Slideshow of photos taken between October and December.  

Sledding videos    

 It’s 11 am on Christmas Eve and the girls have been playing for hours, quietly, in the other room. Dad is in the basement wrapping presents and getting the tree ready. These are still milestones for us, as minute as they seem – when they don’t follow us every step of the way, when we can be out of sight for a few minutes, when they are playing with each other without direct supervision. Beti put her shoes on by herself twice within the last two days! This is significant – it’s not been for lack of skill but they love being treated as babies, getting all the attention.  Overall, they continue to do really well – there is so much laughing and giggling and cuddling and loving going on, it’s great.

The Advent and Christmas season brought back much of the magic, and I am very grateful for it. It also showed off just how much greater their emotional independence is these days. Around Thanksgiving, I was still concerned that without a pretty carefully planned schedule we’d all go crazy inside the house. This time around, we were able to hang loose for several days and were content reading books and playing games, even doing homework. We also took them sledding, and they loved their first encounter with the snow!!! Bamu in particular is fearless, going down face first on her belly without prompting (this after she declared “Me faster” in the car without having the slightest idea what this was all about).

Since our local swimming pool closed for maintenance in mid November, we experimented with tumbling classes for a bit but they didn’t take to those quite like the water or the snow. I had forgotten how much fun it was to be in the water with them until we took them back just recently and neither of us could stop smiling. No sign at all of having “forgotten” anything they learned in the fall, if anything, they were even more excited. Another favorite pastime now is story time at the local library, with a “teacher” who does a tremendous job, and also happens to be an incredibly beautiful black woman just like Bamu’s daycare provider.

After I had started working, I soon realized that with less time around the girls my ability to tune into the little things significantly diminished. All of a sudden my focus was entirely on logistics and rules. I felt I missed out on so much, and things became at the same time easier and harder. Easier because much of the guiding and correcting came from Ted who has been picking them up after school. By the time I’d get home for dinner, things usually had calmed down, and I got to enjoy their excitement and enthusiasm. Harder because I didn’t have the same emotional connection. This can’t be it, I keep telling myself – there must be a way to still get a regular, albeit shorter, work day in while maintaining the awareness, the softness and the openness in the heart to see each moment as it is, fresh, unique, precious.

It helped that I was re-living much of the early days of raw emotion after we came home with them in the summer recently. For one, adoptions from Ethiopia have gotten much harder now, with lots of unknowns and delays, in an effort to curb corruption and ensure “due process”. It literally feels like we snuck in under the curtain! To think that at this time last year we got to see their pictures for the first time, and were “pregnant” with all the anxiety and anticipation of our future family, is beyond grasp for me still. And as our love for them grows daily, I keep looking at them and shaking my head in amazement at all the blessings, and what a perfect match they are for us.

The other thing of course is that there has been another outpouring of love and support from friends and family near and far this holiday season, and many more people asking how our little family came about. It was also incredibly moving to be singing music in our winter concert series that highlighted this particular mix of emotions. This is especially touching as the girls are quite used to me singing now, and often ask about it. They love listening to the recordings, they quote pieces, and they sing themselves – I am continually amazed at their ability to repeat what they hear. Bamu was even whispering “Alleluja, Alleluja” into my ear at night!

For weeks now, everything has been “Why, Mama?”, in particular coming from Bamu. It’s an endless litany of questions, not just about things we say or do but about objects, a way to order the world with limited words. I chuckled when my sister-in-law, who spent 2 weeks with us in December, finally ended the conversation one day with “because I said so”. The other thing Bamu does consistently lately is “Name, Mama?”, pointing to this and that – and not only an object like a door, but the door handle, the hinge, the molding… She’s also taken to calling me “Mother”, as in “I love you, Mother”. Melting my heart.

They did really well through the transitions associated with Ted’s trip to Greece in December. Gigi took his place, and they absolutely adored her. As an experienced mum, she not only spoiled us with scrumptuous dinners and Greek cookies, but I also enjoyed watching how situations might be handled, with creative answers and ways to redirect that might not have come to me that way. Plus, when they got up in the morning, always a little too early for my taste, they were perfectly content snuggling in bed with her for a bit while I got to hit the snooze button a few more times.

They have started growing and gaining weight, overnight it seems. Once I realized it, I couldn’t stop commenting on it. Bamu has taken to wanting to be picked up a lot and somewhere along the way I “gave in” too much so now I am paying the price… I’m starting to feel it in my back! Then again, it’s all valuable snuggle time, just as when she wants to sit in my lap for dinner – so to heck with the rules and teaching them how to eat like a civilized human being! At night, we had a phase when she was crawling on our chest to fall asleep, and these were divine moments. Of course that couldn’t last forever, so now we just hold hands, equally tender in some ways. Best of all, she seems to have found a new state of calm and is sleeping through on most nights now J

Beti, too, has mellowed out considerably. She still struggles a bit more than her sister, and quickly gets frustrated. But she is learning to deal with these frustrations in new ways, and we trust that she has figured out that we are standing by her no matter what. She smiles more often and is blossoming in her own way, her face turning radiant and her eyes lighting up when she relaxes. She loves to be goofy and cracks herself up, just like dad. She continues to amaze us with her ability to observe, remember, and put things together in her mind that we would never expect. My most frequent expression these days must be “How did you know that?!?”.

She has taken to talking about Ethiopia, instead of the name of her home town. She started praying at the dinner table all on her own, and has been teaching us to make the cross Ethiopian style. At night, it is very moving to hear her say “Thank you for my family”. But she does get confused, her memories blending with recent experiences, and new tales being spun every day. Her cousins Peter and Sam, so far the most present in her life here, now exist in Ethiopia as well, although as “different cousins”. Then again, there is also clarity – she pointed to a picture of an African American gentleman the other day, stating “Baba”. When I told her this wasn’t Baba, she said “My Baba”. Upon querying for her Baba’s name she correctly stated it. She also declared he was a good cook. What I would give for a larger window into her mind to see how she sorts all this out.

The possessive is a frequent recurrence in their language these days. It started a while ago with Bamu declaring “It’s my friend” when looking at a picture. Next was “It’s mine” and frequent admonishments about sharing books and toys. We now have progressed to “It’s my turn” and are working on the correct personal pronoun. “Me no crying”, “Me bathroom”, “Me do it”… it’s all there but the “I” thing seems harder to grasp. Then again, their way of expressing things is so much simpler – one grammatical structure, that’s it. No need for tenses, conditional, and in some cases even verbs.

Animals are still a favorite part of our day. As early as 4 weeks after coming home, the tiger had become a well known member of our household. It started with Bamu waking up one day with a cold sore on the corner of her mouth – it took forever to heal, and we kept up the story of the tiger that she had chosen to use as an explanation – to the point where “tiger bit you” became a proper noun for all sorts of other pains and hurts. Soon after I realized her footed PJ’s were too small when she pointed to her toes in the morning and complained that the tiger had been here, she declared that he would come and sit in the chair at night… These days, the tiger (or sometimes the lion) accounts for anything unexplainable, or inadmissible: who cut the hole in the pants? The tiger!

Well, I knew it would take me longer to write the next update after going back to work. It was just a taste of how “dry” things might get, quickly, if we let them. I don’t know how other people do this – all I can hope for is continued flexibility in the schedule and the ability to take it all in despite other pressures. In January, Ted goes back to work, so our little home routine will need to be adjusted once again. Par for the course, I realize that – I’m still open to advice J

Best wishes from all of us for a blessed year 2012. Beti, Bamu, Ted & Maria.

At home, there is a lot of processing going on, at least with Beti. She routinely talks about her home town now, often featuring her mother and almost always Bamu (“when Bamu was a baby”) – whether it’s having hurt her finger, eaten fish, gotten attacked by a dog or a tiger… at one point she was describing the sleeping arrangements in the house which was “closed, no”. In the beginning we took this stuff literally, eagerly soaking up the information to get as complete a picture as possible. Now it appears there is a desire to give the past the same significance as the current events and surroundings, so things that happen here have invariably already happened there, even if the objects involved are unlikely candidates for a traditional Ethiopian dwelling. She sometimes corrects herself – Bischoftu (name changed) mama, no, this mama… I asked her about her father tonight, and the answer was a shake of the head, indicating absence, then “working”. Baba, here, is always working too, so the parallel makes sense.

I can’t stop being amazed at how they store and regurgitate their impressions and memories, how they put the world around them in order, how they manage to communicate with so little. For example, it’s been weeks that we’ve been to the zoo where there was a Lion Dance that scared Beti to tears while Bamu was wandering close. She keeps telling me about it, imitating Beti’s crying, somewhat mockingly. Similarly, we still hear about the spitting dinosaur that we saw even earlier, probably 3 weeks after coming home. We have whole conversations in English now, with a few key phrases like “come on”, “let’s go”, “show me”, “it’s ok” that can serve both as statements as well as questions, and Beti continues to bring home new words and phrases such as the now famous “I think I can” from “The Little Engine That Could” that mom finally got figured out. Her latest addition is “cute” that gets applied indiscriminately to everything from food to certain bodily functions, to faces she makes, to more traditional things like her clothes. Bamu blew us away the other day by using the phrase “so far” – correctly.

The two of them talk to each other like this too and seem to get by just fine. Could it possibly be that they’re already forgetting their mother tongue? As much as I’m looking forward to them being able to participate in the world around them more fully once they master English, a sense of regret comes over me at the notion that this invariably comes at the expense of their own language. Even the infamous “Ethiopian shoulder shrug” (a rather distinct and “lovable” expression of defiance) and the raised eyebrows for “yes” have all but disappeared. We have tried to expose them to other Amharic and Oromo speakers after the initial response to interpreters was negative, but the strong emotional reaction from Beti in particular makes us suspect that this is more than a linguistic issue. Yet it is true that we will need to “normalize” these relations over time, Ethiopia is always going to be their past whether they themselves are emotionally ready to acknowledge it or not. No doubt Beti’s recent “acting out” is part of this process too.

Contrary to what I had expected, I don’t have the least sense of awkwardness at being in public with them. I completely forget that we are likely to draw attention as a mixed race family, I am way too busy just doing whatever it is we’re doing, whether it’s pulling them along if we’re running late to school, or wiping tears off their face for a sorrow that we can’t explain away that moment. Other adoptive families had told me that the black community tends to react very favorably, and I can confirm this impression – we get lots of smiles and interest about their origins from Black Americans, less so from others. I see no harm in the question “where are they from”, and am not ready to answer “by the book” (Portland); it’s too obvious. They themselves are definitely not color-blind; Beti declared two little black girls on a flyer that came home from school recently her “cousins”, and I note a distinct interest in other black kids on the school yard.

As for us, I’ve heard people say that having kids makes you more efficient – I find the opposite to be true. I am more disorganized now than ever, can never remember where I set something down, and am not adept enough at keeping track of where the kids leave their stuff! A friend recently told me that she, too, felt that “somehow we sink into complete chaos overnight” – and re-assured me that all these struggles are temporary and transitional. They say women are better multi-taskers but I am still having a hard time focusing when two kids and a husband all simultaneously want something over dinner… I’ve lately taken to “first-in, first-out” but that doesn’t always seem to work either – all three parties are very adept at making their problem sound more urgent than the previous ones!

Ted has taken to calling me Tiger Mum... A friend gave us a book to read entitled “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother”. It’s the story of an American Chinese woman who describes how her kids made it to Carnegie Hall, by sheer force of will it seems. “Tigers are passionate and rash, blinding themselves to danger. But they draw on experience, gaining new energies and great strength.” That sounds to me more like Ted! But neither of us has read the book anyway, and he’s really just alluding to me vociferously defending the girl’s best interests, whatever I deem them to be at the moment. And of course half the time I have no idea what they really are. Meanwhile, both of us are trying to figure out the “behavior management” game, and definitely finding that we’re coming up short on tools… every other mum I talk to tells me it’s different for each child and there are no silver bullets – story of our life now!

Yes, I’ve decided I’m officially “into my kids” now. It’s one of those things I’ve always bemoaned in the past when my friends started their families… hopefully they will forgive me. But it is such an all-engulfing job, such an overwhelming responsibility, that it really has a way of drowning out everything else – at least for a while. And on the other hand, how can you not continuously marvel at the miracle of discovery that they are, at their development, at the stuff that comes out of their mouths or how they put things together in their head. Besides, what a window into the pure mind of a child, the innocence, the infinite logic and simplicity of the world, as it should be… my theory on this is that we just want to re-live it all, all the things we’ve lost.

In this context, I love the fact that our circle of friends has been expanding, not shrinking, with the arrival of the kids (guess what I expected J). I’m not talking about the new community of “school parents” that we will undoubtedly belong to over time, linked by common interests and mutual dependency. Rather, it is the people who have genuinely taken an interest in the process we’ve gone through, and are as delighted with the girls as we are; celebrating with us, sharing in the joy, and creating beautiful memories. Maybe this is my motherhood love overflowing but I am so enjoying making and nurturing these connections. I love watching the interactions, the playfulness, the slowing down to the girls’ pace. I pray that I will never lose the ability to delight in these moments of utter simplicity, pure joy and the strong current of love they create, no matter how busy or stressed I may be down the road.

They happen in private, too: the other day we visited the Buddha… a small little niche outside a complex of stores and offices that we discovered by accident, nestled into an area of maybe 15 square feet surrounded by concrete walls, a window of open sky above us. Someone took the time and quiet attention to set this up with bamboo, creepers, a little fountain and rocks, and nature did its own work to enhance it, with the fallen leaves floating gently in the water. Bamu fell in love with it and wanted to keep going back. Mom could think of nothing better to do than linger and soak up the stillness of the moment. I could only tease her away by promising we would go see the Buddha in our own back yard too, all in hushed tones. We’ve been visiting him daily ever since, by her request, and it was her idea to place flowers in his lap! Seeing and perceiving with the eyes of a child has been the most wonderful gift of these last few months, and Bamu’s gentle nature has played well into my own sense of listening to the heart.

We just passed the 10 week mark – home almost 3 months. The whole thing is still inconceivable to me – we are consumed by the daily task of their care, physical and emotional (never mind pedagogical or organizational!) and by the relentlessness of it, but when I step back I still can hardly believe this is all true. It seems like every night when I lift Bamu out of her bed to go to the bathroom, and watch over her after she’s back down with a few softly whispered “Come on, Mama” taps on the pillow next to her, I fall in love with her more. Every time Beti jumps up and kisses us rather than demanding “Let’s go, food” at 7 o’clock in the morning, we melt anew. A few weeks ago, when we put them to sleep, the rain was quietly falling on the roof and dripping off the eaves. Bamu’s soft lips were pressed against the heel of my hand, while Beti’s curled fingers were touching my knuckles. Peace reigned supreme... These are the moments we live for!

Bamu started pre-school today. It was probably one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, to leave her there while she was crying. Much different from the excitement of seeing Beti in a crowd of students at the beginning of the school year 5 weeks ago. I was almost ready to change my mind at this point, to try and figure out a way to be a stay-at-home mom after all. At the same time I know I’ve been living in a bubble… the luxury of time to follow their rhythm, riding this wave of joy without any regard for what comes after, cannot and will not last, no matter what I do. And given I’m already overwhelmed with Beti’s homework because I’d really rather be (and have been!) playing, I can certainly use the exposure to professional child development staff to help them advance “academically”! Not to mention that starting work will force me to get organized… even if I will be feeling rather lost with both of them gone for the day. These 3 months were a big chapter in our lives, but now the reality of double responsibilities will catch up with me quickly, no doubt. Somehow we will roll with it – and hopefully still find time to tell you about it.

But here I am, telling my kindergardener how proud I am of her for having made it through the first day unscathed (plus a whole other week at the time of this writing), and apparently happy. She was all bubbly when she returned, and has learned to say “No, thank you”. I am also proud of her sister, whom she was ostensibly never separated from, for having made it through the day without any drama, and even going to sleep for her nap next to Beti’s empty bed without asking for her once. We’ve had lots of snuggle and quiet time now that Beti is not dominating at home, although when I return from Beach School with Bamu in the mornings, I do tend to feel a little forlorn until we get on with our day.

It’s odd to be involved in the school system. We got a stack of papers the day before as if we were buying a house. Then it was onto lunch and snack discussions, and what if there were “issues” that arose or if for some reason we were late for the pickup or there were an emergency (God knows the roads from Hillsboro are easily congested). It’s looking like I won’t get by without a cell phone too much longer. I feel like I am being “baptized” into my American existence a second time, this time for real. It’s like I’ve lived in a bubble, and now I am finally part of the fabric of this society for real – not necessarily just for the better, mind you.

It seems crazy, just barely 6 weeks after returning from Ethiopia, and the beginning of Beti’s and Bamu’s new life on North Omaha. But on the other hand, it’s just another new experience for them, and I would venture to say that we were probably the least anxious parents in that classroom last Friday. Then again, I had tears in my eyes as the kids were lining up – overcome by emotion. It is still so fresh, so amazing, so unbelievable to me. We have reached a state of normalcy in so many ways, but this milestone made me remember anew what an incredible thing this is, to be nurturing these two little souls, so precious, who, less than 2 months ago, were part of a gaggle of kids all waiting to be “picked up”.

The intervals between writings apparently double each time – probably a good thing, depending on how much you really want to know about our personal discoveries, Maria-style. But it’s all good – delight returned (more likely it never left, but after all “it’s ok not to feel the magic every moment”), and with it a tremendous sense of peace and things being in place. A fellow adoptive mum told us “they relax more each week”. That may be true but I have to say it’s also the parents who relax more –the night-time disruptions are killing us (although that’s getting better too) but otherwise it does get easier day by day. There are plenty of challenges, and opportunities for second-guessing ourselves, but somehow it doesn’t have the same emotional rawness any more. For one, we are getting better at re-directing, with or without the language. Of course, these are all still short-term questions. The bigger issues have yet to arise, no doubt.

Six weeks also means the apex of my time off; the rate at which the remaining time declines will be rapidly accelerating. Already I am starting to debate how to lay out schedules for when I need to return to gainful employment. I don’t think there is a way yet to optimize the mornings – the daily spectacle of getting two kids washed, clothed, fed and out the door on time is one that many parents dread, I’m sure. And the evenings continue to be crammed with making lunches, doing laundry, catching up on email, and paying bills. Our search for a pre-school for Bamu that can match Beti’s hours (withough paying through the nose) so far has been unsuccessful. But – I’ve had my first Latte the other day in what seems forever, and have been thrilled to return to my other love, choir, with a solid 4 hour kick-off last week-end. The “cloistered” phase is definitely over.

We’ve had more golden summer afternoons (although the weather has started to turn now), and lately quiet mornings with classical music that make for incredible memories. Up until recently, we’ve gone out a lot on the “cycle” (with Beti being the driver, Bamu is not really into it yet although has learned to put on her helmet and loves to be in her seat on mommy’s bike) only to stop immediately next door to visit “Baby Oliver”. Some days it’s mostly Oliver’s toys that are attractive, but lately Bamu and Beti both have led him by the hand, running with him, consoling him when he falls down etc. It’s gorgeous to watch, just as the reverse when my girl-friend’s 5 year-old son takes Bamu by the hand and wanders all over the playground with her, or they sit arm in arm to listen to music.

Bamu is the queen of role play – the other day she took one of those puzzle pieces that have a tab to pull out and pretended she was on the phone (large refrigerator magnets do the trick too). She not only called her dad at the office and had a full-blown conversation with him, but also her sister Beti at school. She then held the “phone” up to her baby doll’s ear so the little one could be part of these important phone calls, too. When mommy took her first day-time shower the other day, Baby took a shower too, including applying moisturizer afterwards. And we’ve had quite a few nights when both mom and dad as well as Baby got band-aids in the crease of their elbows to work out the drama of having to repeatedly draw blood at the doctor’s office and the hospital.

We’ve ventured out of the house for food a couple times – somewhat counter-intuitive, the girls seem to be eating better in company. We’ll see how long that lasts! Of course these adventures have a tendency to screw up the carefully guarded schedule – which, frankly, is due for an overhaul now anyway. It’s a constant balancing act between the structure and consistency so very much needed, especially for these children, and the demands of integrating with the outside world. As for the food itself, we continue to try new things – while Broccoli remains a favorite (!), Bamu is now hooked on Avocado, and most days we manage a small serving of fruit. It’s astonishing – we’re using a whole different set of dishes, the fridge is always full, and I’m addicted to the dishwasher (funny maybe only to those who know me well).

Unfortunately dad is working long hours, often missing dinner, so bath and bed time becomes even more of a play routine than it already was. This makes it harder for the girls to calm down – although we’ve recently switched to showers at their request (where do they get this stuff!) and are buying some time back. Beti is not only a total clown but so quick on the uptake it’s scary – she already makes fun of mum who is trying to keep things calm while dad simply can’t control his own inner child! She also tells me to tell dad about the adventures of the day – I continue to be amazed how well we communicate with a few words and gestures. I love every bit of it and wish I could record it all, the linguist in me is just fascinated.

Otherwise, I have very quickly become the victim of my own parenting methods. We have a rule that the girls need to try at least one spoonfull or small morsel of anything that’s on their plate, and Beti is now using this to her advantage, indiscriminately! Whether she is bargaining for another round on her “cycle”, extra time before taking her bath, or getting carried around on her mum or dad’s back, it’s always “One” with a pleading voice. Better yet, “one, ple-e-e-e-e-a-s-se”. How can you resist that! And when Bamu stands there with her hands on her hips, telling Beti or Baby “No, No”, I get a sense for what people meant when they say kids will make you look at yourself. Bamu even cries “No, No” in her sleep these days!

Things are changing every day. We love the small bits of understanding that seem to come here and there. For a long time, Beti kept pointing at airplanes, saying “America”. We got the distinct sense that she had no idea that’s where she actually was. Now, she points to “here” when hearing the word – and even picks it out on the radio (as in “produced by American Public Media”, for example). When an Ethiopian lady in church today asked where they’re from, and she heard the name of her home town, it prompted her to tell us over dinner that her mother’s name is Mary (name changed). She also told us her father’s name, and that Bamu was a baby when they were there. On the other hand, she’s been saying “Beti, Bamu, Mama, Baba – Family” on many occasions. The journey continues…

But this is all too important to let it just fade into that good night. The girls seem to continue to adjust wonderfully – we have more struggles over food, and more struggles with rules in general, but I am taking all that for a good sign: they feel comfortable enough to “misbehave” and just be kids. Beti in particular has it down to a science, and I can totally predict the tears before they come. Bamu’s crying is just a predictable, but usually with a bit of a suspense period… as intense as her screaming can be when she lets loose, when she pulls her lower lip forward in a pout just before the flood gates open, it’s endearing and funny. Then the next moment I feel horrible: how much of what they were or weren’t supposed to do did they actually understand?

It is frustrating not being able to speak their language. We are getting by just fine with daily tasks; their ability to convey by pointing, or taking me by the hand and leading me places while repeating certain words in Amharic is incredible. I’m learning a bunch of new words daily just by being with them and am building my own little dictionary. This is unexpected, I thought I would be teaching them rather than the other way around. I love it. Just the other day Beti and I went to the school where she will soon be going to Kindergarden. I used the Amharic word for school, and her eyes lit up and she said “ABC?” Yes! Over lunch she repeated in Amharic what I had told her: she would be going to this place, Bamu to another. How cool is that. But I am saddened when they try to tell me something out of context, comment on something, or especially ask something, when I have no clue what they’re saying. Or when I can’t explain why the rules are what they are.

On the other hand, I’ve stopped keeping track of the English words that pour out. Most of them are copied phrases such as “Let me show you” or “How are you” that pop up for a few days endlessly and then disappear again for a bit but there are also words out of the blue that surprise us. Dad taught them “I love you” and “Let me kiss you” (to our shame, they knew how to say that before we knew how to say it in Amharic), and they’re fully adept at talking on the phone now (punctuated by a lot of huhs). I cracked up when Beti first wagged her finger at me and articulated a clear and firm “No”. It was even funnier when Bamu did it a few days later. We’re still working on “Yes” but they do know that the magic word is “Please”, Beti usually says “Thank You” and “You’re welcome” all in one breath (just like her dad used to do when he learned the German for that), and lately she is “Sorry” for just about everything.

Our days are somewhat routine now: we take our time in the morning with breakfast and washing up/getting dressed (so mum has a chance to fully wake up), then hang out and play for a while, or go to a park. I’ve managed to get to the point where I can actually prepare lunch while they are around (and fold the laundry if I’m lucky), and when they eat it without complaining I am in seventh heaven. Beti has added a new “pfff” sound to her repertoire of disapproval that either makes me laugh or want to snap, depending on how much emotional reserve I have (I try to do neither). They used to pick out every tiny bit of green they could find – but when I steamed broccoli the first time they couldn’t get enough! Coupled with scrambled eggs and shredded zuccini in one meal, I was thrilled to bits. Usually, we don’t get to repeat the experience though, lest mum gets too excited. Thank you, Tom, for the enjoinder: “You are not a short-order cook”. It will serve us well.

As for sleeping, Bamu still wakes up several times a night, and their marathon naps have shrunk to 1 hour trying to get them to sleep and 1 hour of actual sleeping, with Beti sometimes up even after half an hour. The heat may have something to do with that, which I will miss soon enough. Lately, Beti has also taken to crawling out of bed and coming to visit us a few times in the middle of the night. Then again, I can’t help but smile at this: regardless of the situation, each time I get to hold them is a bonding moment, healthy and vital for our budding relationship. See http://withlovingarms.blogspot.com/2011/01/letter-to-friends-and-family.html if interested in learning more about attachment (this is someone else’s blog entry, I am sharing it with her permission). It always brings me back to the Heart. Imagine how I felt when Bamu pulled me down the first time to kiss me before going to sleep. Beti, too, wrapped her arms tightly around me one afternoon when going to sleep for her nap. They are very loving but attachment takes time.

Despite these challenges, my new job is not as hard as I thought. At least not at the moment: I love the fact that I can just be with them, that I don’t have to be somewhere. Who cares if I’m sitting on the edge of the bathtub for ever, waiting for Beti to make up her mind to brush her teeth. I know full well that’s going to change soon enough… but for the time being, in that, there are such simple pleasures. The other day we went out for an early evening walk while waiting for dad to come home. It took us a while but we did make it around the block for the very first time, with lots of stops to look at cats and talk to neighbors. The light had turned golden, the streets were quiet, the late afternoon completely still, as Beti and Bamu slowly approached the ginger cat that was softly watching, unperturbed. I stood and was mesmerized by the beauty of the moment, the peace and quietude of it. “High summer holds the earth, hearts all whole” as one lyriscist wrote (if I recall correctly).

So here we are, three weeks into it, and we have two happy, healthy kids that wake up every morning (well, most J) with a smile. We are busier than ever but when I stop to think about it I still can’t believe it, it’s still somewhat unreal. One of the things I find miraculous is the fact that there is always a clean slate. I can be at my wits’ end with Beti’s “protest tears” on command, or Bamu’s lowered head signalling she’s on the edge (those “I-am-mad-and-won’t-look-at-you-moments” as Jane called them), and the next moment their smiles and silliness are completely irresistible. Nature must have built that in. It really is amazing (there’s that word again J) to think this faucet of love can just be turned on, and turned on over and over again if it stops flowing just for one moment (or, more correctly, if the water gets cloudy for a while, it always ends up being a clear stream of wonder again). I often shudder to think of all the things we don’t know, and might be doing wrong. But here they are, forever part of our lives, two little fellow travellers on our path, and even if we don’t really know them yet, they are already a reflection of ourselves.

After a gradual transition during our week in Addis, during which we all got used to each other, we started learning to leave our insecurities behind and only worry about the next thing in front of us, not the last thing we might have done wrong. We got well acquainted with Beti's characteristic shoulder shrug and demonstrative turn of the head when she didn't want any contact or was otherwise not too pleased, but also with their chatter in Amharic, their teasing each other, their giggles and their lovely playing together; we learned to put them to sleep and sat bolt upright in bed every time one of them stirred; we watched their wide eyes in the car and with trepidation and some anxiety when they were slowly feeling their way in the playground, and we had mixed emotions about having so many other folks there to help watch and console them but also distract them from our main mission. On our first "long" day a middle aged Ethiopian man in the "Lion Zoo" asked me "Is she your daughter" and I was completely stunned by the question. Why, yes - but I'd not said it out aloud until then. We've been home for 2 1/2 days now.

While it is too early to say we are settling into a routine, it is incredible to me how fast we are all learning to live together - the girls are teaching us so much every day, every hour. I am recording some of their melodic conversations in Amharic, Beti's singing (I am signing her up for choir at the earliest opportunity), punctuated by the occasional "tisk" when she tries to scare me or her sister (she completely pulled one of those on me in Addis, I gotta believe that's a sign of trust), and obviously can't take enough pictures because I'm running after them all day long trying to tell them not to touch the stove or other things that could be dangerous. We've explored the garden and the water fountain (not without some trepidation that Bamu might fall in), we've figured out what to feed them and how to bathe them (Peanut Butter is a big hit, preferably licked off, and while they seemed scared of the water the first day they quickly learned to flood the bathroom), we spent time at the playground where there was no more sign of the anxieties we saw in Addis, we got them bikes today but backed off to scooters because we were a little ambitious on the sizes. Ted has already put Beti in his kayak in the shed, and we are signing them up for swim lessons asap.

We seem to dry tears for exactly the same reason as we would for biological children, and generally don't see any signs of trauma; they seem to be adjusting great. They both take naps, they're both potty-trained, and they clearly love and support each other. They're curious about everything (of course), and it looks like they understand a ton even without speaking English just by immersion and absorption. We had been told about this but are still blown away that it is a matter of days, not weeks. Bamu came out with "Mind the Step" on the moving walk ways in Amsterdam, Beti is telling her sister "careful" on the stairs, they both get a kick out of the word "ticklish" (it sort of sounds Amharic), and know very well the meaning of Please sit down and No. Supposedly there is often a honeymoon period that eventually is replaced by the everyday joys and challenges of "normal" parenting when the boundaries are tested - we are practicing being firm and sticking to our guns. As for mum and dad not disagreeing in front of them - let's not start...

We wanted curious and inquisitive children, and we seem to have gotten them. Their ages are perfect for us even if we don't know entirely for certain how old they are. Beti is showing to be a fast learner although her sister probably absorbs just as much, just can't play it back yet. They're both mischievous and dare devils, a great match for their dad. They've changed roles - Beti now is Daddy's girl after apparently being scared of Ted initially, and has already chilled out quite a bit on her earlier tendency to hit or throw things when frustrated. Bamu used to be all smiles all the time- and is now throwing tantrums at least a few times/day. I'm sure we haven't seen anything though

They also seem healthy - we met with the doctor a couple times while there and will of course take them in here to have all their immunizations and tests doubled up but compared to a man we met at the foster home who spent the whole day with his baby in the hospital, we are simply utterly and completed blessed. We are not getting as much sleep as we used to, of course - but are generally healthy with the exception that I have totally lost my voice since we came back so all I can do is a hoarse whisper all day long. It's hilarious because I'm more or less talking non-stop to them. It'll be interesting to see if they remember this later.

I could go on and on... this may be more information than you wanted but I am sure you can understand that our hearts are just overflowing. This really is a miracle - I would have never guessed that we'd end up here. So many people have commented on what a great thing we're doing to give these kids a new home and, frankly, lease on life - but for us it simply is about being a family, about passing something on to the next generation, about teaching and watching them grow into happy, fulfilled adults that may in some small way give back to society on their own some day. The fact that it is happening this way - while it was a difficult journey at times - only reflects the infinite perfection of the universe or God's master plan, depending on your religious bent.

PS - we've all joked around that this is the biggest project I'll ever manage. Well, it is not unlike a project. We're in the storming phase, figuring out how to get onto the same page, developing shared goals and objectives, as well as strategies on how to accomplish them, learning to understand each other and get along, as well as trying to determine what motivates the other person (that personal connection point some of us have talked about). We have to put systems and processes in place, work out just the right cadence, establish roles and responsibilities, communicate expectations and in general set up a communication plan, not to mention risk management. Luckily, the stakeholders are easy on us - although that may change once we get into the school system. I'm sure I could draw more parallels but hopefully I'll have everyone on the floor laughing already. It's been a good day - I slept through the night for the first time in over a week

We were off to a great start with my sister Claudia picking me up in Munich, filling me in on the preparations in Burgau and Unterschneidheim, serving me a wonderful evening meal, and then building out Saturday’s joint concert program with the Kammerchor with last minute details. Thankfully we had one more day to mentally get ready, and got to hang out with my brother Walter and his wife Renate for Kaffee und Kuchen, the avant garde of the Frick family who turned out in full force the next evening.

Arriving in Roggenburg to meet up with the choir was a thrill, having already been filled with so much excitement and anticipation, and then getting to dive headlong into a whole week of singing and sharing and fun. I also had just seen an email from the American Embassy in Addis Abbeba, reminding me of the other big event about to happen in my life – picking up our little girls whom we await with great joy and anticipation.

I’ll never forget sitting in the garden in Roggenburg that evening, looking out over the fields with the setting sun caressing my face, listening to the CD and singing my heart out. There is something about this space in between – almost ready to touch something so long awaited, so imminent – a sense of suspension, heightened awareness, bursting with pure presence.

Christian, an English teacher and Kammerchor member, did a fabulous job welcoming us in and leading us through Guenzburg the next morning. This was much more than a guided tour, this was about our hosts extending themselves, a symbolic gesture underscoring this choir exchange which in so many ways had rested solely on my sister’s and my shoulders up till then. Christian formed another piece of glue and did so amiably and gracefully throughout the rest of the day and the evenig.

The concert in Burgau was the glorious culimination of many months of effort and intense preparation. Every little piece, from running into the former Kammerchor president Weinsheimer and his family on the way to the church and building the first relationships to meeting the artistic director and conductor Nerdinger who was instantly accessible and sympathico, to getting the two choir directors talking, to concocting a scheme to hand over the funds we had collected at home – it all came together and magically unfolded.

Sitting on the balcony during mass was nerve-wrecking – knees weak with both tension and excitement, we nervously awaited our entrance, complicated further by our fearless leader Steve’s desire to sing Salmo 150 from the aisles. It was not entirely “clean” but probably stumped the audience so much in its format and content that the lack of perfection didn’t matter one bit. Three days later when one of our basses showed me the article in the Augsburger Allgemeine in Trossingen, the morning of yet another joint concert anxiously anticipated, I couldn’t help but break into a huge smile at the laudable write-up.

The rest is history – our performance was well received, the joint O Sacrum with the Kammerchor glorious. It was a good thing to have Nerdinger calling the shots – forget the antiphonals, let’s sing it as one piece with 8 voices – still getting the many parts conversing with each other and echoing back and forth but all to the same music so to speak. When my nieces walked in just before the concert started I had tears in my eyes – all four of them joining my mother, brothers and sisters in the audience. Then, upon exiting, I had the further pleasure to welcome my best friend Renate and spend a few minutes connecting with her before rushing onward to shake more hands, greet more new friends, jubilantly celebrating.

I was starting to like this role – not usually one to seek the limelight, here I found myself thrust into center stage as an ambassador in both directions, connecting people, getting them talking (or simply understanding each other), sharing and bringing across the little things that make up the culture and chemistry of the respective group. I was everywhere – by the conductor’s side, talking to the organist, running out to soak up the presence of my family, helping my ISing friends with the ridiculous (embarrassing, actuall y) English menu in the restaurant. Barely time to grab a sip of wine and a little bite in between. Just a touch of adrenaline in my veins.

Here I got to violate the rules, and thoroughly enjoyed that too: everywhere we went, people were commenting on the incredible discipline of the group. Such commentary coming from the Germans, oh my. They got the biggest kick out of the count-off – although admittedly still the most effective method at ensuring no-one gets left behind that I’ve ever seen – and even the bus driver was amazed that people showed up when they were supposed to. That night in Roeffingen I was 10 minutes late without penalty – having sailed on the winds of joy and not willing to break the spell. I got to repeat that one more time in Unterschneidheim the next day.

Hindsight is 20-20. It was touch and go whether I would be able to go on this trip. For two months, all my sights had been set on Ethiopia, where a completely different adventure awaits us. Far more life-changing although this trip was one of a kind, and will not be easily forgotten. As the last few weeks prior to departure crept by each day was a gamble: would we get that notification that would take me to Addis Abbeba instead of Munich? I was pulled between the intense desire to see things through, to be there as the bridge builder, the glue, the enabler, and the fact that nothing else would matter if we got that call to pick up our children.

So Unterschneidheim was a last minute thing. It was on the schedule but I deliberately did not make arrangements, not wanting to mobilize the whole village not knowing if I would be there or not. To my surprise and delight, within a few days after I had finally decided it would happen Claudia had worked out a plan – not only would she talk to the priest to get the ok, but she had already put the wheels in motion for a little reception at my mom’s house that would give everyone a chance to really connect with that moment. It was glorious. Steve let me pick the music, surprised me by announcing the concert as a thank you to me, and I was able to dedicate the Ave Maria to my mother, a moment that I had so often dreamt of. Then, to top it all off, we sang Shenandoa under the eaves of the barn, champagne in hand.

I climbed the 768 steps to the top of the Ulm Minster that evening, all in a daze. To say I was elated is an understatement. The narrowing Gothic latticework at the final ascent, the flying arches and varying frames the dark grey stones provided for the red tile roofs of the houses and the lush green of the fields in the distance, the exuberance and joy I was filled with was almost too much. It was otherwordly and yet oddly present, a one-pointed sense of fulfillment, nothing else existed. I was – and still am – savouring that moment to the last drop. At dinner that night the waitress Frau Mueller thought she was “in the wrong film” when we sang Salmo 150 in the restaurant – but nothing could have provided a better end to the day than the “fiery Brazilian” intonation of this psalm.

After such an intense beginning, I felt like the tour might as well be over, I had my fill. Yet Monday morning held yet another delightful surprise in store: Nerdinger had dropped off some music for Steve while we were travelling, a sure sign the exchange reverberated for him as well. We blasted through the university town of Tuebingen – where I had never visited before so the two hours were hardly enough to take in all the staircases and hidden lanes and bookstores and the gorgeous city hall even if the tour of the early artifacts made popular by Werner Herzog’s Cave of Forgotten Dreams didn’t pan out. The tour of the castle at Hohenzollern in turn was awful but we were rewarded with some stunning singing in St. Michael’s Chapel which was richly applauded by the folks having escaped their own tour guide. Evidence of our presence there is supposedly going to be on their web site soon.

Trossingen greeted us with a “garden party” – a perfect excursion into the real world of everyday people in Swabia drinking beer and simply having a good time being together. A few of us deliberately chose to sit with the folks from the Liederkranz that promptly started singing old-fashioned German folk songs – long forgotten memories for me. These were songs celebrating the simple joys of youth, of the longing to climb mountains and cross oceans, to ride “high on the yellow wagon”, the German president’s favorite. Songs of lost – and found – love, of the need to leave in pursuit of ones chosen profession, of forests and meadows, of the nightingale and the babbling brook. Nothing like that to start out our official sister city exchange.

We would hear more of that the following day, after our successful concert with the Liederkranz, to the point where some of the ISingers decided to hide behind bushes as they felt otherwise the singing would never stop. It was a blast to see the exuberance of the host choir, and to see the concert coming together once again amidst a degree of chaos and confusion, in the heat of the German summer in a non-climatized concert hall. Here, too, relationships were built quickly and solidly, the mayor spoke, the city celebrated, and wine and beer were flowing in abundance. Afterwards, the Liederkranz was wistful – having a “good conductor” does make all the difference.

Trossingen not only gave us a lovely tour of the legacy of its most famous son, Matthias Hohner, but also the proximity to Rottweil where the German carnival has a strong tradition. In addition to Roman bath ruins and mosaics, Rottweil also has beautiful old houses with richly decorated bay windows, and the High Tower from which one can enjoy a 360 degree view of the surrounding countryside which Mark and I did in about 15 minutes. I was not happy about another two hour stint that inevitably meant rushing and trying to decide between lunch and sight-seeing but grateful for the opportunity to take a rest at Kunstwerk B before heading out to sing our hearts out.

With our last formal concert behind us, we were now free to enjoy the social part of the tour. And we were entering some stunning scenery – leaving the proximity of the Black Forest, Swabian Alps and Neckar valley, making our way South East to Lake Constance. Wasserburg was a flop – the pre-booked tour at Hohenschwangau and Neuschwanstein had us rushing onward. The bus driver even went through a red light trying to get us to the ticket booth on time. We got to look at the “Swabian Sea” for exactly 5 minutes to get an idea of its idyllic setting – those of us that weren’t on a desperate hunt for bathrooms, that is.

Fuessen, and the Schwan castles, were worth it for the landscape – one can surely imagine Wagner getting inspired here, nestled in the midst of steep mountainsides and awe-inspiring peaks. St Mary’s Bridge over a high gorge was lovely but once again the logistics of the whole thing got in the way, and by the time we left the area we were 2 hours behind schedule. Thankfully Palotti-Haus was exceedingly flexible and kind to us – so we promptly promised them a concert the following evening! Their garden was beautiful even at night, lit up by lightning bugs and illuminating conversation about music and the transcendence it can create. The next day I wandered amongst the labyrinth of roses trying to regain my composure after a hectic day dealing with a laptop virus, singing at the Frauenkirche and Palotti-Haus, and diving deep into the past over dinner with my friends Isabel, Brigitte, and Isabel’s new husband.

Finally, the last leg of the journey arrived – Salzburg! We were lodging in Schloss Leopoldskron – well, actually, the Maierhof which is next to it but still on the grounds – otherwise made famous by the Sound of Music. After a crowning finale singing in the Salzburg Dom, I chose to take some time out to simply sit and wander in the Schlosspark, looking out over the lake. I was grateful for this opportunity to decompress – it had been an emotionally charged trip and I was drained. Then I made my way to the city on foot, crossing a nature preserve of meadows and ponds while it started misting – a nice atmospheric aligment of the weather with my mood. Unfortunately it completely turned by the time I arrived in the old part of town so I chose to forego the sight-seeing and wandered in and out of galleries instead.

One thing I couldn’t resist though was the temptation to attend a piano concerto that just happened to be scheduled for that night. After a suitably fancy dinner in the Stiftskeller of St Peter – a restaurant that has been in business since 803 and seen many famous guests – we sat down in the Romanesque Hall to have the sounds of Mozart’s most famous sonatas and a thunderous encore of Schuman and Rachmaninov fill our ears. It only seemed fitting to be listening to Salzburg’s most famous son right here in his home town. Turns out, there was a concert up on high at Hohensalzburg castle too – but I was definitely done with castles by then.

The Salt theme continued on our way back to Munich with a tour of the salt works in Berchtesgaden. Things have definitely changed since I’ve been there last, it’s all multi media now, bringing the mystery of this underground world to life. We even got to sing a few bars of O Nata Lux on the way out on the train! The bus driver also had a surprise for us that last day, after a little stroll at the Koenigssee – the oldest gentian distillery of the world. Just in case anyone was looking for an opportunity to spend their last Euros on schnaps and other delectable items, this shop was perfectly set up for it. A nice mellow way to end the trip, after the breathtaking views of the Alps in some of the sweetest spots this area has to offer.

Back to Freising for our last supper at Weihenstephan, the oldest beer brewery in the world - probably nothing to impress us at this point. Maybe it was just me but a tinge of sadness already hung in the air, the mood was subdued – how much more could we possibly take in at this point. We’d had our fill, and more than enough. Even so, I still felt like I was on an adrenaline rush – I needed to walk to the Dom after dinner and say my good-byes privately, take one more look at these old walls and imposing buildings, silent witness to a power whose days of glory are long gone. Nonetheless, every stone in this part of the country is permeated with that history, noble and holy men in state and church, and if you stand quietly you can still feel their presence today.

It's hard not to compare this country, and our experience here, with India. Well, forget it - I am going to. It's too similar and yet not. One thing is certain, I felt comfortable and happy and excited arriving here, being back in an environment so unlike our orderly Western world, seeing the little shacks by the side of the road held together by sheet metal, the colors, the people walking in the streets, the livestock, the random wares for sale, the holes in the sidewalks. The airport is large and organized, a lovely discrepancy to Bangalore when we first got there (they since built a new one which likely is a bit more impressive than the noisy crowded terminal we saw in 2003). Visas are no problem, and the line of Westerners and Ethiopians alike moves fairly quickly. Other couples are here for babies... but I am tongue tied when it comes to sharing our own story. It is as yet a bit unreal. I don't feel any more compelled to participate in the discussion about Ethiopian wines and beers picked out in a guide book though, either.

The laywer and the program coordinator are both there to greet us, and we easily find them - I am pleased to see the signs they're holding up. We get shuffled to the waiting car and whisked off to the guest house. The drivers are polite, considerate, and communicate with each other - instead of wildly clogging up the intersection. They honk, but they do so truly to warn each other when they are passing. Admittedly, there is far less traffic, the noisy two-stroke engines conspicuously absent, no motor cycles. Presumably there is also less of a middle class. Most of the vehicles are taxis, either communal vans or passenger cars. All painted white and blue, all using their indicators, all slowing down for each other, waving each other on. No dogs, either - amazing. No howling at night, no honking, the only "disturbance" we hear the next day is the chanting from midnight mass - it's Orthodox Easter, and the churches broadcast their service just like the mosques do.

By daylight, taking our first tentative steps outside the compound while the couple we're sharing the apartment with is visiting their baby we find that the smell, too is absent - even though the sewers are just as open, and there is still garbage. We walk around conscious that we're sticking out like a sore thumb, trying out this new country. Everyone is wearing a strand of grass around their forehead; we conclude it must be a symbol for the crown of thorns worn by Jesus on his day of suffering. The grass is for sale everywhere by the side of the road, big bushels of it, fresh and green, brightening the landscape, next to the sacks of char coal and the usual plentitude of cheap goods. People walk around holding chickens (or a hen, in local parlance) by their feet along with various other items, the Addis poor man's Easter feast. We later see our own for sale by the side of the road - vast herds of sheep, ready for slaughter. There was bleating underneath our window all night, and the next day we return from our walk to watch the butchering in the courtyard using the simplest of methods, performed by the guard.

“Mami” is generic

To say that I was nervous about meeting the girls is an understatement. On our first full day in the country no less, hardly conscious of where we where, yet anxiously sitting around and waiting out the hours that needed to pass before we would get into Yohannes' blue and white taxi. I refused to call him "Joanie", once I heard the lawyer pronounce his name in Amharic. It seemed somewhat of an insult, smacking of colonialism (which the Ethiopians successfully fought off, twice). Besides, Yohannes sounds rather familiar to me as a German, so melodious to the ear, so strong and steady. "Bible names" the deeply Orthodox Ethiopians call it, which also results in such initially amusing labels as "Hosanna Bakery", "Amen Pharmacy" or "Halleluja Clothing". On the other hand, we've been mulling over this notion of giving the girls an "American" name too - after reading in someone's blog that adopted children often desire one, to blend in and to celebrate their new beginning. One of many things where there is no one right answer.

In the end, the meeting was less awkward than I had feared. Biftu has a nice and friendly courtyard, at the time of our first visit flooded with sunlight. Our eyes were of course scanning the group of children as we stepped in - but we needed a little help pointing out our little ones. The staff brought chairs for us to sit while all the children crowded around, and served us coffee, prepared via the traditional ceremony, with espresso style cups sitting on a two-tiered carved wooden tray, a brazier with incense, the clay pot boiling over silently glowing charcoal, all of it done over an area of a few square feet strewn with fresh grass. Then they made the girls come over to sit on our laps and kiss us... which set off 1 1/2 hours of playing and hugging and kissing - by all the kids! It was easier because they had all their buddies around and the attention wasn't all focused on just us and them.

I was a little shocked to hear the older girl call me “mami” - and was convinced she had been instructed to do so. It made me feel like I was being shown trust that I had done nothing to deserve yet. I was trying to quickly finish my coffee so I could hug the girls, once again feeling that such intimacy needed to be earned first. Conscious that all eyes were on us, and that we were there under some very specific circumstances that likely demanded a certain behavior (rather than, say, as benefactors of the orphanage, or volunteers aiding in their efforts to meet the children's needs - we've all seen the pictures), we soon got the toys and the photo album out - a great diversion that allowed the children to variously scatter and crowd around. Bless Ted's heart for suggesting balls, we were quickly engaged in throwing and kicking the ball around, which allowed us in turn to focus on the interaction with "our" children.

Later I was holding Beti's hand and running up and down the courtyard with her, quickly gathering a line of other children. Both Beti and her sister are great runners - I was happy to see them so steady on their feet, first relief at motor skills intact. When lifting up Bamu, I noticed a certain limpness under the arms, no engagement of the muscles. Something to build, but I am not worried about it, given the resources we have at home. Other children at the foster home gave the same impression. Maybe it's an age thing too - being new at this mum business, I have a lot to learn. I am smiling at the recollection of how we did some counting, putting one foot in front of the other, and accompanying each step with a chorus of voices in call and response fashion - reminiscent of that school in India that we had stumbled upon during our first Himalayan trek where Ted recorded a similar experience.

When we returned on Monday, the baby had been sleeping at Toukul, delaying our arrival at Biftu for almost an hour which meant the skies had clouded over by the time we arrived and the children were tired and hungry. It made no sense why we would not have gone in the morning given the other couple's appointment was in the afternoon - one of many moments where we were faced with a decision to simply nod our agreement to what we were being told and not question the arrangements, in our typical Western need to control. I left there feeling less upbeat than on Saturday. Maybe it was the toys, the play dough didn't work as well to integrate as the coloring and sticker books the previous time. Beti clearly felt a sense of ownership though - she grabbed the cup and was doling out portions of the sticky mass to her friends. I hopelessly tried to get creative, the best I could do was show her how to roll it on a smooth surface. Yordanos proudly showed me his cross, quickly copied by many other children. Beti struggled as much as me to shape something meaningful - I was clearly no help.

"Mami" is generic, as it turns out - Nanny Helen got the same epithet. When I later told our new friends about this the wife confirmed it, relating stories of adoptive mothers being shocked and feeling betrayed when children pointed to people in photos calling them the same thing. One less thing I need to worry about now that I know.

Easter in Addis

Ted as the oldest male in the group gets to cut the bread. Ethiopian style, making the sign of the cross with the knife first. When I was growing up in Germany, we used to do the same thing. The loaves are just about the same size, too - big round hunks. This one is doughier, almost sweet, having a shiny quality to it as though made with lots of butter. We also get toast - 2 nice white slices. We're eating hesitatingly - there is lots more to come. The lamb is served on the traditional injera, quite familiar by now. We tear off chunks and wrap the meat in it that was cooking over the open fire just a little while ago, in a big round cast iron dish that also serves to do the laundry. We get two servings, tasting very similar; the second one seemed to be ground, possibly inerts. I'm a little worried about all the grease although my stomach so far has been cooperating remarkably well given our usual diet of greens and grains. It definitely tastes best with a bottle of St George, and I'm glad to see the guest house staff and agency personnel make no difference between men and women in this regard.

When all four of us ventured out earlier today we couldn't help but notice the many cafes in the Piassa that seemed to be doing a brisk business selling cake. One in particular seemed to be popular, people were literaly streaming out of the doors, big boxes in hand. Not having much else to do, we stepped in and settled down for a couple cappuccinos - bless the Italians that left their culinary legacy behind even if they never did manage to conquer this country. The Ethiopians are proud of this fact - theirs is pretty much the only country in Africa that never got colonized. They had their share of imperialist battles, to be sure (for reference, review "A History of Ethiopia" by Harold G Marcus), and plenty of internal strife, intrigues and palace coups - but at least successfully defended their independence against the many outsiders that were willing to lay claim to the gold and slave trade. A few days later we completed our culinary excursion to the Mediterannean by having lunch at a Pizza parlor, where our young friend had the time of her life with a huge plate of spaghetti and I got an early lesson in dealing with kids and food.

Our day in Court

Day 4 we peaked. The accumulated stress, the waiting around, the dependency on the driver for everything, the inability to plan - these things are taking their toll on us. Ironically, today we went to court and were simply told that "they are yours for good". The judge was a Muslim woman, with a simple black dress and head scarf. My paranoia about what to wear was mis-placed - plenty of other couples in jeans and shirt. The Germans wore the fancy suits of course. Good news, though, about there being an Ethiopian adoptive community in Germany, should we ever decide to move there.

Federal High Court, Bole Branch. A room full of white people, all there for the same reason. Bizarre, to say the least. Surreal. The procedure itself simple - a few questions, and we were done. Waiting for two hours was probably more trying. Our lawyer had stepped out after a while, leaving me to ponder how I would ever know that our case was being called, given I could not make out the pattern. As it turned out, the orphanage manager and her right-hand man soon appeared on the scene, two comforting, familiar, friendly faces. The face I likely won't forget is that of a small Ethiopian woman, being ushered out after presumably signing a relinquishment document. What might be going on in the minds and hearts of these mothers, coming in from the country, faced with a lawyer and a judge and a high court authority, giving up their children? A smattering of doubt will always remain, even though the orphanage manager assured us later that the mum in our case was "happy" to do so.

Has it sunk in yet? No. Even today, after the other couple had their court date, it feels no different - our biggest question now is when we'll be able to make it to Funyam Bira, supposedly the birth place of Beti and Bamu, and still the place of residence of their mother, considering our lawyer advised us to wait until we have our visas from the US Embassy, lest Mr Jeffries should find fault with the visit. Sure, I can see that there could be a perception of impropriety, and that the lawyer is a bit uncomfortable with leaving us out of his sight.

Nonetheless, it's a bit of a disappointment - it seemed so easy and straighforward, the personnel at Biftu so helpful. Classical case of not being able to assume or reason, and of the futility of plans - initially the laywer seemed reluctanct, indicating he needed to get permission from the US. What seemed a question of our personal security at first the next day became a matter of the agency covering their butts - and we were fully expecting to have to sign some sort of waiver indicating we were acting outside their explicit direction. Still two days later it turns out it was a matter of propriety and in our own interest to wait, in order not to jeopardize the rest of the proceedings even though the children now legally are ours. Whether something new had transpired in the meantime, the story simply changed, or something got lost in translation remains anyone's guess. I do know that I was probably on my most alert in the lawyer's office that afternoon, clearly understanding every word of this message. We're here to complete the mission, as Ted says, and won't do anything to jeopardize it.

All this is important for the kids. I want to find out as much as possible, and yet when I have the opportunity, it's hard to know what else to ask about without appearing aggressive. Every single piece of information will prove helpful down the road when they are trying to figure out where they came from. Their tribe, for example, would be huge. The region points to Oromo, and the orphanage manager confirmed it. But somehow I want to still go there and talk to the locals. Knowing the locacation they came from - although there was some confusion around this too which the orphanage staff thankfully cleared up fairly quickly - is a big piece of the puzzle. Once we realized how far and remote it is from Addis - it begged the question as to how the mum could have possibly made her way all the way to the capital, much less known about Biftu. As it turns out, Biftu has an outreach project there - but that raises only more questions. Did they take the children? Or did the mum initiate the move?

On our last visit we were told that "the police dropped them off". African English being what it is, often reduced to statements framed as questions, and even those limited to simple nouns and verbs, devoid of such superfluous and confusing things as prepositions which of course eliminates any subtleties, we are not sure if this meant that "often" or "in general" children are dropped off by the police (a fact corroberated by Melissa Fay Greene in her book "There is no Me without You"), or that our two little girls in particular had, in fact, been brought to the orphanage by law enforcement. If the latter - how did they come to be in the custody of the police to begin with? You can see how quickly the story unravels - and how many questions will remain unanswered, at least for the time being. The possibility of a private investigation remains as an option for down the road.

Are you counting your money

Governments, Embassies, Agencies and other such instituions and persons involved in the international adoption trade seem to have made a sport of complicating things. About a week before we left, the US Embassy in Addis changed their procedures - you can now file the I600, which allows you to immigrate children, when travelling for court. According to the information we received, this also applies to the I864w, and the DS-230. Well... not so fast. First, the notary at a well known Oregon Bank refused to notarize our signatures, because these are government documents. His colleague at another branch amazingly had no issues with this. Next, at least Part I of the DS230 needs to be signed by the lawyer, not the adoptive parent - a little different from what we had been told. Luckily we travelled with plenty of copies - both signed and unsigned, remembering the lessons from India. But the crowning glory of beaurocractic achievement was our greeting at the Addis Embassy - what are you doing here?

As it turns out, they didn't want our money - and neither did they accept our I600 or anything else. There is a very conscious throttling of effort going on - the intake is limited to one specific day a week for each agency. As to how the fee for the visa was to be paid, if the I600 has to wait for the proper intake day which in turn requires a formal adoption decree, passports, birth certificates and other such things that take time after court, but still has to be filed prior to the visa appointment, that of course is not the government's problem as we were vociferously assured. You'd think that the authorities in the so-called Third World would be giving you problems - but passing Ethiopian court was a breeze. Conversely, it seems to be the petty US beaurocrats with their hardship assignments and SUV's driving south on the week-ends that are intent on making your life miserable.

The long and short of it was that we needed to leave the cash with the lawyer, to be paid on our behalf when submitting the I600 and all the accompanying documents. You'd think that's pretty straightforward. As we found out, an African laywer is not that interested in hauling hundreds of US dollars around. Where to keep it - not safe at the office, not safe at the house, definitely not safe at the bank (where it is likely to lose value - and presumably would pose a problem with record keeping since it is not his income). Reluctantly, he agreed. A case witout precedent, a piece of adoption history in the making.

China invades

Now what. We had passed court, and got turned down at the Embassy. We had tried to arrange a trip to Harer to see the girl's mother and were told politely but firmly no. There was still talk of "bringing the woman to Addis" but we were no longer interested - for the same reason we agreed it didn't make sense to press our case of going there. We tried to fly to Lalibela to see a piece of history - 11th century churches, hewn straight from the rock - but wouldn't be able to return in time to catch our flight back to Frankfurt. Never mind the hiking boots that were weighing down my luggage, waiting for a trekking opportunity. The last thing we wanted was more of the same: cooped up at the guest house, hanging around our fellow PAP's, idly passing the time between breakfast, lunch and dinner. The travel agency owned and operated by a Chicago native offered a solution: a 2-day drive south, through the Great Rift Valley, along a number of lakes with wildlife and birds.

[more to come]