Nothing speechy or pony-related or political here to see. Mushy stuff. Move along.
Seven years ago today, Katrina and I sat in an oppressively humid, noisy room in the Civil Affairs Ministry in Wuhan and waited impatiently to meet our youngest, Elaina.
Here's what I wrote then:
As with most of the babies, she cried lustily, upset by the crowd, the noise, the unfamiliar Western faces (and odors), and the grasp of unfamiliar people — and, no doubt, by longing for her foster mother. I took her next, and calmed her down a little by singing to her.
Let me tell you, you have to be pretty damned upset to be calmed down by my singing.
She fell asleep in my arms on the bus back to the hotel.
Elaina's personality quickly asserted itself. Now, seven years later, she is razor-sharp, mouthy, and utterly fearless.
Most people don't get it when I explain that it grates on me for people to say "how lucky she was for you to adopt her." In fact, every day I feel utterly unworthy of the privilege of raising this child, and my others. I wish I could remember which writer said this: the adoption was an act of mercy, but the recipient of the mercy was us, not her.
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