Michael's Gotcha Day!

When we caught our first glimpse of Michael, I could hardly believe he was there in person, the little boy whose photo we first saw five months ago today. But there he was, holding the hand of the woman who had brought him to meet us.

 

When he saw us, he got nervous and wouldn’t walk. So she had to carry him. When he wouldn’t let go of her, I had to pry her from his arms.

 

Who could blame him? We were strangers, and even though the orphanage staff tried to prepare him, he’s very young to understand what that photo book was all about.

 

And so we met. Michael cried. Mama cried. Baba cried.

It is so terribly hard to see your child grieving and not be able to comfort him because he doesn’t know who you are. John and I took turns holding Michael. We sang to him and murmured “Shen Shen,” which is the name he knows, and used some of the only Chinese we know to assure him that we love him. He wouldn’t look us in the eye much, but he held onto us tightly and nestled against our shoulders.

Meanwhile, we marveled at his handsome face, his full cheeks, his sparse, fuzzy hair, his terrific SpongeBob outfit, and what look like Playboy bunny sandals.

 

He’s so, so big—bigger than Louis was when we met him, and Louis was four or five months older. We offered Michael apple juice, which he rejected, and a cracker he held in one hand until it finally crumbled in the van on the way back to the hotel. His other hand clutched a white plastic bag containing snacks the orphanage nannies sent with him. The toy hammer we had brought along made him cry, so we gave up on that and just held him, sang and talked to him, and rubbed his back.

For a while we just set the camera aside (I know, you don't believe me). But then we got it back out. One day Michael will be glad we took so many photos.

And then one day maybe we'll get a family photo with everyone smiling.

Today that wasn't the goal. Today was about getting Michael in our arms and showing him that we are his parents.

Oh, and of course there was paperwork to sign. As a social worker for our home study agency says, “The only guarantee in adoption is that the paperwork never ends.” (And here's John filling out some paperwork. Ever read The Little Red Hen?)

We caught glimpses as the other two families with our agency met their daughters—one an energetic and adorable 3-year-old who bounced around the room with her proud big sister and the other a lovely, 16-month-old girl who cried without taking a breath the whole time we were there. So we ran the gamut of emotions, I’d say. Michael fell in the middle. He didn’t cry a lot. He was obviously tired and grieving, but he cried just briefly and then started again whenever we tried to inflict juice or the hammer toy on him.

We finally got to go back to the hotel. Michael was calm, but fragile. For a while toys made him cry and he refused to eat. Then we tried the juice in a bottle and he couldn’t get enough.

 

We opened the snacks he had brought in his plastic bag, and he ate a whole packet of crackers. 

 

Then he went back to the juice.

And more juice.

And still more juice. He was so hot and thirsty.



The room where we met Michael was not air conditioned--and Guangzhou in August is hot and humid.

Baba went to great lengths to hunt down a bowl of congee (a Chinese rice porridge) since we were told that was what Michael liked.
 
 

If you were following our trip to Louis two years ago, you may recall that we made this mistake once before. Just because the report says the child loves congee does not mean he will eat it. I’m sure some children do—just not ours.

So we sent 33 yuan worth of congee down the toilet and ate chocolate koala cookies instead.

“That’s something we have in common,” Baba told Michael. “I would cry too if someone tried to feed me congee.”

As the evening went on, we got to know each other. Michael decided he loved his stacking cups and played with them for a good chunk of the evening.

 

They became a security item--albeit an awkward one--and he held them as I carried him on a walk through the halls and rocked him to sleep.

 

He helped me dress him in pajamas that have now made their second trip to China. The third or fourth time he fell asleep in my arms I managed to slip him into bed without waking him.

Before he went to sleep, though—drum roll, please—we saw a few smiles. Michael tried to hold them in, but they slipped out. And we found a game he likes to play: Baba points at each of us and Michael says our names. “Baba…Mama…Shen Shen.”

I knew he’d call us Mama and Baba eventually, but I never thought I’d hear it from him the day we met.

And the heavens opened and the angels sang! Tomorrow may bring different challenges, but we’re on our way. Dear, sweet Michael, welcome to our family!