A weeklong journal of a hopeful father-to-be.
By Eric Weiner
Updated Tuesday, Dec. 27, 2005, at 7:05 PM ET
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From: Eric Weiner
Subject: Entry 1
Posted Monday, Dec. 19, 2005, at 1:24 PM ET
My wife, Sharon, and I arrive at Kazakhstan's Almaty Airport late at night, bleary eyed and nervous. We are not traveling light. Our luggage is brimming with a few dozen toys, cheesy Miami T-shirts and hats, and other Florida schlock—gifts for the kids and staff at the orphanage. And, oh yes, enough cash to buy a Toyota. We feel more like money launderers than future parents. But that is, in fact, why we have traveled halfway around the world to this former Soviet republic: We have come for our daughter.
Stepping off the plane, our nostrils are immediately assaulted by the acrid, slightly sweet smell of pollution. Eau de Third World. Outside the customs hall, our driver, a muscular Russian named Dima, is holding a sign with my name on it. For security reasons, we have been told to ask him for the "secret password," which he promptly provides. This adds to the impression that we are here in Kazakhstan to pick up a pound of heroin—or perhaps a secret microfilm—not a child.
In the morning, we go to meet the Sisters. These are the three Kazakh women who will try to complete our adoption. Thus far, the Sisters have remained a mysterious, almost mythical, force in our lives. Our U.S. adoption agency always speaks of them in hushed, reverent tones. ("The Sisters say this; the Sisters say that.")
As we drive to our appointment with them, we get our first look at Almaty in daylight. The avenues are wide and tree-lined. This, combined with the streetcars and the outdoor cafes, makes Almaty seem more like a European city than a Central Asian one. In fact, thanks to oil money, Kazakhstan is the richest of the Stans. The streets here are clogged with designer stores and fleets of silver Mercedes driven by thick-necked Russians—the kind of people you don't ask what they do for a living. There's plenty of grittiness, too: old ladies selling apples the size of your head, young men in leather jackets hanging out, looking like trouble. Almaty, in other words, is an oil boomtown.
We arrive at a nondescript, unmarked office, where we meet Gulbanu, the public face of the Sisters. She is nicer, softer than I had expected. We sit in a conference room where she tells us (and two other adopting couples) that "the situation in Almaty is difficult." She lingers on the word "dif-fi-cult," elongating it so that it fills the entire room and hangs in the air. We knew the process was rocky, but we thought the "difficulties" had been sorted out days ago. Otherwise, why are we here? We start to wonder, not for the first time, whether this adoption is going to happen. The problem, we learn, is that the Ministry of Education won't allow us to visit the baby house. Never, by the way, call them orphanages. Always baby houses.
The delay is partly bureaucratic but also symbolic of a deeper problem. International adoption here is controversial, a rallying cry for Kazakh nationalists. Lately, that cry has grown louder as Kazakhstan has grown richer. Rich countries don't "give away" their children to Americans, only poor ones like Colombia do. Or so the thinking goes.
The adoption business is like no other. Can you imagine a company that charged you tens of thousands of dollars for its services and then inflicted constant delays on you, all the while withholding the reasons for those delays? You would demand a full refund. Maybe file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau. But this is a franchise built on love and greed, in which proportions I can't really say.
We do some shopping then head back to the apartment, where we wait for the Call, a promised update from the Sisters. Finally, the Call comes early Friday evening. It is bad news disguised as good news.
"You have an appointment with the Ministry of Education on Monday," one of the Sisters' minions says.
"Good," I say. "What time is the appointment?"
"We don't have a time yet," says the minion.
Finally, after some prodding, she admits the "appointment" may not happen at all. "They want you to wait," says the minion. Why and for how long? She does not say.
*Correction, Dec. 22: Because of an editing oversight, an earlier version of this piece did not specify that the events in this Diary took place in September, not in December as the dateline suggests.
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From: Eric Weiner
Subject: Entry 2
Posted Tuesday, Dec. 20, 2005, at 11:49 AM ET
We wake to the city's signature smell of burning oil. I go running. Big mistake. I'm sucking up more pollution than oxygen—a vestige of old Soviet industrial practices. Indeed, the Soviet influence here is tough to miss. In fact, the remnants of it are so deeply embedded in the Kazakhs' tortuous bureaucracy that it makes me think they do a better job of being Soviet than the Soviets did.
We prepare ourselves for Monday's hoped-for meeting. It occurs to me that it would help our cause if I could pepper our presentation with references to the great Kazakh poet Abai. After much searching, we find an English translation of his work. There is only one problem. Abai turns out to be a dark, dark person. Here are two samples:
"People pray to God to send them a child. What does a man need a child for? ... Why are you so eager to have a child, to rear another scoundrel and doom him to the selfsame humiliation?"
"Man is a sack, full of s---.
When you die, you'll smell worse than s---"
And those are two of his more uplifting passages. Abai did, however, provide some insight into the "difficult situation" we are encountering. "It is impossible," he wrote, "to persuade a Kazakh, convince him of something, unless you frighten or bribe him." I wonder which of these tactics we will need to employ to get our child. Both, I suspect.
My run yields a fever and a chest full of phlegm. The damn pollution here has given me a respiratory infection. I procure some antibiotics, and I spend the day on the mend. Still no word from the Sisters about our alleged appointment. Sharon and I grow increasingly despondent. Our minds—neurotic as they are in the best of times—spin all kinds of doomsday scenarios. The adoption, we seriously fear, is not going to happen, and we are going to return to Miami with chintzy gifts and broken hearts. Ironically, these are exactly the kind of dark thoughts that any self-respecting Kazakh might have. Is there something in the air here—other than the pollution?
Late in the evening, we finally receive a phone call from one of the Sisters. We have an appointment at the Education Ministry the next day. We are encouraged that this appointment, unlike our previous one, has a time attached.
Late at night, while my wife sleeps, I sneak a peak at the photos of our daughter. I haven't looked at them for weeks, and one photo in particular gets me. She is sitting up on her own, her tiny hands clenched into tiny fists. A smile on her face, proud of her accomplishment. I am filled with immense joy and love. Either that or the phlegm lodged in my chest has hardened. No, I'm pretty sure it's love.
*Correction, Dec. 22: Because of an editing oversight, an earlier version of this piece did not specify that the events in this Diary took place in September, not in December as the dateline suggests.
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From: Eric Weiner
Subject: Entry 3
Posted Wednesday, Dec. 21, 2005, at 12:06 PM ET
We dress our best for the meeting with the Education Ministry official. Our driver pulls up to an enormous, very Soviet-looking building that turns out to be the former Communist Party headquarters. We and the two other couples are ushered into a holding room where one of the Sisters briefs us on what to expect. We'll be asked why we want to adopt a child from Kazakhstan. There is no easy answer. Yes, there were practical reasons—Kazakh children tend to be healthy. There were sentimental reasons—my father-in-law was born in neighboring Uzbekistan. And there were frivolous reasons. Our other option, China, seemed too obvious. Kazakhstan was sufficiently uncharted and, as a bonus, is known for fine Oriental carpets. (Adopt a child. Get a carpet!) All of these factors outweighed Kazakhstan's one significant downside: Sacha Baron Cohen's (aka Ali G.) Borat character who, while hilarious, has done real damage to Kazakhstan's international image. (Although, truth be told, Kazakhstan never really had an international image until Borat came along.)
Next, they warn us that we may be queried about a recent case in Russia—a case that explains a lot about why there is so much "dif-fi-cul-ty" adopting in Kazakhstan today. The short, sad story is that an American woman killed her adopted Russian son, and now we are all potential child murderers. This might be a tense meeting.
We are led into the official's room, one couple at a time. She turns out to be an ethnically Russian woman, with a not-unkind face. She asks us all of the expected questions, though, thankfully, not about the Russian murder case. Finally, after what seems like an hour, she utters the words we have been waiting years to hear: "You may visit the baby house."
Our daughter is living in Baby House No. 3. It's located on a quiet, leafy street. There's nothing stolid or Soviet about it. The colors are bright and cheerful and there's a nice playground outside. The women here are equally cheery—and bighearted. Clearly, they have not read Abai.
The director is a babushka of a woman, though Kazakh ethnically. I like her immediately. We chat about her recent trip to Arizona ("very hot, very flat") and then a few minutes later, a baby is brought out. She doesn't look anything like the one we saw in the picture. That's because she belongs to one of the other adopting couples. The mother's face lights up instantly, and the new dad is quick with the camera. The kid is all smiles, as if she already knows her new parents.
Finally, our daughter emerges. She has a huge head and enormous cheeks—more like jowls, actually. She resembles what I imagine Winston Churchill would have looked like if he were an 8-month-old Kazakh girl. She stares directly into our eyes and … starts bawling hysterically. This continues, without pause, for the next 90 minutes. She doesn't stop crying until we hand her back to one of the baby house workers.
Here at the baby house, it's all about bonding (the favored buzzword in adoption circles), and we will continue to visit our daughter every day for the next six weeks. The next visit is easier than the first: Our daughter cries hysterically when she is handed off to us, but she calms down after a few minutes. We take her outside, where she is mesmerized by the trees and birds. She rests easily in Sharon's arms and smiles when I do the silly things that fathers do. It feels like love.
We have more hurdles, including an intimidating court hearing, but we are already beginning to feel like parents. And that's the thing about adoption. It's just like having a kid the regular way, only not. Unlike biological childbirth, there is no such thing as an accidental adoption. No equivalent of the broken condom or "forgotten" diaphragm. This is a deliberate, always conscious, undertaking. I can't say that makes it better—I wouldn't wish the process on anyone—but it does bring with it a certain sense of clarity. Why exactly do you want a child? What price—in money and sweat and tears—are you willing to pay? My answer, prompted by the two most beautiful eyes I have ever seen, is: as much as it takes.
*Correction, Dec. 22: Because of an editing oversight, an earlier version of this piece did not specify that the events in this Diary took place in September, not in December as the dateline suggests.
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From: Eric Weiner
Subject: Entry 4
Updated Thursday, Dec. 22, 2005, at 2:07 PM ET
The word orphanage, especially when preceded by the word Romanian, brings to mind images of dark places populated by listless children with vacant eyes. A warehouse for unwanted kids. That's definitely not the case in Kazakhstan. Baby House No. 3 is more spa than orphanage. In our baby's group, there are six women looking after nine babies. That's the kind of staff-to-passenger ratio you'd expect on a cruise ship, not at an orphanage. The staff also includes a music teacher, a massage therapist, and a gourmet chef. Well, not exactly gourmet. The menu consists of potatoes, vegetables, and the Kazakh national dish: horse meat. The thought of our daughter eating horse meat disturbs us on a number of levels. For one, it gives her drool a pungent odor, to put it mildly. Also, what happens when we return to Miami and she craves her daily dose of horse meat? Does Publix carry it?
We are finally allowed into the babies' private room, the sanctum sanctorum. It's cozy inside. There's tea brewing in one corner, a TV on in the other. An oversized playpen is in the middle of the room with five or six babies inside. On the wall, there are pictures of adopted children, formerly of the baby house, now living in the United States.
We sit in on our daughter's near-daily massage session. They knead her from her little hands to little toes and slap her little baby butt—so hard, in fact, that later, on the video I recorded, it looks like evidence from a child-abuse case. I assure you it is not. The caregivers are loving and competent. We find all of this care comforting but also, to be honest, worrying. How can we compete?
I swear sometimes she is looking at us with those beautiful charcoal eyes thinking, "You guys don't have a clue; you couldn't change a diaper to save your life. I want out." I can't blame her. We are rank amateurs. That became clear when Sharon tried to change her diaper, under close Kazakh supervision, of course. Within a matter of minutes, Sharon clocked our daughter's head on the changing table, tangled her little hand in a sleeve, and nearly trampled another hapless child sitting on the floor. Thankfully, the workers seemed more amused than alarmed. Maybe they've seen worse. Maybe they were just being polite. Either way, we're grateful they didn't sound the Incompetent Parent Alarm.
Even though we've come this far in the process, my mind still spins all kinds of wild, catastrophic scenarios. I am worried that our daughter's primary caretaker at the baby house will decide that she wants to adopt her and will snatch her from us at the last minute. I also worry that some Third World calamity—coup d'état, natural disaster, disease outbreak—will disrupt the adoption. Intellectually, I know these are irrational fears, but I can't seem to shake them. I think these fears stem from our powerlessness. As adopting parents, we have few rights. Also, we have been through so many delays and false starts that we can't imagine getting on an airplane with a child, our child.
*Correction, Dec. 22: Because of an editing oversight, an earlier version of this piece did not specify that the events in this Diary took place in September, not in December as the dateline suggests.
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From: Eric Weiner
Subject: Entry 5
Posted Friday, Dec. 23, 2005, at 12:03 PM ET
Today is the big day—our court hearing. The judge will decide whether or not to approve the adoption. Not that long ago, these hearings were a mere formality, handshakes and smiles all around. But we've been warned to expect a real grilling.
The courthouse is done in early Post-Soviet Gloom. Flickering fluorescent lights, dingy floors, and a film of dust covering everything, including the people. We arrive to problems. The judge is behind schedule and quite testy, gauging by the shouts coming from his chambers. Then Gulbanu, our interpreter, arrives with troubling news. There is talk of trying to track down our child's biological mother to give her one last chance to raise this child—our child. My heart sinks. We have jumped through countless hoops. We've been interrogated, fingerprinted, and jerked around for more than a year now. But if this teenage girl decides, "Why not? Yes, I would like to try raising the child I discarded nearly nine months ago," then all bets are off. Game over. For adoptive parents, there is nothing more anxiety-inducing than the birth mother, lurking out there like a great white.
We are ushered into the judge's chambers and sit on hard, wooden benches. The judge, a Kazakh, has a sharp, handsome face, younger than we expected. As feared, though, he is in an extremely foul mood. He tells us to stand. The questions come rapid-fire: Why do you want to adopt a child? Why in Kazakhstan? Why this child? Do you have the money to support her? Do you own your own house? What is a freelance writer?
I feel like we are on trial for some horrible, unnamed crime. The prosecutor, a severe Russian woman who looks like she hasn't smiled since Khrushchev banged his shoe at the United Nations, asks Sharon to stand up and interrogates her about her plans for the child. How will she care for her if both parents are working? Sharon explains how we will rely on help from family and baby sitters. She doesn't mention day care. We've been warned that Kazakhs consider day care a form of child abuse.
Next, the judge asks if we are aware of our child's "medical condition." Technically, she has a congenital heart defect. I say "technically" because doctors in Kazakhstan, as in all former Soviet Republics, take a decidedly different approach to pediatrics. We in the West consider newborn babies fundamentally healthy, unless medical tests indicate otherwise. Here they consider all babies defective by definition—flawed creatures who, with the right amount of medical intervention, prayer, and good fortune, might be nursed to normalcy. We go along with this charade, knowing that our daughter is perfectly healthy.
The proceeding continues, formal and tense, just shy of confrontational. At one point, everyone starts yelling at each other in Russian. Finally, the judge asks us to leave the court room. He will announce his decision in 10 minutes. To our relief, he has dropped the idea of finding the birth mother.
A few minutes later, we're called back into the courtroom. This time, the judge is also standing. He's reading from a piece of paper. The words fly by too quickly for me to catch them all, but I do hear, "Adoption approved."
We still have a few weeks of waiting and bureaucratic hassles, but we have crossed the baby Rubicon. There is no turning back. Outside the courtroom, Sharon and I hug, fighting back tears. Gulbanu tells us to move along. We oblige. A dingy post-Soviet courthouse is no place for such a joyous moment.
Over the course of our visit, we bonded with our daughter like Krazy Glue, as doting and goofy and absurdly proud as any other parents. (Look, honey, she drooled. Isn't she smart?) How to explain our sudden attachment to this child, who's not of our flesh and blood? I am not one to believe in fate, but I swear she was destined to be ours. Blood may be thicker than water, but love is thicker than both. Even the dark poet Abai would agree with that.
*Correction, Dec. 22: Because of an editing oversight, an earlier version of this piece did not specify that the events in this Diary took place in September, not in December as the dateline suggests.
Eric Weiner is a correspondent for NPR's Day to Day program.
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