Travel Group

If you live in Massachusetts and have friends and family in New York, Pennsylvania and beyond, as we do, you cannot help during road trips blazing through the town of Willington, Connecticut on Interstate 84. If you ease off the pedal and veer off at exit 71 and coast the 7.85 mile stretch of Connecticut 320 you are likely to spot a variety of lodging options, ranging from convenient to cozy – Econo Lodge to Tolland Inn Bed and Breakfast. Why is this worth noting? What is the significance here? Well, while it more intentionally offers beds to the weary traveler, Connecticut 320 has unwittingly handed us a name for our blog, since the mini rural route that binds Interstate 84 with Nipmuck State Forest and Village Hill community is more locally known as “Ruby Road.” For the two years or so prior to our adoption trip we used to drive by the green sign that says “Exit 71 320 Ruby Road” and we’d glance at each other knowingly with soundless, stupid, sappy expressions that spoke to a distant expectation, an event yet to happen, a tiny gift in the offing, a basket down the road apiece. It became a travel tradition and - I’m almost embarrassed to admit - we still do it as routinely as my daughters declare “yellow punch buggy no punch backs.” There is something about the timelessness of the highway that releases us from the present and delivers us elsewhere, where cruise control allows us entry to the past or accelerates us to the future. With Ruby now on board we think back to the group that shared in our trip to China.

About two or three times a year we reunite with our China travel group either at someone’s house for a potluck barbecue or a centrally located Chinese restaurant for some nostalgic spinning of the lazy Susan. It’s an opportunity for the parents to chat about, among other things, recent dispatch and gossip from the rumor circles of Chinese Adoption and for the girls to get their serious faces sticky. There seems to be a tacit (and sometimes not so tacit) understanding between the Chinese Center for Adoption Affairs (CCAA), the connecting adoption agencies, and the adopting families that a red thread be forever tied to our collection of daughters, lacing them to their birth land and to each other. It is an intangible code we pledged to when interviewed by a Chinese official at the Civil Affairs Office in downtown Nanchang. While Fionna and the nannies kept Ruby entertained with squishy turtle and key rings, Rosie and I anxiously sat down to answer interview questions pertaining to our marriage, our motivation for the adoption, our plans to care for and educate the child, our promise never to abandon her, and we nodded in agreement with the official that it would be important to keep our girl culturally connected to her country of origin. If our dutiful compliance then was a robotic impulse to ward off any chance of China reneging on our deal, it is now, as we look back, a vow made in our daughter’s best interest. We have since been to various Chinese New Year celebrations, dragon boat races along the Charles, dim sum in Chinatown, but when we reunite with our Jiangxi families, and with our larger group that includes the Hunan families, I feel even more so that we are honoring our agreement. That these girls who were on the same auspicious day ushered out of their respective orphanages and foster homes and driven blank-faced along dusty roads to a hotel lobby hours away would years later experiment with popsicles on a swing set in someone’s breezy back yard halfway across the globe. I give thanks to our agency, and especially the director of our agency, for starting this charitable business on her kitchen table a decade and a half ago, for keeping the travel groups together, for joining us at the airport and future celebrations, for instilling in us the importance of that connectivity for the girls by whom we have pledged to do our best.

One commonality our travel group mutually sighs at is the relief that our log-in dates were at the beginning of what has become an ever-stagnating process. The waiting time has doubled in the past two years, and while we can swipe a collective phew off our foreheads for our own good fortune we find it natural to empathize with those currently waiting families whose log-in dates continue to recede into the irritation of redoubled home studies and INS fingerprinting. Various factors contribute to this swell of wait time, including the increase in foreign applications, a proliferation of Chinese domestic adoptions, a national focus on the 2008 Olympics, a supposed decline in abandonment, and a disproportionate number of CCAA employees to the thousands of dossiers in need of processing. Other rumors point to internal politics and China’s caginess of being perceived as a baby exporter. According to http://chinaadoptionforecast.com/ , if we were to start the process today the wait could be as long as eight years.

We understand the distress waiting families are having, the despair they endure while we and the families in our travel group cozy up on the snugglier side of the divide with a kind of survivor’s guilt. We wonder what will become of Chinese adoptions, what does the future hold for the program; will we be the last of a dying breed? While waiting families can only hold vigil for the future of the Chinese Adoption program and are faithful but powerless to control the fate of their seemingly fading girls, we who have been thrown a bundle of luck can, with inked assurance, control the role we play in our daughters’ forming identity.

Our adoption agency is beginning a program for returning families, a travel group that returns with their adoptive girls to visit the orphanages from whence they came. We and some of the other families have already started planning six to eight years down the road, when we might return, where our daughters can sense for themselves the dust of their heritage. Many adopted girls who are reaching the age of sixteen, seventeen, eighteen are returning on their own to volunteer in the orphanages where they were once foundlings themselves. It gives me a shiver of pride when I read about these stories, the kind of delight their adoptive parents must feel after raising a young woman who in self-discovery comes to see it as her role to aid orphan babies as she had once been nannied herself. In Karin Evans’ remarkable memoir, The Lost Daughters of China (2000), she makes this optimistic forecast:

“It’s my guess that some of the best grassroots diplomacy in years to come will be accomplished by China’s lost daughters themselves and by the growing links between orphanages, orphanage officials, and adoptive American parents. It is natural for people to want the best for a country that has allowed them to come home with such beautiful little children.” (225)

Recently, we joined our town’s “Adoption Group,” families with children adopted domestically and internationally, old and young, girls and boys. We met a family whose thirteen-year-old daughter came from China those many years ago. They later informed us that she is very much in-touch with her Chinese identity, that over the years she has learned Mandarin and has taken Chinese dance classes and involved herself in other aspects of Chinese culture, and that she is now interested in babysitting, has been certified, and wondered if we were interested in having her babysit some time. I couldn’t help thinking of Karin Evans’ prediction, and the road we parents promised China we would pave. I think of that exit 71 in Willington, Connecticut, where an eight mile stretch of road extends, for us, over continents.

“Yes,” we say. “Of course.”

Adoption Barbie

When we were kids my little sister used to go over to her friend’s house next door to play with Barbie dolls. When it was time to come home, my mom would send me over to get her. I remember the scene quite vividly at the DeFontos’ (anonymous name) house. There were the girls on the carpet of what would have conventionally been the dining room playing with – though that hardly seems the appropriate term – fifty or so half naked perkily proportioned figurines. My sister and her friend would yank their respective barbies’ arms to the point of dismemberment in order to adorn them with roll neck sweaters or snap off legs in vicious attempt to remove their bell-bottoms and then toss them aside for another as if sharing a bucket of chicken wings. It didn’t seem odd to me then, but thinking back on the scene now I picture the DeFontos’ dining room carpet resembling that famous Hieronymus Bosch painting, the one depicting sexual gluttony with the hundreds of skinny naked people fated to hellfire. Though Barbie never seemed to mind the indelicate treatment she was receiving. Nor did she seem to mind when foul-mouthed, curmudgeonly Mr. DeFontos – who was blind – swiftly knock the smiling Barbie horde and their sparkling accessories across the carpet with the pendulum wave of his aluminum cane…

…When we returned home from China two years ago we spent a good part of that summer running the washing machine, creating files for our assorted travel documents, and finding homes for our special Asian treasures, the most fragile of which was wobbling on our living room rug. Arm and Hammer was doing its best to ring out of our clothes what China’s ungodly humidity did to them, we had made individual hills of the cumulative mountain of adoption papers, and we pushed aside the Irish crystal vases and Italian ceramic serving dishes in our crowded china cabinet to make room for our new Nanchangian porcelain tea set, chop sticks and bowls. Two years later, we sit in a house of cultural immersion and relative orderliness. Our craftsman bungalow is trimmed with mission-style furniture and shelves stocked with Italian cookbooks, Irish Mythology hardcovers, and various titles of all things China. Our file cabinet is jammed full of files with tabs reading: Referral Papers; Early Intervention; Suichuan Orphanage; Travel-Prep Package; Chinese Cultural Workshop; In-China Travel; Jiangxi Province; Home Study; Lifebook Info; and Readoption.

So while all things related to our Chinese Adoption adventure have settled into their own respective niche, one item remains boxed, lying in prone position on a shelf in a cavernous corner of what we now call the “Craft Room.” Intended initially as an office, the euphemistically dubbed Craft Room is essentially our junk drawer on steroids, housing such things as unused candle holders, holiday wrapping paper, college binders, photo albums, picture frames, a sewing machine and inanimate oddities that have to be hidden from the upset eyes of certain household residents: a Shrek doll that Ruby is petrified of and an Adoption Barbie doll that, quite frankly, gives me the creeps. It was given to us by the Mattel company of Hong Kong through their business partnership with the White Swan Hotel on Shamian Island, Guangzhou as one of the many tokens that symbolize the bond we have forged with our adopted country. Today, Adoption Barbie remains a token that – like Shrek to Ruby - disturbs me, not so unlike the embalmed Chairman Mao, whose crystal coffin is on daily display in Memorial Hall at the southern end of Tiananmen Square.

I have commonly been known in my family as the “Barbie Nazi,” an unfair title bestowed upon me by my brother and sister for my supposed forbiddance of the doll. The truth is my now eleven-year-old daughter was never really that taken by the fashionable blond anorexic. She was simply indifferent to Barbie, as I am to cats, so the reason I habitually kept in storage the dozens of Barbie paraphernalia my daughter received as gifts over the years had little to do with toy tyranny or social politics and more to do with her good taste, our limited room and the feng shui spatial arrangement to which I am highly attuned. At least that’s how I reason it.

So I now sit here at my desk studying our bizarre gift from China. On the back of the box is written: “This souvenir is presented by Mattel (HK) Ltd. to adopting parents of Chinese orphan children staying at the White Swan Hotel, Guangzhou, China.” The deal is, apparently, that because most American Adoptive families end their adoption journeys at the White Swan Hotel in Guangzhou, the nearest five-star hotel to the American Consulate, Mattel has developed a special “Going Home Adoption Barbie” to be given to each adoptive family as a sort of token of thanks. They’ve also set up a Mattel playroom at the White Swan for families and their new adoptees.

The gift has sparked a bit of lively discussion. While some, like me, stow the unopened box away in a dark corner of a room next to an inoperable sewing machine, others argue the toy can be beneficial in helping their daughter to understand how she became a family member. Still others offer up mother and child to eager Barbie enthusiasts on eBay for close to three hundred dollars. I’ve even heard adoptive mothers who happened to have stayed at a different hotel in Guangzhou complain about the unfairness of Mattel in only granting the White Swan with the complimentary doll.

“What dat?” my adoptive daughter - now two and a half - asked me, as I sat studying it. “Dat fo me, daddy?”

“No,” I hesitated.

She proceeded to list all family members and ask if the doll was for each of them. Each time I responded no. “I’m not sure who it’s for,” I said, which is about the truth of it. I turned to examine it further. Barbie is sporting a polyester blend dress flagged with Miami colors and accessorized by a knit shrug with gold threads and matching belt. Her golden locks, dreamy blue eyes, and flashy dress are a striking contrast to her Chinese baby’s dark, matted hair, narrowed eyes, and primitive outfit. It’s difficult to see Barbie’s pink high-heels as they are obscured by the picket fence slatted at the bottom of the box. She is surrounded by ivy, bricks, shrubbery, a mail box that says “Going Home” and behind her is presumably the front door to the child’s new home, though Barbie’s amazon height renders it more like an attic crawl space. The baby seems to be levitated by some magical force, as Barbie’s slender fingers are extended in manicure pose rather than clutched in maternal grip. And since at the bottom of the box it says “For ages 14 and over…This is not a toy” I surmise that Going Home Barbie is not intended for either of my daughters, but for my wife and I. To play with? To display? To undress and lay strewn across the dining room rug a la the DeFontos’ house? To what?

For now, it goes back into the Craft Room, interminably encased like Mao, until we become strapped and need to make a car payment. Then Barbie mom and child will be auctioned off on eBay with the rest of the boxed orphans.

This is our Road to Ruby narrative, a log of our two week trip to China, from May 24th to June 6th, 2007...

Road to Ruby
By Matt Brennan

“Waiting” is an action verb when it comes to international adoption. Especially for my wife, Rosie, and other “waiting” mothers who endure a different kind of pregnancy, one that offers mental sickness instead of morning sickness, INS fingerprinting instead of ultrasound imaging, and expected due dates that range in years instead of weeks. While I was basking in the relative calm of post-diaper, one-child fatherhood, Rosie was anxiously paddling in a vast tempest of governmental paperwork. In May of 2007, on the eleventh hour of our trip preparation, Rosie suggested we set up a blog with our Web Developer friend, the amazing Lorell Gifford, so that we could post pictures and inform our families and friends about our progress in China during the thirteen days we’d be away. “You’ll do the writing for it,” she asked me. It was not so much a request, as an understanding. Naturally, I responded in the affirmative way to which I have been conditioned. Like most husbands, I suspect, who have grown to accept the unspoken rules of marriage, one of which is that when your wife makes a request of you, it is to be understood as a dressed up command, and that said husband would be best advised to respond in any way that communicates the title of Mike O’Malley’s former sitcom, “Yes, Dear.” What we also share, us husbands, is the private consolation that while we reluctantly do our wives’ bidding, we do it, as Old Blue Eyes did, our way. That is, as long as our way earns the stamp of her approval. The following narrative is a blog-adapted, wife-approved version of our – Rosie’s, Fionna’s, and my - adoption story…

Day 1: From Bedford to Beijing

We arrived in Beijing after a day and a half of traveling that saw no nighttime. For the most part, the trip was smooth and without injury. A special thanks went to my dad, “Papa,” who had to get out of bed at 3:30 a.m. on Thursday, a half hour earlier than usual, to drive up to Bedford and then shuttle us to Logan. The somewhat cramped coach from Boston to D.C. was doable knowing we had a much larger aircraft waiting to comfortably carry us the larger leg of the trip.
Nine-year-old Fionna, who still admits that she is “not being a morning person,” could hardly contain her excitement. She had a wide-eyed grin of exhilaration at 5:00 a.m. that wavered little throughout the long day’s journey. She insisted on the window seat, which provided her creative imagination a portal to scan various cloud formations, seascapes and mountain ranges. And through the clouds while hovering over the North Pole, I think we may have spotted a castle-like structure with elfin figures milling about wielding hammers and screwdrivers, but that could have been our sleep-deprived imagination at work. We had packed about fourteen pounds of books for Fionna for our two week excursion and already she had knocked off one and a half. On our previous road trips to Houston and Toronto and Williamsport, Fionna spent her time reading books, writing in her journal, and asking practical questions like “Daddy, what is the highest number you can count to?” I was never worried about how Fionna would make it through this half-a-sphere’s flight, but I was, privately, concerned about how her step-mom, the older girl with the curly brown, hair might bear it.
Rosie’s world-renowned aversion to air travel had been the white elephant in the planning room for the two years of our adoption process. Filling out a crib-full of government and agency documents had actually been a welcome diversion from the inevitable exercise of getting herself on an airplane to travel half way around the world. Few times had those words actually been uttered over those seven hundred anxious days. But, after all the fretting, public and private, I was relieved to report that my betrothed, reluctant flyer had earned her wings. I was particularly proud of the way she resigned herself to allowing the pilots to control the aircraft. There, it was out of her hands, what was there to worry about? So rational. So logical. So easy this flying thing is her Zanex-induced smile seemed to suggest. And a pharmaceutically loaded backpack between her clenched knees would be the only comfort she would need. In fact, she really refrained from digging into it. She was remarkable. There was no panic. Her daisy beam though, I should clarify, told precious little about the python grip she had on my innocent, yielding wrist for most of the flight, especially during our roller-coaster downward descent into Beijing from a cruising altitude of 36,000 feet. At the time, my only hope was that, some day, Fionna’s little sister Ruby would appreciate the degree of intense physical pain I had endured for her.
At the airport, after customs and bag check, and after circulation had been restored to my wrist, our adoption group assembled, a weary, sleep-deprived cluster. We met our group leader, coincidentally named Rose, who led us out to a bus, where we boarded and headed for Jianguo Garden Hotel in downtown Beijing. It took about an hour to wend through busy Friday evening rush-hour traffic. On the way, Rose eased our collective concerns, assuring us that our respective orphanages had been notified and that all of our babies were healthy and ready for us. She gave us a rundown of our itinerary for the following two weeks. Of the nineteen adoptive families in our group, eleven would fly to Hunan Province for their girls, and eight would fly to Jiangxi Province for ours. Since adjacent Hunan and Jiangxi Provinces are known for their spicy foods, the babies adopted from that region are called “spicy girls.” Ruby, we can now confirm, is indeed a spicy girl. After we were to get the girls, we would spend a few days filling out paperwork and changing diapers. We would then fly to Guangzhou Province where we’d rejoin with the Hunan group and go through the process of making our girls U.S. citizens. We’d be interviewed at the US Consulate there; a process which I understood to be mainly a formality provided you say the right thing and at all costs “avoid sarcasm,” Rose insisted. I turned to Rosie, “whatever.” Before we flew anywhere, we’d be spending the two days touring the sites of Beijing. We’d see the Great Wall, Tiananmen Square, and the Forbidden City, as well as a jade factory. After Rose’s group presentation, we arrived at the hotel. Fionna, who hadn’t slept the entire 13 ½ hour plane ride, crashed on the bus ride from the airport, compelling Rosie and I to coax the little wobbling sleepwalker from bus to hotel entrance while simultaneously hauling our luggage. She looked like one of those guys trying to make it to the gate of a Pats Monday night game after tailgating all day. We disembarked the bus, and made our way into the lobby of this 5-star hotel, looking like a shipment of bedraggled refugees.
We changed dollars for yuan, checked into our room, put Fionna to bed, cleaned up, and with plans for the group to meet up in the hotel restaurant for dinner, Rosie and I tag teamed. We had traditional Chinese food for dinner, mostly recognizable, traded baby information and went up for a long deep sleep.

Day 2: The Great Wall

Saturday was a touring day. We visited a jade factory on our way out to see The Great Wall. We picked up a couple of goodies there, including a jade amulet for Ruby in the form of a dog, since she was born in the year of the dog. The Great Wall was much more than pretty good. In fact, it was great. Fionna, despite being tired and sweaty in the 95 degree white heat, kept saying, “Wow, I can’t believe we’re at the Great Wall. I can’t believe I’m at one of the Seven Wonders of the World.” She was snapping away with her instamatic. She took several pictures for her third grade class to see when she got back to Bedford, including an array of Chinese weaponry, presumably the kind whose jagged, hooked blades once wreaked havoc on those nasty Barbarians from Mongolia. Fionna said that Otto, from her class, was very interested in that sort of thing.
We stopped for lunch on the way back to the hotel, and indulged in another traditional Chinese feast. Before we got there, our guide Rose informed us of three taboos that Chinese people customarily avoid when sitting down to a meal: 1. Never point the spout of a tea kettle at anyone at the table; it means you want to fight them. 2. Never tap your chopsticks on your soup bowl; it is an insult to the cook, meaning the food is bad. 3. Never leave your chopsticks sticking upright out of your bowl of rice; it looks like a tombstone, which is bad luck. A lazy Susan is placed in the middle of the table and an assortment of Beijing delicacies are continually brought out. Once the plate of pork dumplings were finished, for instance, it was replaced by plates of spicy shrimp, Chinese broccoli, ham, beef and onions, egg drop soup, stir-fried cucumber, melon in sauce, sweet and sour chicken, and so on. Needless to say we were satiated.
On the bus ride back to the hotel Rose gave us a rundown of how we’d do the paperwork on the Monday we would receive our babies. Meanwhile, Fionna was playing a rhyming hand game with her new friend, Emma, an eight-year-old who was also getting a baby sister. The nice thing for Fionna was that Emma’s little sister, Sophie, was coming from the same orphanage as Ruby, so when the group would split, Emma and her family would fly with us to Nanchang.
When we got back to the hotel, we showered and rested, trying to wash the 95 degree heat off us. Thankfully, the hotel was air-conditioned, first-class all the way and a welcome respite from the oppressive Beijing sun. We spent some necessary down time. Fionna did some math homework and wrote in her journal. Rosie shifted suitcase items and wrote in her mother-to-be journal. I lied on my bed and thought about how much I missed school. The group reassembled again for dinner in the hotel restaurant, where again lazy Susan’s spun with dishes of fish, pork, Chinese vegetables, and several of the children on the trip, Fionna included, were falling asleep in their chairs.

Day 3 – Tiananmen Square and Forbidden City

Sunday morning, after another hearty East meets West breakfast bonanza – offering a diverse selection of omelets to order, congee (rice porridge), Chinese cabbage, broccoli, mushrooms, dim sum, roti, French toast, pineapple, etc. – we boarded the bus for Tiananmen Square. On the way Rose told us that the Chinese have a saying about the Four Best Things and the Four Worst Things. The Four Best Things are: 1. American Salary 2. Chinese Food 3. English House and 4. Japanese Wife. The Four Worst Things are: 1. Chinese Salary 2. English Food 3. Japanese House and 4. American Wife. Some muffled amusement ensued.
At Tiananmen Square, Rose gave us a brief history of the emergence of the Peoples’ Republic of China in 1949. In the Museum on the West side of the Square Chairman Mao’s body is frozen in state. Before he died in 1979, his wish was to be cremated, because he was a believer in Reincarnation. Cremation was very radical then, and the Government officials who served under him thought that burning his body would not be the most respectful way to honor his importance. So instead they chose to preserve him cryogenically. Today Mao’s body is kept in a transparent cooler below the viewing floor at night, and during the daytime visiting hours, the cooler is raised. I credit Rosie with coming up with the cleverly irreverent “Chilly Chairman.” I also credit Fionna for coming up with the name “Chairman Cat,” since “mao” in one of the four tones means “cat.” And besides Ted Williams, we couldn’t come up with any other famously frozen people.
The air quality was more to our liking, with a comfortable breeze taking the edge off. It’s hard to fathom just how expansive Tiananmen Square actually is. The size of nine soccer fields, it’s said that half a million people can comfortably stand there at once. On October 1, 1949, when Mao addressed his people, founding the People’s Republic of China, it’s said that one million people were there.
Then we entered the Forbidden City, where the emperors of China once lived. There are 9,999 ½ rooms in the Forbidden City. The 10,000th room is reserved for the ruling God above. Rose listed a number of minions who were executed - she repeatedly indicated with a slashing gesture to her throat – for performing beneath the Emperor’s stringent standards. One, if I remember correctly, was a stonecutter who malformed one of the Emperor’s floor tiles. Unforgiveable.
After the Forbidden City we all boarded Rickshaws, two per vehicle, and rode into the older part of Beijing called Hua Tang village. It’s a neighborhood made up of ancient quadrangles where families lived for hundreds of years, generations of families living together in very small quarters. Our guide Rose handed us off to another guide, who calls himself Robin “Hood” Hao. He was born and grew up in the Hua Tang village. He brought us to a neighbor who was hospitable enough to have us all for a traditional home cooked Chinese meal. Of course it was all prearranged. This had been our favorite meal so far. The village had narrow windy streets, where only bicycles and rickshaws and other permutations of the iron horse could navigate. We even saw a miniature garbage truck operated by a pedal and chain.
Our next activity was a tea ceremony in the Bell Tower. We all sat at a long table while our host explained to us the important nuances of Chinese tea. The first one we tried was jasmine, which is important for good digestion. Then we tried the oolong, which makes you strong, and the last was lychee with roses, which helps improve memory. Fionna’s favorite was the jasmine. She also liked how the black dragon on the teacups turned red when the hot tea was poured in.
We boarded the bus for the airport, checked in, and waited aboard the plane for almost an hour due to heavy air traffic in the vicinity. The flight was less than two hours, but akin to a taxi ride in New York City. If the landing in Beijing was a roller coaster, the landing in Nanchang was a skid. It was almost comical, as Rosie and I looked at each other in utter disbelief. It was almost as if the pilot was stopping short of a pig crossing. Anyway, we held down our sesame noodles and got the heck out of there. We arrived at The Gloria Hotel at around 10:30 p.m. Sunday night, exhausted. We checked into our room, stared incredulously at the empty crib set up between the beds, and went to sleep.

Day 4 – Ruby Time

Monday was the big day. Refreshed from sleep, some anyway, and showering, we went to breakfast with pangs of hunger and anticipation. The nannies from Suichuan orphanage were scheduled to arrive at 11:00 a.m., babies in tow, only a couple short hours away. It was a funny feeling we all had at breakfast that morning; after a two year grind, enduring delay after delay, the time was upon us. In our room at 10:30, we started getting ready, though we weren’t quite sure what we needed. A camera, a camcorder, definitely, batteries super-charged. We all darted around the room second-guessing our outfits, rearranging crib accoutrements, and strapping and unstrapping footwear. Lots of nervous energy. At 10:35, we received a call from our guide Rose, who was phoning from the hotel lobby. “The babies are here. Come now.” I breathed an expletive of tempered thrill. “Holy [expletive], they’re twenty-five minutes early.”
When we got down to the meeting room, the Forever Family room as it is commonly dubbed, we walked into an amazing sight. About 5 or 6 of the 8 families had already met their babies, were holding them, joyfully cooing over them. We saw across the room a set of three young nannies, the one in the middle holding a baby that quite resembled the one that was in a frame on Rosie’s bureau at home, the one that was clipped onto a picture holder on Fionna’s crowded book shelf, the one on my laptop screen who seemed to be housed in a red flotation device. Rosie choked out, “That’s her. Oh my God, that’s her.” And Fionna said, brimming with eagerness, “I’m so excited.” And Rosie, Fionna and I made our way to Long Li Yu, the red light of the camcorder faithfully following. It was a happy moment. Instantly our roles swelled. Rosie was a mom; Fionna was a sister; and I was a father with not one but two beautiful girls. It was a moment that I think will forever remain frozen with us, a photo I imagine in a frame years from now, wrapped in red tissue, opened on the day of Ruby’s High School graduation. I see now why they call it Forever Family Day.

Day 5 – The Other Great Wal

When our happy tears dried, we were suddenly reminded that babies need stuff. Like the other parents in our travel group, we brought a requisite (perhaps that’s too modest a word) amount of formula, diapers, pedialite, scabies cream, onesies, etc., but between eight families and nine babies, stuff was bound to be forgotten, left behind, lost along the way. Or stuff would run out. Or the nannies would tell us we have the wrong stuff, and would need to get the right stuff. Consequently, more stuff was needed. So, our next biggest event, after Monday afternoon’s harried odyssey around Nanchang’s government offices, submitting forms for adoption certificates, fielding interview questions by Chinese officials, and holding our babies still for visa pictures, was boarding our bus. Destination: Wal-Mart. To get stuff. You know, the Wal-Mart in downtown Nanchang behind the Kentucky Fried Chicken? That’s the one.
The humidity in Nanchang is more than oppressive; it has feathers. Everyone has a perma-sheen to their complexion. Don’t even try to towel off. You’ll be wet again before the KFC napkin leaves your forehead. Proud to say, we Brennan’s are a prepared family. We didn’t need to stay long in the steamy store of falling prices. Kudos to me for having the wisdom and foresight to assign Rosie in charge of stocking up baby supplies prior to our trip. We probably carted enough infant stuff over the North Pole to last us until next Chinese New Year. Besides a tube of Crest, a small packet of Chinese formula, and a 3-disc CD set of Chinese lullabies - which later we would discover sounded remarkably like playful humming bees - we were all set; so the four of us made for the air-conditioned bus to wait for those other families who obviously didn’t plan ahead as much as we did.
Ruby spent the better part of day two checking out the Brennan’s over head. Who were these three foreigners with the round eyes and silly grins, and what did they want with me? We got a few smiles out of her; she tended to smile more when jie jie (big sister) was around. Fionna and I went for a swim in the pool; it had a wall length floor to ceiling window that overlooked the Gan River, on which every June 19th they celebrate the Dragon Boat Festival. Rosie and Ruby joined us at the pool a little later. Fionna and I challenged them to chicken fights in the pool but they declined, obviously fearing our water dragon powers.
Besides being on what Rosie called a hunger strike, Ruby was beginning to settle in to life with the Brennan’s. She wouldn’t eat much then, besides a little steamed egg and soggy congee, but she did entertain us with a chorus of what Fionna thinks is her first word, “ba ba,” meaning, well, “daddy.” I swear to God I had nothing to do with it. I don’t stoop to that level of brainwashing. Rosie, on the other hand, already had the kid wearing Red Sox onesies. She whispered “Jason Varitek” into her tiny, innocent cupped ears. I may have been dreaming but I swear I heard Rosie whispering reasons to Ruby why Captain Jason should have been starting catcher on the American League All-Star team. But Ruby uttered “ba ba” of her own free will. I asked her a simple question, “Who’s the most handsome man in the world?” and she answered “ba ba.” Then I asked her, “Who’s the most brilliant person in the world?” and again, “ba ba.” “Who has a nine-year-old daughter who can read a whole book in one day?” and again, “ba ba, ba ba, ba ba, ba ba, ba ba…” “Who’s married to the woman with the most shoes in the world?” “ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba.” I could tell then that kid was smart, just like her jie jie and ma ma.

Day 6 – Wang Tang Pavilion

Wednesday was a bit of a trying day. While our paperwork was being processed, we had some down time in and around the hotel. We were still getting to know little Ruby and respond to her every need. We had been told that for the first couple of weeks, we should comfort her any way we can when she needs us to in order to win her trust. If she cried, we should pick her up. Then if she cried again we should pick her up. And if she cried after that we were to pick her up. Rosie and I were developing the reaction time and upper body strength of a Tedy Bruschi. Poor little Ruby had heat rash on her forehead and a viral infection causing sneezing, runny nose and loss of appetite. Despite our concerns about her having become dehydrated, Dr. Wong, our pediatrician six doors down the corridor, assured us that Ruby would not allow herself to starve or become dehydrated. She would not have survived eight months in an orphanage if she didn’t know when to take her food and drink. She seemed to like apple juice when she drank anything, and of course water. She had taken little formula, remaining loyal to steamed eggs as the favorite course on the menu. Ruby’s new mom was, um, how can I put this delicately, [rhymes with creaking] out. If Ruby expected to be initiated into our Italian family, she would have to learn to eat more than just a few nibbles of egg. Mimi DePasquale would have something to say about that, I was sure.
After breakfast our guides Rose and Shirley brought us to the nearby Wang Tang Pavilion. It was built centuries ago for LiYuan Ying, the son of Li Shi Min, the first Emperor of the Tang Dynasty. Yuan Ying was famous for his lavish parties, celebrating anything under the sun. The famous Chinese poet Wang Bo would recite his poems at these parties, drawing lady listeners far and near. Despite the 92 degree heat and 88% humidity, we ventured into the Zodiac Gardens, Fionna making sure she got a picture of each of the twelve animals of the zodiac. Fionna’s zodiac animal is the ox, but she insisted she liked them all equally. Ruby was not doing well with the heat, even though she was more conditioned to it than the rest of us. She had some serious heat rash so Rosie took her back to the hotel, while Fionna and I ventured into the Bonsai Gardens. There was an 11:30 music and dance performance on the 6th floor of the Pavilion so we headed up there, each of us leaving a fresh trail of sweat behind. We Brennan’s do not typically do well with the extreme heat, but I credited Fionna for putting art and culture over comfort, and despite her frequent updates and reminders of how hot she was, she still insisted on seeing the performance. The gold and red costumes of the musicians, a 5-piece collection of various stringed instruments, along with a flutist, had a sensory appeal, though I’m sure we were missing its cultural nuances. It was an interesting performance, but they ended it early due to sweltering conditions.
Back at the hotel, Ruby was doing a bit better in the air conditioning, but still maintained her hunger strike. We offered her formula, rejected it. Watered down apple juice, rejection. Congee, nope. Then the most incredible and astonishing and miraculous thing happened. Our little Ruby gathered the might of her sixteen pounds, clenched her knuckles into tiny tight fists, grimaced like an angry Buddha, and gave labor to her first little poop. It had the deep hue of a Kalamata olive and the perfect sphere of a super ball, though it didn’t bounce as high. The three of us beamed with pride as Ruby lay there on the changing mat, sublimely content in sweet exhaustion. Life seemed to take on a new complexion for the newest Brennan; soon after the main event she would take 4 ounces of formula, slurping away like that little girl on the Simpsons. Rosie sobbed uncontrollably with maternal delight. The day’s turmoil had culminated in birth, as if in the absence of speech, Ruby was offering us a visual sign, a malodorous one, a miniature reeking ball that spoke meaning to us, “That was my old life,” she seemed to suggest, “and you three are my new one.”

Day 7 – Village Visit

Thursday was a powerful one. Of the eight families in our group, there were three orphanages from which the babies came. Two of the three orphanages were an hour and two hours drive from Nanchang. The third, ours, Suichuan Orphanage, was almost five hours away. This was the part of the trip that could be potentially emotionally flammable. We were all asked by our guides, almost reluctantly, if we wanted to visit the orphanages and/or sites our babies were found. Despite the cautionary invitation, all the families with orphanages closer than ours desired to visit, a compensation for the lack of returned items and minimal questions answered by the nannies upon baby delivery. Rose and Shirley advised against visiting the orphanages because traditionally the nannies grow so attached to their charges that when they see them again, they try to grab them back or cover them up or excoriate the adoptive mothers for under-dressing their babies. The Chinese traditionally believe that infants are still attached, if only figuratively, to the mother’s womb, so no matter how sweltering the temperature, all Chinese babies are layered in thick garments to shield them from contamination. This is why most referral pictures look like inflatable offspring of the Michelin Man. From what we found out later, the families visiting orphanages experienced the very thing they were warned against, though none regretted going. The difference was that our orphanage sent the nannies along to the hotel, so as to comfort the babies on the long ride and then field our neurotic questions. They returned everything we had sent along to them last month, including a baby photo album with Fionna’s and Rosie’s and my pictures in it so Ruby could begin to grow acquainted with our looks; a stuffed lamb and baby blanket that we rubbed all over us before shipping so as to familiarize Ruby with our scents; a disposable camera of which they snapped the whole role of 24 exposure. Suichuan Orphanage is considered one of the best by the adoption community, and based on our experience with them, that reputation seems earned. We and the other three families couldn’t justify the ten hour round trip of which we probably would not have gained much more than we already had.
Instead we visited a village on the outskirts of Nanchang, the kind similar to the one Ruby may have originated. It was a village typical of Jiangxie Province, with its intimately modest brick quarters, called duck houses, abutting each other along a narrow dirt road. The people who live in the village are farmers of little means, many spending their days wading in the surrounding rice paddies. There are two main rice harvests a year, one in July and one in October. Typically you see the older men and women, grandparents, farming the fields, because the younger men of the family must commute to jobs in the city in order to make enough money for their families to subsist. The villagers of Jiangxie Province build houses for generations of their families, common in Chinese culture. The grandparents live on the first floor, the parents on the second, and newly wed couples live on the third floor. It may seem oddly intrusive, a busload of pale Americans with Chinese babies in arms, baby bjorns, papooses, and hip hammocks, appareled in GAP shorts, khaki capris and polo shirts snapping photos of lotus vegetation, meagerly clad village children, rusty water pumps, and heaps of eel traps, like National Geographic chroniclers, but the people of the village were quite warm and hospitable. They flocked around us, admiring our fussy brood that resembled themselves, as we, saddled with cheerio-stocked backpacks and camcorders, ambled along the dirt road, alert to the surroundings our babies may have sprouted and found their form had we not interceded. It was a lot to absorb all at once. They seemed just as curious about us as we were of them.
One older woman approached Rosie and Fionna, seemingly baffled and bemused, trying to reconcile how mother and daughter could look so different, pointing back and forth at each of their hair. She nodded admiringly at Fionna’s long, straight, chestnut-colored hair, braided in pony tails. Then she turned to square up Rosie, crinkled her ashen eyebrows, and shrugged, befuddled at the dark chocolate curls, the humidity-enhanced atomic frizz helmet my wife was sporting those sultry days. Our guide Shirley, who was translating, enlightened the older woman, clarifying that Rosie was Fionna’s stepmother. “Shi,” said the older woman, still faintly mystified.
Jiangxi Province is known for its red claylike soil. Because of its acidity, many areas are not good for farming. The soil needs to be treated heavily with fertilizers in order to produce vigorous vegetation. However, the red clay is useful for making pottery. When fired, the clay becomes water resistant, rendering it practical for cooking. Chinese people from other parts of the country travel to Nanchang for its famous porcelain. Their porcelain industry is one of the more thriving industries in the Province. Because its so strong and durable, when fired, potters are able to create porcelain pieces that are so thin they’re nearly transparent. After touring the village, we boarded the bus and headed into downtown Nanchang to visit a porcelain shop, where we took advantage of the inexpensive prices. The shop keepers are very proud of their wares, holding each piece up to the light to reveal the intricately etched windows in the moldings that allow light to pass through. We bought a porcelain tea set for ourselves, a turtle for Fionna, bracelets for Fionna and Ruby for when her wrist grows thicker than a bamboo shoot.
Although we were unable to see the sight of her abandonment or visit the actual orphanage where she was cared for the first eight months of her little life, we felt pleased with our temporary immersion into village life, reassured in that it approximates the kind of environment Ruby originated. Years down the road, when Ruby becomes more aware of her place in the world, and begins asking questions about her initial stages in life, we felt satisfied that the artifacts we collected along our journey would help us to color in the story of our Ruby.

Day 8 – Going to Guanzhou

June 1st was Children’s Day, a national holiday in China, akin to our Mothers’ and Fathers’ Day in America. From what I understand, many parents stay home from work this day to celebrate their children in whatever family tradition they’ve established. Wherever we wandered, multihued balloons and rainbow streamers festooned pavilions, parks, storefronts, and restaurants. Stuffed pigs, dogs, snakes, oxen, and other animals of the zodiac hung to the delight of frolicsome children. Since Beijing was the upcoming sight of the 2008 Summer Olympics, those five ubiquitous pandas, the official mascots, were becoming so prevalent on posters, neons, and toys, it was hard to turn a corner without running into them. According to Fionna at the time, “Beibei is the one who likes blue; Jingjing is the one who looks most like a real panda and has a bamboo hat; Huanhuan is the one who likes red and has fire on his head; Yingying, your favorite one, Daddy, is the one that likes yellow, has horns and is very active; and Nini is the one who likes green and has a bird on her head.” My eldest daughter is still an astute devotee of the Oreo-fur bear; just ask Bandit, the stuffed family panda mascot who had faithfully sunk his claws into our voyage half way around the world to find his friend a sister.
Much to the dismay of the children of Nanchang Nation, the sweeping rains drove families inside for the better part of Friday. It was a benefit to us eight families, though, who were left with no choice but to put to order rooms that had seen five days of living with a new baby. While Rosie had the important job of filling out two hours of paperwork for Ruby’s visa, Fionna and I were responsible for caring for Ruby and assessing the surrounding chaos. I scanned room 1212 from atop my bed, since no piece of the littered carpet was clear enough for my feet to stand. Frayed packages of antibacterial wipes, mounds of balled up, snot-saturated tissues, sweat-soaked sandals, wheat cracker crumbs, camera accoutrements, vital government documents swirled up in bed sheets, cheerios ground into the rug; the room looked like it had vomited on itself, and we were flying to Guangzhou that evening. China’s Childrens’ Day would be Brennans’ Packing Day.
We played it safe that afternoon, carefully assembling our suitcases, soft-clothe-wrapping jade and porcelain items, weighing and reweighing to meet the 44 pound per bag limit for intra-China travel, and avoiding food that might not agree with the rocky China air travel to which we’ve twice been introduced, opting for the sticky bun and white rice over the tempting special of the day: braised shark’s fin and sautéed wild edible fungus.
Later at Nanchang Airport, we checked our luggage and got in line to have our carry-ons searched. Rosie and I were forced to drink from our unopened water bottles in order to prove to the Chinese government that the contents were not a solution meant for igniting weapons of mass destruction. We guzzled and capped them and strapped up our sandals when a scrutinizing security official unearthed from my bag a Swiss army knife. Damn. It should have been packed in with my checked luggage, but, well, oops, I forgot. Three or four or five other security guards directly entered the picture, and such a cacophonous banter of Mandarin issued forth between them that I was reminded of that scene from Midnight Express, when the main character, Billy Hayes, was caught at the Turkish airport with hash strapped to his waist and was subsequently sentenced to life in prison. I thought about explaining myself, that as a father of a new baby from your country I use the miniature scissors in the knife to snip the tops of plastic nipples to continue the process established by the nannies of your orphanages who try to maximize the feeding time of hundreds of babies, that I use the blade to sharpen my nine-year-old’s pencils so she can write in her journal about our trip to China, that I use the toothpick to pry out the sesame seeds that always get trapped in the same gap between by back right molars, that my dad brought that knife back to me from Switzerland when I was about twelve, that I promise not to stab anyone on the plane no matter how loud they snore, but then I remembered what my slightly more experienced brother, Tommy, once said to me: “If you ever get in trouble with the law, just keep your mouth shut; opening it will only land you in jail.” So I said nothing, and later predicted some ambitious Nanchangian security guard was cracking open a cold bottle of Tsingtoa with the opener on the Swiss army knife my dad had given me decades ago, having a good laugh at my expense. “Oh well,” Rosie said, “gives you a story to tell.”
Sitting at gate 34, waiting for our 5:25 to Guangzhou, we reflected on our brief eternity in Nanchang, the city in which we at last reigned in our spicy girl. How much she had grown on us already. How much we all wanted each other upon first sight and how much we already knew about each other. While she was boxed in her crib chewing on our portraits in the foam photo album we sent to Suichuan Orphanage six weeks prior, we were concurrently offering the picture of her four-month face and rose-embroidered inflatable life jacket to any family or friend willing to honestly admit how adorable she was. Our five days in Nanchang allowed us to discover the defining qualities of her little personality. Stealing a page from big sister’s book, she had mastered the art of parent manipulation, as her adoring eyes drew me in for a kiss, and before I had a chance to peck one on her she had snatched the glasses off my head and hurled them gyro-style across the room. It was the summer of 2007, a Red Sox World Championship looming on her little horizon. She loved to be lifted, the higher the better. She was observant, like her sister, and when we boosted her up to the Monster seats above our heads she would beam that Big Papi smile, but lowering her beneath the Orioles in the standings produced a bitter frown, and soon she was weeping like A-Rod. Her initial hunger strikes were a thing of the past, as she now took to formula like Giambi to performance enhancers. If we laid her down for a diaper change, she would pitch such a Steinbrenner-sized fit, her wails could shatter windows at the Matsui compound over in Japan.
Rosie had taught her to both kiss and make raspberry sounds. She leaned for Fionna whenever she was in range. The three of us draped ourselves round her crib every morning, watching her ham it up for us, rolling over with her melodic chorus of breathy sighs and cute little pig squeals.

Days 9,10,11,12 – Nesting in Guangzhou

Guangzhou City, home of the American Consulate, is the capital of Guangdong Province, and The White Swan Hotel, situated on Shamian Island, is Baby Central. Imagine a five star hotel like The Four Seasons, seasoned with Chinese babies in strollers and baby bjorns, doted on by American families who, like us, had arrived at the gilded hour of their quest. That is the White Swan Hotel. It boasts two swimming pools, one with a waterfall that Fionna and her new friend Emma dragged me under. The grand atrium emerges with stone pools stocked with golden and tiger-striped carp, endless swirling beds of tropical flora, and a thirty-foot waterfall whose crest lies even with a jutting pagoda that overlooks the vigorous paradise below. According to Rosie, The White Swan’s breakfast spread was akin to that of a Cruise Ship’s, with it’s fresh variety of offerings including eggs to order, shrimp shumi, mélanges of ripe melons, smoked salmon, and pork dumplings. I had to take her word for it, since, short of the MBTA ferry from Charlestown Navy Yard to Long Wharf Marriot, I shamefully admit to never having sailed on a cruise ship before. The Chinese employees of the hotel all spoke English and accommodated guests in every way befitting royalty, hyper-ready to spare you from the nuisance of pressing the elevator button, refill your coffee sips, and cheerfully find entombment for expired diapers. I half-expected the concierge to be waiting to swaddle me in pre-steamed towels every time I stepped out of the shower. If our expedition had to conclude, Fionna, Rosie, Ruby, and I were all pleasantly aglow that it culminated there.
Since landing in Guangzhou late Friday evening, our stay had been squeezed into a flurry of activities and appointments. Saturday morning was spent at the Clinic for International Adoption, where Ruby, along with the other eight babies in our group, received her first official physical examination. The doctors at three separate stations checked for regular heartbeats; pulse rates; functionality of eyes, ears, and throat; weight and height; and external body condition. Ruby passed with a clean bill of health, and we had to commend her on limiting herself to only one screaming tirade. The only slightly alarming discoveries made were some Mongolian spots on her back, common birthmarks inherent to Chinese babies which would eventually fade, but startling at first sight for their likeness to bruises. She also had a wide, red horizontal mark extending across the top of her left ankle, which sometimes could be attributed to use of restraints, but since we did not later hear of similar findings among babies from the same orphanage, we decided not to draw that conclusion. All in all, we were quite pleased with the exam results.
We celebrated our healthy girl by taking her to Lucy’s for lunch. It’s an American-style restaurant down the street from The White Swan that appeared to make a killing off lily-white families that had been unaccustomedly subsisting on steamed dumplings, barbecued pork buns, and bamboo-wrapped glutinous rice cakes for a week and a half before landing in The United States of Shamian Island. Fionna ordered a cheese quesadilla with a side of stir-fry broccoli, and an apple juice to wash it down. Rosie and I remained faithful to our adopted country, ordering the stir-fry noodles and seafood udon, respectively. Ruby enjoyed her cheerio bits. We ate, admiring the wall hangings of James Dean, Andy Warhol prints, and various license plates from Missouri, Texas, and California. The following day Rosie would order a grilled ham and cheese, and we’d all share French fries. What the hell.
That afternoon Ruby and I played together in the hotel room with stacking cups, stuffed lamby, and her favorite book, “Squishy Turtle.” In her stroller we also toured the vibrant hotel lobbies, avoiding stopping at all costs, constant motion being my last safeguard against meltdowns. Meanwhile, Fionna and Rosie went on a Girl Tour to the Pearl Market for some shopping of vital importance.
On Sunday, our group spent the morning at a Buddhist Temple, where, in addition to learning about some of the tenets of Buddhist thought, we all held our babies for the Monks to bless them. Following the ceremony, we each lit three sticks of incense, made three wishes, stuck them upright in a pit of sand so their smoke could mingle communally with the smoke of others as they float to the heavens. Then we bowed thrice to the Buddhas of Past, Present, and Future, as we prayed once more for the blessing of our new child.
After our visit to the Temple, we crossed to another section of Guangzhou where craft markets abound. Because Guangzhou is so hot and humid all year long, the people need patience in order to bear the conditions, a quality necessary for the painstaking work of the artisans we admired at the Craft Market. While Rosie darted around the store picking out hand-cut chops for Fionna and Ruby, hand-painted fans, jade family unity necklaces, calligraphy bookmarks for her 1st graders, and embroidered pictures, I focused on an artisan who was in the process of painting a fishing scene inside an ornament about the size of a tube of toothpaste. Impressive. That was patience.
On Monday, our wonderful guide Rose delivered to our room the paperwork confirming Ruby’s visa approval, meaning that the two hours of paperwork Rosie endured on Friday was approved, allowing us permission to bring an orphan into the United States. Monday evening we celebrated with the rest of our travel group by taking a dinner cruise along the Pearl River, snapping pictures of the flashy sights along the riverbanks.
On Tuesday, we dressed the girls, Ruby and Fionna, in their traditional Chinese dresses and sat them on the famous Red Couch for group portraits. Babies first, then babies with siblings, then our whole group. Resembling rugby players in a scrum, Rosie and the other mothers tried to settle our wobbly, cranky babies in temporary stillness, before scramming for the few seconds needed to shoot the portrait. Only one baby screamed after her mom let go. Guess who?
Later that day we had our appointment at the American Consulate, where Rosie and I raised our right hand and solemnly swore to take good care of our adopted child. Ruby was then issued her Orphan Visa, and the next afternoon, after we left Hong Kong air space, Ruby Li Yu Brennan officially became an official citizen of The United States of America. Rosie and I felt a lot tinglier about all this when, after our thirty-hour return trip– Guangzhou to Hong Kong to Chicago to Boston, our wheels touched Logan’s runway Wednesday night, mommy tightly embracing our fancy souvenir.

Happiness Had Arrived

For the Februaries of 2006 and 2007, Fionna, Rosie, and I attended the annual Chinese New Year celebration party put on by our adoption agency, China Adoption with Love (CAWLI). The party is open to all families who have been involved with CAWLI over its twelve year existence. During that time, the agency’s founder and director, Lillian Zhang, has been instrumental in successfully placing over 1600 Chinese girls and a handful of boys with American families. Well attended, the party’s festivities include a raffle drive; dance performances; trays of spring rolls, wontons, noodles, and chicken fingers; a silent auction; children’s crafts; ice cream sundaes; Chinese wares for sale; and all about are jubilant families holding hands with daughters and sisters arrayed in shiny red, blue, pink, green, or purple traditional silk dresses. In February of 2006, about nine months into our adoption process, we, as a “waiting family,” scanned the vast, open banquet room, marveling at what must have been about four hundred American-placed Chinese girls, ranging from infants to pre-teens, vibrant in silk outfits and colorful activity, and, with tempered delight, we projected ourselves into future celebrations when we would more validly share in this communal bliss. At one of the booths, girls were selling jade jewelry. I admired the box of necklaces that contained various Chinese characters made of jade and looped with red string. I bought one for Fionna and one for Rosie. When February 2007 rolled around, at the apex of our frustration over the constant delays in our placement procedure, Fionna and Rosie modestly donned their jade necklaces and we once again attended CAWLI’s New Year event, joining in the celebration of the Golden Pig and taking pleasure in the dragon dance, but nevertheless feeling, amidst playful silk-outfitted Chinese girls, a bit more subdued and envious, a bit more dateless at the prom.
On our last night in China, atop the upper deck of the dinner cruise boat we took down the Pearl River in Guangzhou, Rosie had Ruby pouched in her front-facing bjorn, kangaroo style, and she was chatting amiably with our guide, the amazing Rose. Meanwhile, I was toward the bow of the boat, camcorder rolling, recording Fionna and Emma playing a hand game. It was in the Miss Mary Mack style, and they had created their own puerile lyrics for it. It was called “Kangaroo Pooh,” and it went like this: “I am so weird, weird, weird, I have a beard, beard, beard, and own a zoo, zoo, zoo, that has a kangaroo, roo, roo, that had to go pooh, pooh, pooh, all over me, me, me, so I am clean, clean, clean, he had a bean, bean, bean, and then farted, ted, ted, all over the bed, bed, bed, and then went hop, hop, hop, all over the cop, cop, cop, the cop shot, shot, shot, Oh the things I had bought, bought, bought, for the kangaroo pup, pup, pup, that went up, up, up, he jumped so high, high, high, he touched the sky, sky, sky, and never came back, back, back, til the fourth of July, ly, ly.” How proud, Emma’s dad, Kevin, and I were of our daughters, these lovely young ladies who so maturely graced their Chinese dresses just a few short hours before. I glanced over to Rosie and Rose.
“That is a pretty necklace,” Rose said. “Did you get it here in Guangzhou?”
“No,” said Rosie, “actually Matt bought it for me at one of CAWLI’S Chinese New Year parties.”
Rose leaned in and examined it further. She held it up in her fingers. “Do you know what the character means?”
Rosie shook her head.
“It means,” Rose began, smiling, “’happiness,’ when held upright like this,” she said raising it to Rosie’s eyes. Then she lowered the piece back down to its original hanging position. “But when it is upside down, like this, it means ‘happiness has arrived.’”
At about 9:20 Wednesday night, June 6th, the four of us disembarked from flight 540 at Logan, our carry-ons hoisted for the final airport trudge. Fionna secured the pesky zipper on her pink Red Sox backpack, and jerked it once more upon her fatigued shoulders. I followed suit with the diaper backpack, and slung the shoulder bag over my left side; containing the laptop, cameras, and other electronic devices, it probably weighed more than any of our three checked bags, though since going knifeless at Guangzhou Airport, was still, regretfully, half a pound lighter. Fionna and I joined hands and followed Rosie, who, harnessed with baby, began down the maze of corridors; Ruby, like Rudolf, leading the way.
The scene we walked into after turning that final corner was one we’ll always remember. We knew that some in our travel group were expecting hordes of family and friends, particularly the McPhees, who with new twins, Jackie and Catherine, would be engulfed by their exuberant clan. But honestly, we had no expectations ourselves beyond Colleen being there to greet Fionna and Maureen being there to drive us home. When to our surprise our own raucous squadron representing Ruby Nation – Nana and Papa, Auntie Michelle and Uncle Tommy, cousins Alex and Haley, Colleen and Tom, Maureen, and Cheerleading Captain and Ruby’s Godmother Auntie Jo – had joined up with the McPhee tribe and were clapping and hooting such a clamor of cheer that it brought happy tears to the eyes of Fionna, Rosie and me, and brought such sudden fright to our celebrated baby that she outdid the whooping crowd with deafening shrieks of horror for the ensuing twenty-minute reception.
Apparently, Fox 25 News caught wind that a planeful of Chinese babies were arriving in Boston and sent a camera guy over to tape their airport welcome, which later aired on the ten o’clock news. Thanks to some quick fingered friends of ours, we have since seen the footage, a touching medley of gleeful babies with brimming parents, until…there she was, our Ruby, glamorously blubbering like Clarice when Rudolph was knocked out cold by the Abominable Snowman. Despite the tears, though, I think our girl made an impression. I like to believe she spoke to many American out there, in the same way our tattered heroes do to all of us who like to root for the underdog. I still expect that once Ruby’s two-second debut performance on film finds it’s way to You-Tube, the bigwigs at Mattel, Gerber, Babies ‘R ‘Us, and Chicco will be dialing our number. I have pondered the possibilities here. My attorney by my side, I’ll sit down with said CEO’s later this month and see if we can’t hammer out a multi-year modeling contract for our newest American Idol, layered with behavioral incentives and Cheerio perks. Her cheeky mug will be tattooed to every four-ounce stackable container down aisle eleven at Stop and Shop. Wheel aside the Bugaboo, babies, soon you’ll be gliding in style down 5th Avenue, Sunset Boulevard, and Newbury Street in “The Rubadoo.” Ah yes, I can see it clear as spit-up. Henry Ford knew an opportunity when he saw one, and so do we. So do I. Let’s face it, that kid needs to learn about the American way sooner or later, and, as I’ll have to convince Ruby’s mom, “opportunity” is a much nicer, cleaner word than “exploitation.” Kid’s got appeal; I could see it in the crib in Nanchang with those promising, flirtatious eyes and gifted, gummy smile. After finishing High School, I figure, Ruby will be old enough to join her twenty-seven year old starlet sister, Fionna, out in Hollywood. Believe me; I’ll sink my 401 into this baby if she’ll guarantee me an island in the Caribbean. Finally, I can drop this teaching charade. Let those boys learn the symbolism behind Gatsby’s blinking green light from some other idealistic English major; I got daily steam baths and herbal rubdowns in my future, baby.
So, yeah. Anyway, it was a nice reception at the airport, and for the couple weeks that followed we settled into life after China. Trying to normalize bottle times and sleep patterns, Rosie and I saw hours of the morning more privately reserved for hungry raccoons and Globe delivery people, but at least we weren’t knuckling through foreign charter flights or brushing our teeth with bottled water. Fionna went back to school to learn about fractions and regale her classmates with all things panda.
Our cat, Millie, who dutifully watched the house while we were gone, eventually figured out the link between her frequently empty food bowl and the attention demanded of that shrunken human who speaks nonsense and howls inconsolably for powdered water in a bottle.
Little sister Ruby had made progress with each waking hour. She could sit up without toppling over as much, lock her knees in a standing position with some helpful big sister support, mush up bananas when offered from Mama’s finger. Her first official visit to hometown Pediatrician, the amazing Dr. Hennessey, went as well as could be hoped, at least for the first part of the visit. After the friendly and highly revered Doctor gave Ruby a thorough exam, and a verbal bill of good health, she left the room, and we waited a good half hour before the ladies in pink came in to draw blood. Thus, Ruby’s knobby-kneed mom was assigned to the out-of-view chair across the room, and my job - better qualified given my previous practice as a Dr. Catvorkian (another story) - was to cleave hold of our eight-month-old’s ankles and wrist as to ensure her full cooperation while this pair of determined nurses searched, unsuccessfully as would happen, for a vein into which to plunge the needle. Really, they tried for a good half an hour, intermittently flipping Ruby barbecue style in attempt to position her well enough to pat to view a blue line beneath the skin of her chubby limb, but none was forthcoming. Needless to say, Ruby’s heretofore tolerant disposition gave way to soundless screams of agony. The nurses left the room, and eventually one came back with a handful of forms.
“We’re gonna have to send you over to Children’s Hospital in Lexington to see if they can find a vein. Doctor Hennessey wants it done today. I’m sorry, we tried,” apologized our defeated nurse. Parenthood, I thought, can sometimes be defined as heroic empathy, an endless, futile struggle to absorb your child’s pain.
We went back to the house for a needed respite, so that before the more aggressive bloodletting could occur, my weary baby could nap and my whitened wife could hyperventilate. Later, at Children’s Hospital, Rosie and I would learn that “aggressive” is too mild a word to describe the means of torture being inflicted on our trodden Ruby, our precious, hysterical gift, who, in her wailing pleas, was no doubt demanding for a return to the unspectacular, yet safe, stable routine of orphanage life. At Dr. Hennessey’s office earlier that day, she gently promised us that though Ruby would need extensive blood work, it could be parceled out over two or three visits, so as to minimize the pain. Apparently, that sentiment was not received by the Dream Team of Vein Finders over at Children’s Hospital, who, after repeatedly jabbing our kid like tenderized beef before finally striking oil, proceeded to sap our despondent 14-pounder of not two, not three, but six vials of infantile blood, as Rosie and I gaped, mute with parental shock.
I drove baby and mom home, catching a glance at them both in the rear view mirror, shivering and withered versions of themselves, each in dire need of a bottle. A few days later Ruby would contract pneumonia and be subject to a torrent of treatments – droppers of amoxicillin, misty inhalations of the albuterol, and unsteady suctions of the aspirator – impositions that Curt Schilling’s bloody ankle would be challenged to withstand. Rosie and I had sacrificed sleep, and days seemed to evaporate as quickly as dandelions flowered on our lawn, but we felt fine. And, like other strapped parents, who, when situations call for it, have to urinate while cradling a squirmy, curious infant, we were managing. It could be worse, I thought to myself, as I drove home that bloody Tuesday, besieged patients huffing in the back seat. We could still be a “waiting family.” But we’re not. Now we’re just a family. Because happiness, for all her torment, had arrived.