And Zen What

In international adoption parlance, "Gotcha Day" is the term for the day when you and your about to be forever child come together. I've had two of them in China. Neither one were Hallmark card experiences. They were what they had to be.

Five's Gotcha Day started in a meeting room in a municipal building. A bare linoleum floor, some couches and a coffee table, some not so easy chairs. It could have been anywhere.

We waited, One and I, with our guide and the other mother who was about to meet her daughter for the first time. I was prepared, I thought. I knew that the son I was about to meet would not see what was about to happen to him in the same light I saw it. He was, to all intents and purposes, about to be kidnapped by a woman who looked wrong, smelled wrong, sounded wrong. The security of a highly regulated life, a life in which he knew what would happen and in what order every single day, was about to be blasted to smithereens.

In fact, that process had already started. The day before he had had the first trip of his five and a half year old life. The first train ride. The first huge city. The first night of sleeping in a strange bed. The first 24 hours of being the only child in the company of a familiar adult.

They no doubt had explained what was about to happen to him. He'd seen the little photo book I'd sent. It had pictures of his new family in it, his new house, his new bed. But I knew that it was all just background noise to him, if even that. Kids are very concrete thinkers. Even the most intelligent child (and, it would turn out, Five is incredibly smart) would have no way of understanding the decisions so many adults had made for his own good.

I'd seen a lot of pictures of him. This was a 'waiting child,' also known as a 'special needs,' adoption. China's process for these kids is unique. You apply for preapproval of the child in a letter which details how you will deal with his special need, how you will raise him, how you will parent him, how you will love him as your own and provide for him after your death. The agency to whom the child has been assigned investigates you and writes a letter on your behalf. Then you wait til your 'letter of intent' (known in adoption listserv lingo as an LOI) passes through the preapproval process and you get the word (your 'PA') back that you are going to be allowed to adopt this particular child. Then begins the 'paper chase,' the approval process again, and finally you get word that you can travel (your 'TA') to China to receive the incomparably precious gift of a child.

So there I was, mama-in-waiting. Then the door opened, and I was Five's mama.

The Director of his SWI and one of the nannies had made the long trip with him. She was a lovely, talkative, friendly woman who paid intense attention to him, touched him, hugged him, and talked talked talked to him. He was eating it up, basking in the attention, exploring the room (but always touching base at the Director's lap after a few minutes). Hyper-stimulated, clearly nervous, but having a terrific time. He moved at warp speed. One had a hard time getting pictures (and she's a very good candid photographer).

Five was also, clearly, quite the little ladies' man. He was smitten by our guide (and remained so for the next week and a half--and fortunately for all of us she returned the favor).

I knew from experience that he was not going to rush into my arms. I'd brought a toy truck and a ball and some snacks--yep, bribes. They worked for a few seconds at a time.

Inevitably, the moment arrived: it was time for the Director and nanny to leave the room.

Once Five realized what was happening, he howled, long and hard. He tried to escape from the room and succeeded several times. He went limp when I picked him up to bring him back, weeping loud and hard. He ran wildly around and around the room when we locked it. He kept shrieking, piteously, heartbreakingly, "MAAAAAAAAAMA!!!! MAAAAAAAAMAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!"

He did not mean me.