Trip Two of Three

Return to Latvia

The now familiar fairytale-like forests came into view from my window seat on the last leg of our fifteen-hour journey back to Latvia.  Even though we’ve only been gone just under three months, the vivid green splendor of the trees here had faded some from memory. It was a welcome sight indeed as it signaled the beginning of our second of three required adoption visits. This one includes our “Gotcha Day.” The day when the adoption is final in the eyes of Latvian law.

We left on Tuesday, August 16th, traveled uneventfully, and arrived in Riga on Wednesday, August 17^th.  It’s always a mind and body challenge to lose a full calendar day to hauling luggage, catching connecting flights, and trying to remain dignified while publicly sleeping sitting up. But at last we had arrived.

We stayed at the Albert Hotel, which I highly recommend if you ever find yourself in Riga. The whole motif is chalkboards, equations, and Einstein quotes. The clocks behind the reservations desk are labeled Riga Time, Past Time, Unreal Time and Relative Time. The staff speaks English, and they have a bountiful breakfast buffet included in the price.

This time we rented a car from the airport, since David is now a seasoned Latvia driver. On Thursday morning we left for Ventspils. The Gutweins loaned us their GPS, which is a good thing because we never would have made it out of the narrow streets and chaos of downtown Riga without it. The two and a half hour drive has become familiar, with thick trees lining the streets and hindering road construction every few miles.

Another Reunion

At last we arrived in Ventspils, and made our way back to Selga where Baiba and Agnese have lived since they were eighteen months and four years old respectively. We didn’t have a cell phone with us to alert them of our arrival, so we walked in the back door, went up to the fifth floor where their room is and found them in the hallway. After big hugs and a small chat in their room Baiba said, “Is anybody hungry?”

And with that, we checked into our hotel and all went to Pupedis, which was a favorite pizza spot of ours on the last trip. Latvians love pizza and are unusually creative about what they use for toppings. Agnese and I ordered a Hawaiian pizza. At the mention of this, fellow Hawaiian pizza fans are salivating at the very thought of ham, pineapple and cheese nestled on a tasty bed of red pizza sauce. This one was chicken, pineapple, cheese, and I’m pretty sure mayonnaise.

If you’ve read any of my past blog posts, you may remember that husband, David is a very picky eater. He had ordered a ham, sausage, and cheese pizza, imagining Italian sausage, of course, and the usual red pizza sauce as well. I casually mentioned later on that I thought there might have been mayonnaise on my pizza, and he replied, with quiet distaste and disbelief, that he thought he had detected both ketchup and mayonnaise on his. Condiments of any kind are his mortal enemies, second only to fiendish vegetables, and there was nothing Italian about the sausage. But he hadn’t said a word or made a grimace. I think he didn’t want anything to spoil our first meal reunited with the girls.

Before arriving, we had been told that our little guesthouse was not available for this trip and we would be staying in the quaint B&B we had stayed in our first night of the first trip. We were disappointed because the two-bedroom room was very small with the tiniest bathroom imaginable. It was hard to picture how we were going to manage with two appearance-conscious teenage girls, one middle-aged woman in need of daily repair, and poor David, the only man.

Agnese had heard about this arrangement and took matters into her own hands. She somehow insisted with someone somewhere along the way that we needed separate rooms right next to each other so we would each have our own baths. She got this done for the same price that one large room for four was going to cost. Well done, Agnese! Immediately much of our stress over logistics was alleviated. Our room is cozy and charming and the shower actually has doors that close, which is a real luxury.

The mood among all four of us started out very reserved. David and I are keenly aware that this is the part of the process that is the hardest on Baiba and Agnese. They are excited to come to America, but right now they only feel a strong sense of loss. For the last few weeks they have been giving things away, cleaning the only room they’ve known since they were small, and saying goodbye to treasured friends and long time orphanage caregivers. We told them that we knew they would have plans with friends in the evenings and that was fine with us.

Gotcha Day

Today was the big day. I had trouble sleeping last night, not only for obvious reasons, but also because our hotel is located on a very busy street. It’s warm enough that we need to keep our window open which let’s in a lot of light and traffic noise. I woke up early in the morning with that feeling you get when you know you’re coming down with a cold, so I downed some Airborne and went back to sleep for a couple of weird-dream filled hours.

We met the girls at 9:00 a.m. for breakfast, and the mood was still subdued. It’s funny because everyone asks if we’re excited, and if the girls are excited; and on some level we are. But after all this time, it’s a very different kind of excitement than I thought it would be. It’s not like expectant children on Christmas morning, because it’s much more life altering than that. It’s not like waiting to meet up with a cherished loved one or friend you haven’t seen in a long time, because our relationship is too undeveloped.

It’s more like planting a garden, not with seeds, but with almost fully- grown plants. The gardener eagerly anticipates what the garden will look like, if all goes well, but doesn’t know what it will actually yield under his care. Newly transplanted flowers always droop a little at first. There’s work to be done and things to be learned about the nurturing needs of the plants. It’s a protected excitement.

After breakfast, we got ready to go to court. We rode quietly in the car, not to Children’s Court, but to the official courthouse this time. Daina, our Latvian attorney, was there to meet us. She asked me if I was nervous. I have to admit that up until that moment I hadn’t felt very nervous at all, but once it was suggested I should be, I thought I’d better be; so I was.

Our interpreter, a different one this time, arrived just in the nick of time. She was clearly flustered. Instead of being in an office with chairs pulled around a table, we were in a courtroom complete with benches, a criminal box, and a podium to address the judge. Instead of several warm, friendly ladies, there was one woman assisting a somewhat tired and grumpy looking man. He was large and imposing with a beard growing in. If he were cast in a movie, he would play himself.

And Latvia?

The judge had each of us stand and tell him our adoption story. Our interpreter seemed to have trouble keeping up, and she spoke very quietly, so we missed quite a bit of what transpired. Suddenly the attorney was whispering how I should answer a question I hadn’t known was asked. It was a little nerve-wracking.

He asked me what we had in mind for the immediate future of the girls. I told him they would go to school and if they wanted to go on to college we would help them with that. He said, “And Latvia?”

I responded that we would come back to see their sister and friends. To which he responded, “For visits?”

I knew what he was getting at. The youth in Latvia are leaving in droves because the economy is so bad. There is very little opportunity to find work of any kind. The fact that the young workforce is leaving is not helping their country. He heaved a sigh when I responded, “Yes.”

Then it was the girls’ turn to talk. Our soft-spoken interpreter made it just about impossible to know what they said. Agnese, usually the more emotionally reserved of the two, cried a little as she explained to him that she couldn’t honestly say she loves us as parents yet, but she does feel a connection to us.

This was not surprising, nor hurtful to hear. Our tremendous feeling of love for them has come from being unexpectedly cast in a divine plot. We know they like us, and we are hopeful that they will grow to love us. I think most mothers of newborns must feel an instant sense of love, but the baby is probably initially only responding to being dependent. Baiba spoke much longer than Agnese did, and had her emotions well in check. She told a long story about our coming to Selga, and their visit to America, and our long wait for the adoption. She appeared very confident.

The judge dismissed us at noon and said he would announce his verdict at 2:00. We felt like it ought to be in the bag after all the hoops we had jumped, and I couldn’t help but wonder what he’d be mulling over for two hours while we killed time.

The courthouse is right near an open-air market. Baiba was dying for some blueberries so we purchased a container of blueberries for her, and raspberries for Agnese. We strolled around munching on the fresh fruit and pondering our future. Then we joined our lawyer and Marite, the orphanage director, at a nearby coffee shop, and had something to drink.

The Verdict

Two o’ clock finally arrived. Daina met us at the door, pointed to the courtroom, and in her Latvian dialect said, “We can go.”

I repeated, “We can go?” and wondered why I suddenly had a Latvian dialect too. I guess as actors, David and I just have a tendency to pick up what we’re hearing.

As we waited for the judge, Daina said that when he arrived we should stand and remain standing as he read the verdict. I had never thought of it as a verdict before, more like a decision; which is a verdict but friendlier.

The tall, somber judge entered and began speaking fluidly and quickly. Our mediocre interpreter didn’t have a chance. At one point Daina leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t worry about what he is saying.”

It was about then that the judge asked the interpreter why she wasn’t interpreting, and she began again. When the rambling verdict was all over, the judge, without another look in our direction, turned and walked out of the room. Everyone was smiling, so we assumed it had gone as we had hoped. Daina confirmed that it was approved, and congratulated us on having two new daughters. It was from that point on all four of us began to behave more like ourselves. The sense of reserve in all of us began to melt away. The girls started giggling in the car again and the subject of lunch was introduced.

As the temperature dropped, and rain began to fall, Agnese pointed out how we had previously determined this was a sign of good luck, since it rained on our wedding day, on our first adoption court date, and now on August 19, 2011; our Gotcha Day. We drove to an outdoor restaurant covered in a large canopy. The restaurant provided blankets for us to wrap around our shoulders as we ordered and ate lunch with Agnese Rose and Baiba Rose Payne.

Loss and Gain

We recently attended a wedding and ran into some friends of ours—a young couple with two small children, a boy and a girl. It worked out great since they were the only other guests we knew and vice versa. This convenient happenstance allowed all of us to have people to dine and converse with at the reception. 

It was a festive reception with wonderful Mexican food and a mariachi band. Not far into the festivities the little girl began to cry. She had somehow hurt herself, but between the volume of the music and her tearful delivery of information, her mother really wasn’t sure exactly what had happened. It made no difference to her. She placed her sobbing daughter on her lap and began to rock and comfort her. She gently kissed her, spoke words of understanding in her ear and stroked her head, all the while lovingly holding the little girl close to herself. Very quickly the child surrendered to the pacification of her mother’s touch, and all was right with the world again.

I watched and thought about all the hours of adoption training that warned us of feelings of loss—feelings the adopted child will have, and feelings adoptive parents have. A quiet sort of sadness surfaced as I recognized the mutual loss my daughters and I share. I will never hold a tiny little Baiba or Agnese on my lap and kiss their heads to make it better, and they will never experience a mothering moment quite like that.

I look at the handful of photos of them as toddlers and little girls that we’re lucky enough to have, and long to know how it would have felt to hold them, smell their hair and hear the rhythm of their breathing as they slept. I can almost imagine it.

Loss is a funny thing. It’s something we have to recognize and validate, but it’s not a healthy place to live. I know I’ll have more feelings like this as time goes on, and the girls eventually will have to deal with a great sense of loss as the reality of living in a new culture takes hold. However, I pray that we will all primarily celebrate the sense of gain in this new family of ours. I’ll have my own unique maternal experiences. No tiny heads to kiss but emerging butterflies that I’m privileged to watch take flight. What a gift. 

Return to America

Two Months Not Two Years

Daina, our wonderful Latvian attorney, came to meet us at Children’s Court on Thursday. We had to stay for a while afterwards in order for some papers to be completed, so she and her son, who was our driver, went to lunch with the four of us.

Daina laughed and laughed at everything Baiba said. She told us, “She is so funny! I wish you knew Latvian because everything she says is funny.”

We had kind of gathered that because she is very funny in English too, and every time she was with friends she had them in stitches as well. One of the things Daina found particularly funny was Baiba’s description of a milkshake she had not been very happy with. She said it was like fruit and milk that someone mixed together and some ice cream accidentally fell in.

After the paperwork was completed, Daina drove us all back to Selga where we had to say goodbye to the girls. There we stood at the back door that they had bounced out of only two weeks before. While David hugged Agnese, I gave Baiba a very long hug, and then instinctively started rocking her. She willingly rocked with me and it occurred to me that she had possibly never been rocked before in her life. We finally broke the hug; I kissed her cheek and she said with me, “Be safe. Be smart. Be strong.”

Agnese allowed a hug but only for a short time. She is not one for big displays of affection. She said to us, “It’s only two months this time, not two years.”

So true.

We instructed them to think of our skeptical faces when they’re making plans, and to try to think before they do. Then they went inside, and we got back in Daina’s car and drove away.

It’s In the Eyes.

Never having been comfortable with public crying, I blinked back my tears and started a conversation with Daina. I told her that we were surprised at how people stared at us while we were there. I didn’t see a big difference between how we look and how Latvians look. Yet we drew stares everywhere we went and were consistently greeted in English rather than Latvian. I asked what set us apart.

She said, “I can tell you exactly what it is. I always know an American, especially an American man, the minute I see one because their eyes look happy. Latvians are very sad people. They are really struggling for money right now; they can’t feed their families. They’re tired and discouraged. It’s in the eyes; Americans have happy eyes.” 

Wow. Yes, Americans do have happy eyes. It was a great reminder that even those of us who are economically categorized as middle, or even lower middle-class have much more wealth than the vast majority of struggling souls in this world.

We’re not only richer monetarily; we also enjoy freedom, free enterprise, freedom of speech, and freedom of religion. Ironically the words describing America’s greatest riches all start with the word free. In Latvia’s long history, it has been occupied time and time again by different countries and has only been liberated from Soviet occupation since 1991. No wonder Latvia’s citizens, especially the older ones have sad eyes. This resonates with me even more significantly on this Memorial Day.

“Hell”-sinki

David and I spent our last night in Latvia in a nice hotel in downtown Riga. It was the beginning of a slow reentry to what’s more commonplace for us. We heard a lot more of our language because the hotel staff all spoke English. We had a nice dinner in the hotel restaurant and dared to have ice in our water.

We still had all those suitcases, and now the two we’d brought with Sunday school supplies had some of the girls’ belongings in them.

On Friday we took the short flight from Riga to Helsinki, this time on a small jet instead of the puddle-jumper we had on the way in. Once we were in Helsinki we had to pass through a rather intense security process at the gate. Each passenger was asked a series of questions and then allowed into the boarding area. Off to the side was a corralled section for random searches.

David and I were two of the first passengers to arrive, so fortunately the line was very short for us. However, in the time remaining before boarding was scheduled, the line grew very long.

We were intrigued by the people they were taking into the private area for extra screening, mostly elderly women including one in a wheelchair. Thank goodness they were giving those villainous ne’er-do-wells a second look.

Just as boarding was set to begin, everything came to a grinding halt. After a few minutes they announced that there was a problem with one of the engines and there would be a slight delay.

Three and a half hours of “slight delay” later we were finally on the plane. Delays are inconvenient enough but to have that long to wait before a nine and a half hour flight was cruel and unusual punishment. To add to the torture, we were in our little quarantined area and unable to easily get to restrooms, vending machines or shops. Of course we were very grateful that the problem had been discovered, and it’s way better to be safe than sorry when it comes to flying over the Atlantic. However, by the time we boarded, it was a plane full of hungry, grumpy people, one and all knowing that connecting flights in Chicago would be missed.

The scene at O’Hare was chaotic and stressful with everyone learning their fate as decided by American Airlines. We ended up with a voucher for a very nice hotel including $5 for breakfast the next day. Of course $5 for two people in Chicago buys about half a glass of orange juice, but it was better than a sharp stick in the eye, and the layover provided a nice chance to get a head start on our jet lag recovery.

 

Super-sized

The next day we returned to O’Hare early for our flight, and had lunch at Chili’s To Go. We laughed at how huge everything looked. Our glasses, packed with ice, looked like pitchers to us. The burgers were the size of our heads, and even the tables looked enormous. The bed in our Chicago hotel felt like sleeping on a soft, tall cloud.

This morning we went grocery shopping and it was like a trip to an amusement park. It was great to see all the wonderful selection of fruit, to be able to read the labels and know what and where everything was. I have taken my life here so for granted.

Our time in Ventspils was mind-expanding, character building and soul satisfying. I am very grateful that Latvia makes this requirement of adoptive parents; grateful that God has cast us as main characters in this divine plot; and grateful to our many friends and family members that have supported us to make this dream come true. I will treasure forever the memories of this first adoption trip to Latvia.

All Creature Comforts Great and Small-Part Three

The Fire is So Delightful

Last Friday as I was getting dressed in our hotel in Riga, I noticed that my clothes smelled like a campfire. I was immediately transported back to our little guesthouse in Ventspils. The first week it was cold enough that David had to light the fireplace. Apparently it is not uncommon in Latvia for some people to have limited electric heat vents while a wood-burning fireplace provides the rest of the heat for the house.

We have a fireplace in our home in Lakewood that we find very quaint and charming on cold winter nights around Christmas. David is great at creating a roaring fire. He pops in a Dura-flame log and with a stroke of a match the job is done. We’re not quite as sophisticated as other people we know that merely flip a switch to create a warm gas fire flickering around fake logs, but we do what we can.

However, this fireplace was different. It had a function and a purpose, to keep the whole house warm. It was jam packed with beautifully split wood, and on the hearth were little fuel-soaked white squares and a box of matches—couldn’t be simpler. David meticulously placed the small Styrofoam-like squares strategically around the stack of wood, and started lighting matches.

After he’d gone through about half a box of the handy dandy starter cubes, it became apparent that this was not going to be as easy as it seemed. I came over to help by blowing on the embers while he moved the wood around and, in an exercise in futility, continued lighting matches.

I thought, “Now how is it that some careless person flicks away a cigarette butt and ignites an entire forest, but all the kerosene and matches in the world will not kindle one small pile of wood?” At last, with a little more effort, we had achieved an anemic but steadfast flicker.

Next, David tried to remember what our Russian landlady had instructed about the multiple flues. One was to be slid to the left, one left open, and one not to be touched. Unsure of what she said, or which was which, he just moved levers around and hoped for the best. Meantime, the flimsy flame was fizzling. Right about then, Baiba came home. She said, “What you are doing?”

“Trying to get the fire going.” David responded.

“Why you don’t do this?”

And with that she pulled out a knob and, boom, there was a healthy roaring fire. She obviously knew something we didn’t about how to get helpful oxygen into the mix. It was just one more example of our dependence on the girls while in their territory.

Eventually David became quite adept at building and lighting the fire. The girls asked the landlady for kindling, which helped tremendously, and we had all the firewood we needed. The hearty supply seemed to be directly connected to the fact that the landlady had two teenage sons who came home on weekends to help around the house. Agnese requested more wood, and before you knew it we had enough to tide us over from now through Christmas 2012.

Even with David’s newfound skill, this was not an efficient heating system; the girls froze and we sweltered. Every evening our room would fill for a time with hazy smoke, and in the morning our lids had to be peeled from our dried out eyeballs. Eventually the weather became warm enough that we didn’t need to light the fire. It’s funny, but I’m going to miss that fireplace.

Julie Payne and The Six Dwarf Beds

Our little guesthouse had enough beds to sleep six. I’m not going to say six adults because the idea of six full-sized human beings in that tiny house is a little frightening. Three of the beds were in our room, two were in the girls’ room, and one was in the bathroom. Don’t picture enormous rooms; picture tiny beds.

The beds were about two feet off the ground with teensy little headboards. They were long enough for someone who at maximum is about 5 feet nine inches tall; they had no box springs and the mattresses were about three inches thick, tops.

The mattresses and the pillows were reminiscent of sacks of flour. Trying to fluff up the pillows was like trying to fluff up a punching bag. There was absolutely no give, and no dent in the pillow in the morning where our heads had been.

In spite of it all, I slept really well there, and so did David. I don’t know if it was a hidden benefit of jet lag, the fact that the days were long and the nights were short, or just the contentment of knowing that two Sleeping Beauties were fast asleep in the next room. All I know is Snow White couldn’t have slept more sound.  

So Many Memories, So Little Time

I had such good intentions of writing everyday and logging each moment spent with the girls. The reality is, with two teens in a small house, and not a whole lot to do, computer time has to be rationed. I’m finally getting my turn after 10:00 p.m. Latvia time.

So here are some highlights.

Boiling Over

Monday, May 16^th was our thirtieth anniversary, and the girls made dinner for us. It was bar none the best and most memorable anniversary celebration we’ve ever had. We all sat at our small table, Agnese in her robe because she was getting ready to go out later, and we talked and laughed and had a great time.

This was also the evening Marite, the orphanage director, decided to drop by for tea. Marite, a social worker, and the judge will all be making visits to see how we’re doing. Monday was the day I had sort of hit a wall with adjusting to the culture, the overwhelming release of emotion I was feeling at finally being with the girls, stressing over appropriate Latvian etiquette, and simply general overload.

Marite came just as the girls were making dinner, the potatoes were boiling over, and they were arguing with each other. She flew into the kitchen to help, and I stood by horrified that this was the moment she had arrived. I mouthed to David, “Perfect.” Then we all sat down for tea, coffee, and cookies.

The three of them chatted away in Latvian. Baiba tried to get Marite to convince me to buy the five inch heels she wanted, and Agnese showed her the dress she had gotten for her big

upcoming 9^th grade party. As I smiled and nodded, I sat fretting about whether this was the time I was supposed to give Marite the gift we brought for her or not.

After she left, we had our lovely dinner, and David pointed out that Marite had indeed arrived at the perfect moment. The girls were being completely themselves, no pretense, and no stress. She knows them better than we do, and she had seen exactly what she’d hoped to.

Shopping, Running, Bonding, and Humpala

What better way for females to bond than shopping? Both girls have had big occasions coming up at the end of the school year. These occasions required pretty clothes, so off we went to the stores.

It’s been fun to see what kind of taste they have in clothing. Unfortunately for our bank account they are not the orphan waifs one might think of in these situations, content with whatever meager hand me down might come their way. Baiba calls undesirable clothing, “humpala” (hoom-pa-la). Which I learned was a term for secondhand items. 

All of our adoption training assured us that they would probably not even be certain of their sizes, let alone have any real sense of fashion. By the way, ninety percent of our adoption training had nothing to do with teens, and they obviously never met Baiba and Agnese.

These girls know what they like, and although politely mindful of how much things cost, they like to look quite sophisticated and grownup—sometimes too grownup in my opinion. But you have to choose your battles carefully.

I would be curious to know how many fellow moms out there have agreed to something in the store, as a result of sheer fatigue, and once home see the item on your little girl and shudder. I can’t help but think back to my teenage years with Sizzle Skirts and low cut hip huggers. Sorry, mom.

Baiba especially wants to grow up fast fashion-wise. Today she was all decked out in her leggings, heels (no, I didn’t get the five inch ones), and animal print top. She has a new haircut that looks adorable, and she applies her makeup very nicely—not too overdone. She looked every inch a model, until at lunch she speared a large round piece of meat with her fork and gnawed around the edges like a little girl. She is very much in that bridge time. She wants to wear tall womanly heels and run to the skate park to play.

All the consternation aside, shopping has been a great way to bond with the two of them. I decided to buy a pair of shoes for myself while we were out, and their eyes lit up like Christmas trees. They were so excited that I was joining in the fun. Then they were very concerned that David was the only one that didn’t get new shoes.

When we got home they asked if I wanted to go for a run with them. I agreed, prefacing it with the fact that it’s been a long time since I’ve gone for a run, and they’d need to go easy on me. I didn’t clarify that “a long time” meant since I was about ten.

They were so sweet jogging along side of me. Baiba who could have run twenty circles around me, paced herself to stay right by my side. Agnese would run ahead and then loop back. She kept her eyes trained on me the whole time. I think she was worried that I would fall over or pass out or something. The best part was the cool down. We walked around the neighborhood, and had a great heart-to-heart about many things. My sore legs the next two days were well worth it.

Have I mentioned that I love these girls?

The Pearl of Latvia

We Go With Legs

Ventspils is a beautiful town filled with wonderful people. It is a port city on the deep blue Baltic Sea, claiming just fewer than 44,000 citizens. As is true throughout Latvia, the people here love music and flowers. There are flower shops on just about every corner and people on the streets are routinely seen carrying colorful bouquets to bring as gifts for friends or family.

The principal of Baiba’s school said that Ventspils is called, “the pearl of Latvia.” David and I would have to agree. For almost two weeks now we’ve driven and walked the narrow cobblestone and paving stone streets. We’ve eaten the food, soaked in the scenery, and grown accustomed to the sound of the melodic language.

The girls like to go out walking in the evenings. They link up with friends and go wherever they feel like going. At first we didn’t understand this and had reservations about letting them go, but they explained that it is common here. They say, “This is normal. We go with legs—all here do this.”

The patterns of the sun in Latvia have fashioned a night owl culture in the warmer months. Families, teenagers, and elderly can be seen out walking as late as 11:00 p.m. No one seems the least bit wary as they “go with legs” in the familiar late night light.

We Wait. We Always Waiting

Getting to know our daughters in their native country has been a moment in time together like no other. Our only purpose and agenda in the past two weeks has been to be with them. It’s too bad every parent doesn’t get this kind of opportunity to have time set aside that is exclusively about their children.

We heard from everyone who knows Agnese that she is bright, responsible and polite. She is much more confident and outgoing here than she seemed when they visited us in America in 2009. She has enthusiastically enjoyed our time together, even for what seems to us like the simplest things. She told David how nice it is to have someone pick her up from school. Usually she and Baiba take the city bus. She said, “We wait. We always waiting.”

She is very excited about being adopted and coming to the U.S., but doesn’t fully understand yet what a miracle it is that this is happening.

Baiba has a heart of gold. She loves animals, and connects herself with the underdogs of this hard world. Today she insisted that we go to the store for bread and sugar cubes but she wouldn’t tell us why. Then we got in the car and she directed us to a stable outside of Ventspils where she used to work. She would clean out stalls and take care of the horses in exchange for riding time. Baiba can be a bit capricious, and I think she needed for us to see her in the environment that completely grounds her. She snuggles up to us like a warm puppy, and loves it when we tell her to “be safe, be smart, be strong” when she goes out.

Tomorrow we will leave Ventspils and two of its pearls behind. We’ll go back to Colorado and our usual routines, and Baiba and Agnese will go back to living in an orphanage, eating only what the food service workers prepare, waiting hours for the city bus, and having no one ask where they are going or what time they’ll be back.

This time when we say goodbye, our hearts will not be broken but full. Knowing that we’ll definitely return in about two months to bring them home will help all four of us endure this latest separation. Our Monday afternoon phone calls will be richer because we can visualize where they’ve been and what they’ve been doing. David and I will continue nesting and preparing for their arrival with a refreshed understanding of who they are and what they like.

God’s perfect timing, grace, and provision will reunite us at the cusp of another season, and the beginning of a new life. Meantime, we wait.

All Creature Comforts Great and Small-Part Two

Clog Blog

In addition to adjusting to the shower and the Russki washing machine, we also have had a very interesting request from our landlady concerning the toilet. Two days into our stay, she called and Baiba answered. There was a brief conversation and then Baiba hung up the phone. “That was Inga.”

“What did she want?” I inquired.

“She say we need to not put toilet paper in toilet.”

“What?” I asked, certain that Baiba must have gotten this wrong.

“She say we not put toilet paper in toilet. It’s not very big and it will clog, so we need put in trash.”

I really wanted this to be a product of the language barrier but that notion was completely nullified by the fact that Baiba speaks Latvian and so does Inga.

You need to understand that I am a card-carrying germaphobe. Public restrooms are a challenge for me, and outhouses are completely out of the question. I am amazed at the miraculous capabilities of my body to ignore its basic needs if conditions aren’t just right. I delight in contemporary hands free public facilities, even if people do come off as bad mimes waving their hands incessantly in front of the automatic paper towel dispenser.

The Urban Dictionary defines a germaphobe as, “any person who is obsessed with cleanliness and defeating bacteria.” 

The landlady’s request was clearly going to be a very big deterrent in my battle to defeat bacteria. An unofficial germaphobe himself, David was no happier than I at this new turn of events.

We asked again if Baiba was sure. We somehow believed that if we asked enough times the answer would miraculously change. However, Baiba responded, “Yes, I’m sure. She said to be careful. She said it’s okay if we sometimes forget, but most times put in trash.”

David made up his mind right then and there that he was likely to “forget” pretty much every time. This is not really the place for details, suffice to say I’ve had to move into another dimension of consciousness, and the trash gets emptied often.

Coffee, Tea and Sympathy

David and I are not coffee drinkers and never have been. We enjoy tea of just about every kind, and especially the nectar of the gods, chai tea. My first stop the day after we return will be to Starbucks for a satisfying grande chai latte.

Here in Latvia, we have tea bags and a really great electric teapot that heats the water in an instant. This has been a very good thing since David spent the first five days here not feeling well. He caught a bad cold and really had trouble shaking it. The tea was some consolation as Baiba sympathetically delivered cups to him. 

Baiba likes red tea, and enjoys having her friends over in the afternoons to have tea with her. This is so cute I can barely survive it. Can you imagine American kids having their friends over for tea?

Agnese drinks coffee, and I was a little mystified by the fact that every morning there is about a half inch of sediment left in her cup. We thought she had instant coffee, but it never quite dissolves and always remaining is the sludge at the bottom. Not being coffee drinkers, there has never been any such thing for us as “a good cup of coffee;” but this looks over the top unappetizing.

I was concerned because I knew we would have social worker visits and would need to offer coffee. Since Agnese is a teenager, I wasn’t sure she was doing it right.

Then one day last week we went to visit Baiba’s school. Her English teacher did not want us to stay in the classroom during an exam, so she shuffled us off to the principal’s office and had someone bring us coffee.

David, who was not feeling well anyway, and is possibly the world’s pickiest eater, stared at the coffee cup like he had been sentenced to die before a firing squad. I was not much happier, but knew that with enough sugar almost anything can be made palatable.

We sat quietly in our prison sipping the hideous sugar packed brew, and there at the bottom was the familiar muck. David lifted the cup to his down turned mouth, choking down sip after sip. He could “hide not thy poison with such sugar…” Even die-hard coffee drinkers may have gagged.

I found the bright side in the fact that I now knew that Agnese was making the coffee correctly.  David garnered little consolation in this discovery. At long last, Baiba returned to take us with her to her next class. We left our half finished coffee on the principal’s desk, and tried to put the whole thing permanently out of our minds and palates.