And Zen What

The Director of Five's SWI (Social Welfare Institute) very clearly had an extremely close and loving relationship with him (he called her "mama," not the nanny).

That they had this connection is good. That may seem counter-intuitive, but one of the first things you learn in international adoption is that if a child has attached to someone before he joins your family, the chances that he will attach to you are enormously better.

And that is good.

But that is exactly what makes the first few days, in particular, so horribly hard--in fact, there's pretty much no way to exaggerate how hard it is.

Five had been the oldest child at the SWI. He'd been there since infancy. It was his home, his world, everything he'd ever known. According to the "child development report" he was very bright and very sociable. The report glowed with pride in this child, who'd appointed himself the unofficial meeter and greeter of the place. Whenever anyone arrived at the SWI, he'd open the door, usher the person in, greet them ceremoniously. When they left, he'd hold the door and send them on their way with polite ritual good wishes ("Good bye and walk carefully Aunty").

After the Director left the room at the Civil Affairs Office, he spent the next hour or so howling, sobbing, trying to escape. Finally he was reduced to a limp, whimpering bundle of misery huddled on the floor, refusing all sympathy.

Until, that is, our guide perked him up by telling him we were going shopping to buy him clothes. He accepted her hand and guidance as we departed. Even though I'd only known him for a short and pretty miserable (for him) couple of hours, I could almost see the wheels turning rapidly in his smart little head.

Yes, he wanted to shop. But he also had other plans.

He seemed busy and happy in the van on the way to the department store. He talked quite volubly and cheerily with the driver who seemed very amused by him (this was an experience that would be repeated many, many times during the next two weeks).

Later, I would discover that part of the driver's amusement stemmed from Five insisting over and over that he was going back to 'Mama' once he was done bagging the booty, and that it was the driver's job to drive the getaway vehicle.

We got out of the van.

I picked him up.

He arched his back and spat full in my face.

Blech.

I did not put him down.

Two's adjustment period had taught me that much.

They don't want to win these battles. They really don't. And they NEED not to.

So all I had to do was to figure out how to hang on to what felt like a ton or two of arched back spitting fury, clear my glasses enough to be able to see (One was there, but she's spit-phobic), and try not to fall off the curb into the insane traffic.

Piece of cake.

Compared, that is, to the next chapter.