A few things to mention at the outset, I’m not a blogger. In fact, I’ve never blogged and what blogs I have read have been few. So what I put forth I don’t know if it meets blogger standards. Second, English is like a second language for me (it is also why I married a woman with her M.A. in English Literature). So be ready for various comma splices, tense problems, etc. Third it is approximately 6 in the morning. Granted I actually awoke at 4 AM (not because of Matthew or anything), but for some reason my body kicks into gear around that time. I usually find myself reading . . . there is not much else to do in a hotel room in a foreign country. It does give me time to reflect and process (and we psychologists like to process).
With the disclaimers aside, I can begin. While one can anticipate and concoct various scenarios in one’s head about “Gotcha Day,” there is really no way to fully capture it in one’s mind. It is not until you gather up an assortment of toys, food, gifts, passports, etc. and load up into a van; before your start to realize “holy crap…this is not at all what I imagined”. Now with little less than 20 minutes before the van arrives at the Civil Affairs building (the place where you will meet your child) do you start to readjust your thinking and emotions. But what are you readjusting? You still don’t know anything. You are just driving in a van with other people. (In our case, the couple in front of us this is their second international adoption and they are also a mixed bag of emotions—not very comforting, mind you, for us newbies). Your wife, who you know so well, gives off the classic nonverbals of her anxiousness. We hold hands periodically, smile nervously at one another. “Are we there yet?” shouts our 4 year old companion in the van. While his mom politely addressed him, I’m thinking “I sure in the heck hope not. I’m NOT ready for this.”
Then the thoughts return of other times and spaces where I had similar feelings (e.g., birth of my other kids, marriage, etc.). This brings a bit of relief to me and more regulated breathing to avoid passing out. (Yes, people…at some of these other events I was in fact about ready to hyperventilate and pass out. I just looked composed—so I thought anyway.)
The time elapses quickly and we are now unloading in front of a less than stellar looking building. In fact, we are unloading at a side entrance of a very non-descript building. “What is this place? This is nothing what I envisioned. What in the world are we doing here again?!?…Oh yeah, Matthew…stay focused.” I look at the building again. “Oh come on…serious this is the building!?!”
A quick elevator trip up doesn’t bring much comfort either, especially as we exit. We are hit with deafening cries of babies and children (and parents too). Think large preschool classroom, but with more chaos and no teacher. I scan the room seeing some parents bewildered, others more anxious than I, still others overjoyed by holding their new child. The children are experiencing similar reactions in their own ways. A little girl, barely walking stands frozen and staring at her new father. Her hand tentatively grasping his hand. Another small child behind us wails for her “mommy” (AKA: her orphanage worker). Her new mom gently attempts to sooth her. I can imagine the pain of this new mother’s experience. The waiting, the hope and love to be met with a child wanting only the familiar—and you are not it. Another little one clings tightly to his adopted mother.
Pictures and tears abound. I’m overwhelmed and tears well up. There is beauty, pain, hope and nearly every raw human emotion sitting there for me. You can’t anticipate this. No book or story given by another adopted parent can describe this. This is my experience and mine alone. Here I am…sitting and soaking up all of this.
And yet, Matthew hasn’t even entered the room. We are still awaiting his arrival. How fitting I guess. Maya and Sam’s arrivals, although on their due dates, came at the hour they were ready…not on my timing. In a strange way, this familiar expectant father space of being fully present was a comfort for me. We are told Matthew’s on his way and he’ll be here shortly. Not that “shortly” means much for me at this point, but I take it in. Time goes by and other families are united or departing with their child. More pictures. More tears. More joy.
Then in walks a caregiver with a little person in her arms. The baby is dressed in blue, but with his head turned away. “That has got to be him,” I say to myself, but I don’t want to over do my anticipation and excitement as this my not be him. With a thumbs up and a little wink from our assistant Sarah, Annemarie and I make short time of the distance remaining that separate us all from uniting. Think Matrix…busy chaotic room becomes nearly motionless and quiet as I move through this space—effortless—towards my son. Matthew is passed off by a warm smiling woman, who seems just as out of place as we are. Matthew clings to Annemarie, and we all embrace.
I can’t do justice for the moments thereafter, not with words anyway. It is kind of like trying to describe some personal spiritual experience, a sunset or sunrise, birth of a child, etc. No words. Just tears. (Yes, I do cry. Guys who can cry and admit it are stronger than any dumb stoic image our USA culture and media attempts to instill).
“This is our son! This is my son!” these words evenly formulate within my head. I am proud, excited and blessed. Tears continue to well up for me even as I write. I look forward to my life moving forward with our new son today—who enters our family, our extended family and dear friends.
~Aaron
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