil a stronger sense of structure and steadiness. Selfishly, I hope this strategy wins me even a tad less jolting of focus from thing to thing to thing every two minutes. Or maybe this is par for the course with any three year old?
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Here's how our morning may read. I hope to find some happy accompanying photos or drawings online. Or, if anyone out there is an artist or cartoonist, please lend us a whimsical hand.

• Wake Up: Sunshine!
• Pee/Prayer/Thanksgiving
• Get Dressed
• Breakfast: Help with Table and Food Prep
• Brush Teeth/Pee
• Neighborhood Walk/Backyard Play/Garden
• Music/Book
• Morning Outing/Activity
• Lunch: Table and Food Prep

Do I actually expect our mornings to play out like this? Nyet. But at least when we veer off course, there will be an actual course we are veering off from! And, in case you think I'm totally anal... I am ever open to, in fact I look forward to, all of the tangential delights, tendernesses, moments of sheer subbornness, tests of wills, and other gifts and challenges that provide the heart and soul, the unpredictable and ever-complex humanity, to this otherwise colorless, one-dimensional list.

When I was in training to become a school principal, one of my mentors advised me to memorize and take to heart the following mantra: The interruptions are the work. The same can be said, I'm quickly discovering, of parenting. The interruptions, the seeming tangents, the ever-changing shades and waves of emotion (both Daniil's and mine), the googly eyes from the car seat in the back seat of the car, the spontaneous hug, the irascible refusal to pick up the pickle off the kitchen floor... from moment to simple moment, in and through each interaction, no matter how seemingly small, we are forging a momentous relationship with one another, with the world around us and, God willing, with Love itself.

First Days Home

So much newness, for both me and Daniil, happening every hour, sometimes minute by minute. It's been challenging to find time to shower, or to carry even one thing upstairs, never mind writing on this blog! Tonight is the first night I've been able to crawl out of bed, leaving Daniil asleep alone, and get a few things cleaned and put away. I'm sitting now in his room, which adjoins mine, so that I can hear him if he wakes and calls for me. On our first full day home, I snuck out of the bedroom during his nap and high-tailed it into the shower. I found him a few minutes later, sitting up in bed, all blotchy-faced, crying and crying out for "Mama." Heart rending. I rocked him and rocked him, assuring him, in Russian, that everything's okay, that everything will be okay, that I love him, "moy mishka, moy solnishko, my zychick, moy malchick." I go through this litany of sweet Russian tendernesses every day. Now, as soon as I begin with one pet name, Daniil chimes in with the rest. English translation: "I love you, my little bear, my little sunshine, my bunny, my boy."

I misplaced both the camera and flip video recorder upon arrival home: so very frustrating given so many astounding "firsts." They both turned up today, on top of the radio in my kitchen where I must've placed them for safe keeping from little hands that have been grabbing everything in sight, including a chef's knife, scissors, andirons from the fireplace, and so forth. So no pictures, alas, except the ones I attempt to paint with words. Here is a description of just one out of dozens upon dozens of special moments.

First beach. It's been raining this week, a hard transition home, but that hasn't stopped us from going "na uleetsu"/outside. We drove to a little beach on Nantucket Sound after a big storm. The waves were nothing like the national seashore, but choppy and high-strung nonetheless. Daniil was beside himself. Shoes off, he ran straight into the water, fearless, the lines of surf slapping against his calves. We ran together, holding hands at water's edge, dodging the incoming tide-line. Then we sat side by side, silently, on a slab of wet rock on a jetty, and watched the seagulls play in the cool gusty wind.

Throught the day I spend a lot of time talking to/with Daniil, asking him to repeat words in English, to identify everything from shoes to tomatoes to his nose. It's so precious when I let this "lesson" undercurrent drop away from our interactions, when I let us simply be together. That's what happened on that rock where there was no need for words, just unadulterated experience. And that's how we continued for the next 30 minutes. You got that! 30 focused, quiet minutes with a 3-year-old rambunctious boy: this must win us some kind of prize. We clambered down off the rock slab back down onto the beach, sat down in the sand, and engaged in parallel play for that blessed half hour. Danya, shovelling sand in and out of his Fisher Price plastic dump truck. I, building a series of tiny sandcastles, all different shapes. I don't think Daniil noticed me once, whereas of course I kept a constant curious eye on his play. Near the end, he mounded sand over both of his legs (wearing jeans), and patted himself in snugly. Walking back to the car, his wet pants kept falling down--he signaled me in Russian to help him pull them up. After several fruitless attempts, we gave up and he ended his first ever beach adventure in his underpants.

Let's Brush Our Teeth

Hotel Savoy, Moscow. Daniil and I must brush our teeth together 5 times a day at his prompting. The enchantment, I think, is spitting in the sink. We take turns and he laughs gleefully after each of us spits, especially if we hit the faucets by mistake (or determined intention).

Naptime

Hotel Savoy, Moscow. Already, Mama loves naptime. She gets to pee and write in her blog. As for Baba, she's occupied; Daniil won't let go of her hand! Baba is his favorite today.

Volkswagen Magic

Red "machina"= security blanket. This volkswagen has not left Daniil's hand since he discovered it yesterday in his gift backpack. Surely it will travel with him to our visit to the U.S. Embassy tomorrow. Last stop before heading home on Saturday: American visa in my boy's Russian passport.

of life and of love and wings...

Murmansk, Russia. Daniil arrives this morning, driven by his own private "chauffeur" from the Apatity baby home!
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I have no words--for once I'm speechless--so will rely on those of two friends. The first is poet e.e. cummings whom I've read, memorized and loved for years. This well-known poem is from Xaipe (1950).

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of all nothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

And now to my friend Carolyn who, in the closing lines of a recent email, somehow managed to capture my wishes for my boy better than I ever could.

I told my parents about your journey to Daniil and the happy news and they are deliriously happy for you...and especially happy for that little boy of yours, whose potential for living a life that is a full expression of himself has now increased exponentially because of your loving intervention in his otherwise bleak path. Daniil Titus Sjostrom was certainly born under a lucky star.

I thank you God for most this amazing day. May I be worthy of motherhood. May I never lose sight of Daniil's heart, his bright spirit, of who You would have him become.

Art Now

Before leaving St. Petersburg Mom and I ventured forth to a far-flung neighborhood to see if we could find a purported brand-new contemporary art museum. After several bus rides and help from multiple guardian angels, Russians who literally escorted us to the right stops and instructed bus drivers exactly where to let us off, we landed on the doorstep of the Erarta Museum. Opened just two months ago, the five floors of galleries represent the work of living artists from all corners of monstrously big Russia (1o time zones).

The art was worthy of the adventure; in fact, an adventure unto itself. Here are five of my favorites. The first piece is ever-so-slightly reminiscent of the work of Shelley Loheed, talented Boston artist and my dear friend. If you're interested, I can supply you with the names of the artists.

Ballet Day

It was ballet start to finish on Sunday, our last day in St. Petersburg. In the morning, Mom and I walked the 15 minutes from our meager hotel to the Sheremetev Palace to see a small gem-like exhibit on Russian ballet dancer Rudolph Nureyev. What a handsome young man. Notoriously impulsive, Nureyev had little patience with rules, limitations and hierarchical order. Not long for Russia, given this temperament! At 23, he defected to the West, despite KGB efforts to stop him, and lived his life in gai Paris. Nureyev is credited with single-handedly transforming the role of the male ballet dancer from strong-man prop, good for little more than lifting ballerinas, to center stage. He died of AIDS at 55.

The exhibit included costumes from a wealth of ballets: Swan Lake, Don Quixote, Romeo and Juliet, Raymonda, Giselle, among others.












In the evening, following another shaslik (shish-kebab) dinner at the Uzbek restaurant, we walked to the Mihailovsky Theater to see the Jacobsen Ballet's modern production of Romeo and Juliet. Such a rapturous score, Mr. Prokofiev! And the dancers, per Russian reputation, were at once so powerful and so delicate: such leaps with the softest purr of landings. But what really sent me swooning was the dramatic forcefulness, the archetypal imagery everywhere. The sparse sets featured huge wheels (of fate) and towering, sword-like shafts, lit at the tips, tilting in from and constricting both sides of the stage, like the lowering of a drawbridge over the doomed love story. Mab, Shakespeare's fairy queen, wound her way through every scene, her face masked in black, foreshadowing and then impelling all of the fated deaths.

Photos of course were prohibited during the ballet, so I'm including a pre-production shot of the orchestra pit, balconies and stage with its majestic curtain.

Two days later and I still feel transported, as does Mom.

My Very Own Delivery

We have learned that Daniil will be delivered to us tomorrow. An orphanage staff member and driver will accompany Daniil on the three-hour trip from the baby home in Apatity to Murmansk, along with another little boy, a 1.5 year old to be named Gabriel by his adoptive parents. We ran into them last week at the baby home, a vivacious couple from Philly who adopted another Russian boy a few years back. Mom and I hope to eat a celebratory dinner with them tonight before the auspicious arrival of our two boys tomorrow morning.

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Missed out on the pregnancy, but I get to experience a delivery, of sorts, after all.

Breakfast in Murmansk

On my plate this morning from the buffet:

boiled white fish
boiled broccoli
blini with sour cream and jam
fried egg
banana
strawberry yogurt
pickled red pepper
prune
apricot
peas
croissant
brown nutty bread with Finnish butter
fried rice
feta cheese
fried tomato
smoked salmon
pickles
pastry with cheese and raisins
hot millet porridge
Lipton tea

(this is not to mention the herring, omelette, bacon, sausage, dried cereals, kefir, nuts and seeds I decided to forego)

Make a Joyful Noise

The award for "Most Exuberant Public Expression in Russia" goes to... (drumroll please)... the Hare Krishnas, processing through the streets of St. Petersburg.

Hare Krishna Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna Hare Hare
Hare Rama Hare Rama
Rama Rama Hare Hare

Mom had to hold me back. And when a siren sounded down the block, she was convinced the Russian police were coming to round up the Hare Krishnas, and me, dancing beside them.

Sweets

Pretty, huh? It's an unwritten rule: Every night, a slice of a different kind of chocolate cake in a little pastry shop across the street from our funky hotel. Decent cake, superb free WiFi. It's 10:30PM right now in St. Petersburg, dusk settling in. Tonight it was black forest cake with vanilla ice cream. Mom's hooked on the gelato.

Whirl-A-Gig

I took this short video last Wednesday when we arrived at the orphanage. Yeah, I know, I'm standing to the side filming, rather than picking up my boy who continuously flirts with danger. Yet he survives, my resilient little guy, and jumps right back in with the older girls. Watch as Daniil, dressed in yellow and blue and called "Danya" by the girls, brushes off his pants and his hat. Apparently he says to the girls: "Why did you throw my hat on the ground?" They didn't, of course; it flew off as he ran and then was flung round and round.

May my son forever have the strength and spirit to greet Life with such verve, such fearlessness.

Venice of the North

Mom and I have walked miles and miles, criss-crossing the canals and ulitsii (streets) of this city that modestly refers to itself as the Venice of the North. This is an enforced vacation in St. Petersburg, not one I would choose, and mostly it feels like we're biding time before we can scoop up Daniil from the baby home next Wednesday and whisk him off to Moscow to get him an American visa and then fly the heck home. But here we are, so why not keep an open mind and make the best of it? In gracious response, each day delivers its own unexpected pleasures and surprises.

When we visited the Hermitage on Tuesday, one surprise was a skinny old Russian woman, dressed plainly with only a few stubs for teeth, whom I kept bumping into in different exhibits. Her English meager, yet miles ahead of my Russian, she somehow found ways to communicate beautiful insights to me. We both stood in front of a simple sculpture of a bull's head made by Picasso, a worn leather bicycle seat for the head and iron handlebars for the horns. "Bull is life," the old woman said, looking straight into my eyes. "All life," she emphasized. "Picasso, Spain, bull, all life for him," she looked at me and nodded, waiting for a return nod of understanding from me. "Yes, da," I replied.
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Today's distinct pleasure was the Anna Akmahtova Museum, only a few short blocks from our hotel. I referenced Anna in an earlier posting (June 24) and now, having visited the Fountain House where she spent 30 years of her life, I am eager to learn and read more of her. Akhmatova is one of the courageous artists and intellectuals who chose to stay in Russia after the Bolshevik Revolution and then, again, during Stalin's reign of terror during which millions of Russians were imprisoned and/or killed. She remained and bore witness, and suffered great losses, as friend after friend was sent to gulags and never seen again. At one point Akmahtova's son was locked up in Leningrad. Every day for two years, she visited the prison to learn of his condition and petition for his release. As I embark on motherhood with my own son, I can only begin to begin to imagine the heartache and anguish of such powerlessness in the face of suffering by one you hold most dear in all the world.

Here is one of Akhmatova's poems written on a piece of birch bark by a prisoner in a gulag. He'd committed some of her poems to memory and wrote them down as a salve.

And here is Akhmatova's honorary doctorate from Oxford, awarded her in the early 1960s. The story goes that, a few days before her death, she went mushroom picking in her cap and gown.

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I'll end with Ahkmatova's poem "Lot's Wife," translated in the 1970s by Stanley Kunitz:

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And the just man trailed God's shining agent,
over a black mountain, in his giant track,
while a restless voice kept harrying his woman:
"It's not too late, you can still look back

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at the red towers of your native Sodom,
the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed,
at the empty windows set in the tall house
where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed."

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A single glance: a sudden dart of pain
stitching her eyes before she made a sound . . .
Her body flaked into transparent salt,
and her swift legs rooted to the ground.

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Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem
too insignificant for our concern?
Yet in my heart I never will deny her,
who suffered death because she chose to turn.

Simple Treasures

I shot these photos today in the Russian Museum in St. Petersburg. Just what is it about folk art that's so satisfying? Maybe the natural materials--rock, wood, moss--that hearken to our roots, ashes to ashes, dust to dust? Or child-like subjects that cross all cultures? Russian "mossies" (photo 3) remind me of the fairy creatures American kids like to build in wooded glens.

Russian Struggles

The New York Times has put out a call to Russians to film and submit videos about real life--and real-life challenges--in this big bear of a country that, 25 years post perestroika, is still far from democratic. Here are the first four videos, each about two minutes long, and worth the short investment of time if you want to get a crash course on life in the Russian Federation today. I photographed this grafitti on a wall near the Hermitage.

Autumn Leaves, St. Petersburg

Listening to live jazz tonight in a little club, I felt suddenly at home here in St. Petersburg. And a girl on sax: power!

Mom and I are spending our mandatory 10-day waiting period in this beautiful city. Until the court issues its decree on an official piece of paper, I do not have the right to take Daniil from the orphanage. I miss him terribly, but am also giving myself permission to luxuriate in this cosmopolitan lifestyle, punctuated by round-midnight hours. Soon enough it will be bed at 8PM with my boy. This is my last hurrah.

Walls and Ceilings, St. Petersburg

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The Hermitage, Eye Feast

Da! Judge Rules Yes

Da, da, da! Yes, yes, yes! It's official. Daniil has a forever Mom. And I, a forever son, a blessing. Oh, happy day! Or in the words of an unrestrained Facebook friend: "Holy shit!" And another: "Speechless." And another: "Horns are blowing."

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Ground-breakingly short 2.5 hour court hearing. I testified, along with the Baby Home director and the inspector from a state agency akin to our DSS. Cross examinations by the judge and state prosecutor. After a 15-minute recess and deliberation, the judge granted my petition to adopt Daniil.

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Daniil is being issued a brand new birth certificate. I pick this up, along with my son, after a 10-day waiting period required of all adoptive families, whether Russian or foreign.

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New name: Daniil Titus Sjostrom

New mother: Lisa Anne Sjostrom

Date of birth the same: May 8, 2007

We Celebrate...

... with what else, but Russian pancakes. These with lingonberry sauce instead of the traditional caviar and sour cream. I snapped this photo during our meal at Fusion, an upscale restaurant in Murmansk. Mom treated me, Tanya our translator and Denis our driver.

прелестный. Delicious.

Oh Yes! Judge Rules

llll Murmansk courthouse llllllllllll Tanya, Lisa, lucky shoes

This is my original posting after the court hearing. I pulled it at a certain point, feeling I'd revealed background information about Daniil that should remain private by nature, personal info for me and family members alone. But after much thought, I've decided to revive this post and allow all of you access, trusting that you have the respect and prudence never to discuss Daniil's birth family with him. I will talk with my son in my own time and own way that is best for him.
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***

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2.5 hours in Murmansk court. I wore my Mom's clothes and shoes on loan from Tanya, the kind translator, since my suitcase did not arrive until this evening.
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After the opening formalities, I stood up and gave a 20-minute speech, no notes, attesting to my desire and readiness to raise a child and to my love for Daniil. I was cross-examined by the judge, a 50-something-ish heavy set woman, as well as by the prosecutor for the Russian Federation, a young good-looking guy with a crooked nose dressed in a bright blue official uniform. "Your lifestyle is about to change entirely. Are you ready for this?... Daniil's mother abused alcohol and this may lead to behavioral problems with the boy. Will you send him back if this occurs?... You may meet a man who loves you but not your boy. What will you do?... You run a school for older children. Do you know how to relate to younger ones?... Has the orphanage fully informed you of the boy's medical difficulties?... You have a full-time job. What will happen to the boy during the day?... What if the boy is allergic to your two cats?... Are you being paid during your leave of absence to see the boy through the transition?..."
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Irina went next, the State inspector from a Russian agency akin to our DSS, and spent 25 minutes reviewing in detail the sad, sad circumstances of Daniil's birth family, from his mother to his uncle to both of his grandparents, all notorious in Apatity for their alcoholism, general ne-er-do-wellness, run-ins with the court system, and complete inability to care for a child. (Daniil's older sister Anna, 11, is in foster care with a woman, purportedly loving, who was Anna's soccer coach.) I barely held back tears as Irina described finding Daniil at 7 months, lying on the dirty apartment floor, covered with dirty clothes in lieu of a blanket, no food, no crib, only cheap vodka bottles in the 2-room flat. Oh my boy, my beautiful baby boy! The judge met my eyes at that moment and, perhaps this is simply projection on my part, but I'd swear was teary as well.
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Please join me in sending love and compassion to this unhappy family, lost in generational suffering. I pause to wonder how they came to be this way and know that they, like every family, have their own particular story. Leo Tolstoy's opening line from Anna Karenina naturally springs to mind: "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." If I have anything to do with it--and I do--this cycle of suffering will stop with Daniil and, I pray, with his sister Anna too.
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The baby home director, predictably no-nonsense, spoke of receiving Daniil, dirty, at 7 months, and of her desire to smack Daniil's mother when she showed up again one year later, drunk, to see her boy for the first time. (The mother was refused entrance.) The director described Daniil's "cleverness" and how he is "one of the best" the orphanage has to offer. She applauded my credentials and interactions with Daniil during my two visits, first in February and then over the past few days. She closed with two strong statements: "This boy will need no help from a psychologist. My only recommendation is love.... Every child deserves a home. I am in full approval of this adoption."

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The handsome young prosecutor weighed in as well: "Given that no one in the family is capable or desires to raise this boy, and given that no Russian family wants to adopt him, I am in approval."

The court adjourned for 15 minutes after which the judge re-entered, stern faced, and re-stated official facts about the court and the state. Then she directed us all to rise for her ruling. "The Russian Federation approves Lisa Anne Sjostrom's petition to adopt."

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Oh, happy day! Or in the words of an unrestrained Facebook friend: "Holy shit!" And another: "Speechless." And another: "Horns are blowing." Oh yes! I hugged the translator, the orphanage director, the state inspector. Then I untied and handed the translator back her lucky shoes and slipped on my Fred Perry sneakers. l

Rare Moment, Sitting Still

Chasing Pigeons

Two days with this rambunctious little boy. Pure glee! Mad dash and made plane from Moscow to Murmansk with 1 minute to spare, luggage lost by Aeroflot, but all minor glitches compared to the momentousness of what's going on here.

There is so much to say about so much, major and minor, from the sun setting at 11:15PM and rising at 12:30AM, to the delicious blini with caviar for dinner (every night, if I have my way), to Boris our insanely aggressive driver in Moscow who laughs wickedly as he brushes by cars on the super freeway, to the no-nonsense jowly orphanage director smoking Winstons, to the disconsoling dreariness of the Soviet architecture, to the avoidance of eye contact and resolute refusal to smile by Russians on the street...

All secondary, of course, when it comes to Daniil and the other children I've had the privilege to meet in the wonderful Apatity Baby Home, purportedly one of the three best in Russia, out of hundreds if not thousands of orphanages. I'm not sure if Daniil remembered me and Baba (my mom, his grandma), but he warmed up within minutes. He's a whirlwind of energy--all boy--although I had energy to match him when I was three too--all girl--and still do now! We had the chance to play outside with 30 other children in his age group. One boy had no legs; the caregivers wrapped a canvas bag around his waist so he could drag and swing himself around the sandbox. He insisted on plopping himself in my lap. And then there was the little girl with Downs Syndrome who threw herself into my arms, clamped me in a leg-lock, and called me "Mama." Heart breaking. And another little girl with green eyes who said not a word.

All the while, Daniil was the little diplomat--when not tearing around the dirt playground, nose to the ground, vrooming a yellow truck at high speed. He cycled from group to group of children, stopping to swing, to slide, to play, then made himself at home on a bench with an adult couple and their little girl. I'd look over now and then, from my perch at the sandbox, surrounded by Russian children handing me dirt and sand (I pretended to eat), and there he remained, chatting away with the two adults and their child.

One of many favorite moments. We took Daniil into town to get photos for his Russian passport. Likely he's been into Apatity only once or twice before, if ever. He was mesmerized, literally bumping into things as his little head swiveled from side to side, taking in a puddle here, an old man there, a bright sign, a bunch of pigeons. Pigeons! Fun to chase and compel to fly a yard or two in the air! Then chase again! And again! And... a giant truck, oh no! (I pulled him out of the way in time.)

It's late, 11PM, still light, feels like 6, need to get to bed for the big court date tomorrow. I rehearsed this afternoon with my translator. She's represented many other families in court and said she's never heard anyone better prepared. In fact, I didn't prepare one wit. I only spoke the truth from my heart and, as is apparent to all who know me, shyness ain't one of my trademarks.

So barefoot if need be (shoes are in my lost suitcase somewhere in Moscow), I'll show up tomorrow and plead my case for my little solnyshko. I trust all will go well. God's will be done. May the blessings continue to unfold...