Ethiopia Journal: Day 6 (December 29) Shopping in Addis

Tuesday morning, we were delivered by bus to a strip of shops and given an hour and a half to shop for, haggle over and purchase everything we wanted to take home with us from Ethiopia.

Stress. Full.

For me, that 90 minute shopping trip was as exhausting, if not more, than the 30+ hour trip home, including over 20 hours in the air with an infant.

Because I like and own many nice things, it often surprises people that I really, really do not like to spend money and I don't particularly like to shop. I rarely make impulse purchases. I wait for sales when possible. I almost always carry a list to the store and I usually research and compare prices before making any big purchases.

But . . . I'm a terrible haggler. Stink at it. When I want something, it must show in my eyes. No good poker face have I. My if-you-don't-meet-my-price-I'm-going-to-walk-away act has never been convincing. I never go to an antique fair, and wouldn't dream of buying something like a car, without Hus-B by my side. He knows every sales tactic and script in the book. It's like a big game to him--a game he usually wins. I imagine his success probably also has something to do with the fact that, since he doesn't have the tendency to get emotionally attached to something like a piece of furniture or an article of clothing, no real acting skills are required for him to walk away like he doesn't care.

It was important to me to purchase some Ethiopian items for our home and as keepsakes from the trip. There were a few items we knew we wanted to purchase. One was a full-sized mesob table. Others were jewelry, a Bible written in Amharic, bulk coffee, everything needed to perform a coffee ceremony and some traditional scarves and clothing. Other than that, we were pretty clueless about what types of items would be available. Also, we had no frame of reference with respect to how much anything would or should cost. These things would need to be figured out as we went.

For the agency-arranged shopping excursion, we were asked to either leave the children at the hotel with one parent or take them back to Hannah's Hope for the morning. Since Miss K had been so attached to her special mothers, we were concerned that returning her to the orphanage might confuse her or cause a setback in our bonding, so we decided that one of us would hang out with her at the hotel while the other shopped.

Our friends T and A instructed us to never to pay asking price for anything and advised that the actual price of any item is usually about half of the original quote. Dickering over the price was expected. While Hus-B would have been better suited for that aspect of the trip, he told me I was too picky (probably true) and that there was no way that he was going to take responsibility for picking out things like dresses, scarves and items for our home. Our friend A had also offered to take us shopping. Instead of burdening him with an entire day of shopping, we decided that Hus-B and A would take care of any specific items we wanted that I was unable to find or get a good deal on.

So off I went with my travel pouch full of Birr, a preliminary shopping list and high expectations about finding lots of neat stuff. We got off of the bus at 9:45 and were told to be back at 11:15. I'm still not clear why the trip was scheduled to be so short, as an increase in time would have directly correlated with a decrease in the stress.

The first thing I noticed as we entered the first shop was that prices were not marked on anything. I walked around picking up items I liked and asked the shopkeepers how much each one was. Most items were inexpensive. Cheap, actually. Children's dress and scarf sets for 150 Birr (exchange rate was 12 Birr for $1USD). Banana leaf paintings for 50 Birr. Scarves for 100 to 150 Birr. Black clay coffee pots for 30 Birr.

I felt like if I found something I liked I needed to purchase it right then. I considered that I might find something similar down the road for a better price, but since I was racing against the clock, I was concerned that if I didn't come across the same item, I wouldn't have time to go back to where I originally saw it--or that I'd forget which of the shops (they all looked alike from the outside) I'd seen it in. Oh, the pressure!

I asked about the cost of each item I liked, then started piling all of my goodies by the cash register thinking I would wait until checkout time and then negotiate the total. In retrospect, a better strategy would probably have been to negotiate each item at the time I was looking at it or to purchase only a couple of items from each store.

By the time I was checking out of the first store, everyone in our group had moved on. Had they negotiated prices? How much success did they have? Were we all quoted the same price for the same items? I had no idea. My items were tallied up. 3500 Birr (just under $300). Now it was my turn to play the dreaded game. "Will you take 2000?" I asked (with a smirk on my face I'm sure, but it was more than half so I thought it was generous counter-offer). The shopkeeper acted offended. The guy with the calculator who had tallied it all up laughed to himself. I thought for a second . . . what would Hus-B do? The walk away act? I knew they would never fall for it from me. And by now, we were about 45 minutes into our 90--how could I possibly find all of that stuff elsewhere? "How about 2500?" I asked (I'm sure I was wearing some sort of sheepish grin). Same reaction. They guy with the calculator pointed to my pile of stuff and dramatically shook his head no. He and the shopkeeper had an animated conversation in Amharic (one of those moments that I really wished I secretly knew the language that was being spoken) and came back with "3200 Birr, no less". I waived my white flag. I ended up haggling a savings of $25 off of a $291 original price.

While I loved the things I purchased, and I believed I got a lot for my money, in light of T and A's instruction to always pay half, I felt like a failure and was worried that I spent a ton more money than anyone else. On a positive note, I reminded myself that at least I was putting money into the Ethiopian economy; hopefully it would be a blessing to the shopkeeper and her employees' families. After they bagged up my stuff, they thanked me and hugged me like I was an old friend. Before I walked out the door, the shopkeeper took my hand and put this bracelet on my wrist:
Sweet of them, I thought, or perhaps they just felt sorry for running me over. I hurried to catch up with the rest of the group. I purchased a few more items (with as much success with subsequent price negotiations as the first). About 70 minutes into the shopping period, completely frazzled and drained, I gave up. I decided that any subsequent purchases (I still hadn't found the mesob table, Bible, coffee cups or jewelry) would have to be purchased by Hus-B. I made my way back to my seat on the bus and collapsed with my bags.

As the bus pulled away from the shops, I looked down at the bracelet I had proudly been wearing and it all clicked. That bracelet must be the sign of the sucker. No wonder no one would negotiate with me. Although I'm not 100% certain, I'm pretty sure the shopkeeper at the first store marked me as a pushover.

We went to an upscale Italian restaurant in downtown Addis for lunch. Speaking of Italian, I noticed a lot of Italian influences and restaurants scattered about Addis, likely a carryover from Mussolini's 1936 invasion of Ethiopia and Italian occupation which continued until Selassie was restored to the throne in 1941. As in Italy, "ciao" is a very common salutation among Ethiopians.

It was great to just sit, unwind and chat with others from our travel group over a long, leisurely lunch of bruschetta, salad, pizza and Cokes, and surrounded by some gorgeous artwork by Ethiopian artists. I was relieved to learn that no one else had any remarkable negotiating victories to share and that I wasn't the only one who'd found the whole experience to be downright stressful. We were obviously dropped off at a tourist shopping strip so maybe they just do things differently. Who knows. I hoped Hus-B would be impressed with all I returned with.

(Photo courtesy of The M Family)

As we made our way back to the bus, several beggars gathered around us. A couple of mothers with babies. A blind man. We saw a man with no legs dragging himself along the sidewalk using primitive crutches consisting of small wooden blocks with handles. Somehow as we were boarding the bus, a young man--probably between 15 and 20 years old--managed to blend our crowd and get on with us. His eyes were crossed and his legs were crooked. His body was hunched over a rough, wooden cane. His pants were falling down, exposing his buttocks. It was pitiful. Several of us tried to hold back tears we scrambled to find some Birr to place in his outstretched hand while the driver carried him back down the aisle and off of the bus.

While I was out, Hus-B discovered another of Miss K's favorite things--music--especially Ethiopian music. I walked into our hotel room and found Hus-B and Miss K dancing around the room to Ethiopian music videos playing on the TV. It was the sweetest sight.

Since we've been home we've found that she has no interest in watching Praise Baby or Baby Einstein, but will go wild if I pull up something like this on YouTube (before watching the video, please scroll down and pause (II) the background music):

She just loves it! Bounces to the beat, kicks her legs, claps her hands and squeals along to the lyrics. A sure way to capture and hold her attention if I need a few minutes to put on some makeup or pop something in the oven!

Despite all of the new dance moves he had been practicing (and would proceed show off to everyone the following night at the cultural dinner), Hus-B was feeling a bit cooped up at the Union. Since A had to work, he'd made plans to spend the afternoon doing a little shopping of his own with G and M. They were scheduled to pick him up just a few minutes after I arrived, so I didn't have time to show him anything I'd purchased or tell him anything about my experience, other than that I needed him to look for the mesob table, Bible, coffee cups, incense and jewelry.

I enjoyed spending the afternoon one-on-one with Miss K. As soon as Hus-B left, she let me give her a bottle and fell asleep in my arms. I eased myself down onto the bed to recover from my shopping experience as she slept peacefully on my chest for the next couple of hours. She woke up happy and we played with some of her toys until Hus-B returned from his shopping excursion.

Hus-B asked G and M to take him where they would shop. He told them he wanted to purchase items they would buy for their own use--he didn't want the equivalent of stuff that Florida tourists might take home from a Clearwater Beach T-shirt shop (although I'm sure some of my purchases would probably be classified that way, I still love everything we brought home). G and M took him to the Addis Merkato (see, another Amharic word with Italian origins).

The Merkato is the largest market in Africa. It covers several square miles. Over 13,000 men, women and children work in the market. It's the real thing, not a tourist trap. Hus-B was the only caucasian person he saw there the entire afternoon. This is where the families of Addis come to shop and where merchants buy and sell. The Merkato consists of both modern shopping center/mall-type buildings and muddy-floored booth-type shops with and center aisles covered by tin roof. Items for sale were stacked from floor to ceiling, and merchants sell everything from locally-grown agricultural products, most notably coffee, to clothes, furniture, shoes, jewelry, animals and even plastic buckets and other housewares imported from China. Most of the vendors specialized in a single type of item. Women were grinding rocks into incense at the incense booth. Merchants and buyers were using donkeys to transport their goods to and from the stalls. Men with clipboards were walking from booth to booth collecting taxes or rent. These shopkeepers were way too busy for any long drawn out negotiations. Prices were shouted back and forth and transactions were closed quickly. It was as high-energy as the floor of the New York Stock Exchange.

Hus-B told G and M what he was looking for and they knew where to find everything and handled price negotiations on his behalf. When it was time to purchase the mesob table, G and M turned down a narrow alley--Hus-B thought they were taking a shortcut between aisles--that turned out to be another full strip of shops alongside a tiny hallway no more than 4 feet wide--barely enough room for two people to pass. They ducked into a shop entrance flanked by mesob tables and entered a small room about 10 feet square with a ceiling only 5 feet high and crammed so full of mesob tables that there was hardly room to stand. He selected the beautiful table that has now graces our sun porch and had a man at an adjacent shop stitch up a bag for it out of a tarp-like material.

I knew G and M had returned with Hus-B when I saw the hotel's gate man walking up the front steps of the Union carrying our mesob table, wrapped in the tarp-bag (which seemed bigger now that we actually owned it; we'd figured we'd buy it first then decide how we'd get it home). I took Miss K downstairs to meet G and M and of course they made a huge fuss over her. After visiting for a bit, we went up to our room to lay everything we'd bought that day out on our bed and oooh and aaah over what each other had found. Hus-B thought I did okay and didn't hold it against me that I may not have gotten the best deals.

Here are a few of my favorite items that we purchased:

Mesob table:
Coffee pots, cups, incense burner and coffee ceremony stand:

At 1000 Birr (about $85USD), this dress was one of the more expensive items I purchased. I just love the classic cut and details:
Gorgeous scarves:
Trio of painted banana-leaf mosaics:
Decorative drum:
Delicious shade-grown, dark-roasted Ethiopian coffee:

Beautiful children's dresses with matching scarves:
Amharic Bible:

Carved wooden Coptic cross and other wooden and silver carved and painted Ethiopian Orthodox Art:





Silver and green beaded prayer box necklace (matches my green dress):
Silver and Eritrean amber necklace:
These adorable hats (worn last weekend by my three even more adorable little girls):

(Photo courtesy of Big Star Photography)

We had dinner in the dining area of the lobby with a couple of the other families in our group, then Hus-B and some of the guys in the group walked to the Addis Golf Club (less than a mile away, but don't picture a U.S. country club, this place was much more modest but did have a basic course, a pretty good restaurant and, most importantly, wi-fi) while I retreated to our room to give Miss K her bath and evening bottle.

Hus-B was back and we were all asleep in bed by 9 p.m. The hotel was quieter that night. Only a few cries. Children and parents were getting to know each other. Miss K slept between us all night, waking up 3 or 4 times for a diaper change and bottle--and she even let me be the one to get up with her 2 of those times!

Ethiopia Journal: Day 5 (December 28) Gotcha Night and Embassy Day

The typical adoption story climaxes with "Gotcha Day"--that glorious, momentous, longed for day when parent and child are finally united to be family forever. When it all starts to feel real, however, especially with infant adoptions---is Gotcha Night.

Back at the Union Hotel, the little ones in our group began to realize that their routine was being disrupted. Nothing was familiar. They were tired. They were stressed. Their beloved special mothers were nowhere in sight. Their little worlds were being turned upside down. In our adoption education classes, we were advised that most infants cope with this traumatic change in one of two ways--they will either shut down and just want to sleep, or they will cry and openly express their grief. Most of the babies in our group chose to vocalize their unhappiness. Their cries echoed through the thin walls and hallways of the hotel that night. It was heartbreaking. And then there were the parents, many still dealing with jet lag, trying to make bottles, change diapers, comfort their babies--still trying to get to know them and figure out how they liked to be held and soothed--all in a tiny hotel room in a developing country. Not so pretty or romantic, but part of the process just the same.

Although I held Miss K for most of the time while we were at the orphanage, once we got back to the hotel, she wanted nothing to do with me. We could tell she was exhausted. We changed her diaper and prepared a bottle for her. As I tried to rock her to sleep, her big brown eyes would get heavy and start to close, then just as they shut, they would suddenly pop open and she would catch a glimpse of me and scream. She would clench her little fists, arch her back, stiffen her legs and wail. We could only imagine what was going on in her head--the memories, the emotions. I was not her first mother. I was not one of her special mothers at the orphanage. I was a clumsy, uncertain impostor. At times, she tried to get cozy; it seemed as if she was trying to take her mind to someplace familiar and comforting, pretending to be back in the arms of someone she loved. But she was too smart to convince herself to fall for her own game and just as soon as she would start to drift off to sleep, she would startle herself back awake, look at me and cry a sorrowful cry as huge tears rolled down her cheeks.

She finally fell asleep once Hus-B took over. Perhaps he was so different from her previous caregivers that it was less confusing to her. Or perhaps it was just his special Daddy's touch (our older girls both prefer for him to put them to sleep as well). He walked around, gently bouncing her and patting her back. If he tried to lay down or lay her down in the Moses basket or between us in bed, however, her eyes would pop back open and she would start crying again as soon as he would let go of her. I tried to relieve him a couple of times--to no avail. All night long, we heard other babies crying throughout the hotel. It was somehow reassuring to know we weren't the only ones.

For most of the night, Hus-B stood and walked around our room and held Miss K as she slept. He eventually successfully laid her down between us and she stayed asleep. He thought it must be about 1 a.m. since the call to prayer had not yet begun (we later learned that the time and duration of the chanting is different each day). He picked up his iphone from the nightstand to check the time--4:55 a.m! Since we had to be ready to leave for our 9:00 Embassy appointments at 7:30, we had a scheduled a 5:00 wake-up call. Afraid the ringing phone would wake Miss K back up, Hus-B tiptoed out the door and rushed downstairs to cancel the call. He arrived at the front desk at the same time as the desk clerk--who obviously wasn't expecting to run into any guests--showed up to make her 5 a.m. calls. She was so startled when he came around the corner that she almost jumped out of her pajamas. Her usually perfect hair was going in every direction. But our room stayed quiet and Miss K stayed asleep.

I got up and got dressed while Hus-B and Miss K slept for about an hour. I excitedly looked through all of her cute clothes to choose an outfit--and matching hairbow, of course, for her to wear to the Embassy. At about 7:00, the three of us went down to breakfast where we met up with all of the other bleary-eyed new parents and laughed and sympathized with each other as stories of sleepless first nights were recounted over crepes, oatmeal and Ethiopian coffee. Miss K appeared to like her rice cereal mixed with formula. Despite the rough night, she woke up bright-eyed and cheerful.

At 7:30 on the dot, our bus pulled into the hotel gates and we all piled in for the ride to the Embassy. No cameras, cell phones or other electronic or recording devices were permitted at the Embassy, so we left them all at the hotel.

In the days before, we had asked S, T, A, G and Pastor D a bunch of questions. Among them were "How do Ethiopian people view Americans adopting Ethiopian children?" and "Are Ethiopians, in general, happy with their lives?" A summary of the responses were that Ethiopians see America as a place of opportunity. Unlike in Ethiopia, where jobs are scarce and unemployment is high, and where even when work is found, many are still not be able to afford to rent a home or feed their family, Ethiopians generally see America as a place where hard work is rewarded, and where the same effort can provide so much more for one's family and children. So many people in Ethiopia spend their days just trying to survive. It's frustrating and discouraging to not see a light at the end of the tunnel when times are tough. Ethiopia is a very religious country, and people tend to be sustained by their faith, family and the value placed on traditions and relationships. But we were not to mistake their gratefulness for contentedness; they are not oblivious to the need for change and the desire for progress. We were told that Ethiopians think the babies adopted by American families are "lucky" because they will have opportunities that most Ethiopians can only dream of. At the same time, however, children are so valued in Ethiopian society, that it saddens them to see children leaving the country, and it makes them more aware of the deficiencies in their society that they are not able to provide families for orphans within their own country. They wonder what motivates Americans to adopt their children and they hope that many of these children will one day return to Ethiopia to help bring about needed change.

The bus ride to the Embassy made me feel conspicuous and uncomfortable. Our bus full of white couples, all with Ethiopian babies in our arms, stood out like a sore thumb. As we made our way through town, I could see Ethiopian people riding in buses and taxis and along the sides of the road, looking at us with expressionless faces. I thought we must look like a bunch of tourists who just swooped in on a whim and scooped up a bunch of babies to take home as souvenirs. It bothered me to think that our onlookers might be making inaccurate assumptions and that questions in their heads were going unanswered. I wanted them to know that we weren't adopting these children to be hip, trendy or to add a notch to our "do gooder belts". I wanted them to know that the process to adopt is not a quick, easy or spontaneous thing to do, but a long process that involves a lot of effort, prayer and soul-searching. I wanted them to know that while adoption is not cheap, most of the families on that bus were generally not ones that would be considered rich or wealthy in America; creative fundraising, strict budgeting, cutting back, depleting savings accounts or retirement funds, and miraculous provision were woven into many of our adoption stories. I wanted them to know how much we all had fallen in love with Ethiopia and planned to raise our children to love Ethiopia, too. I wanted them to know that we did not take these children for granted. I wanted them to know that these children were going to be cherished, adored and loved. I wanted them to know the amazing stories of how God's hand had led each of the families on that bus to the children in their arms.

While I find myself generally caring very little what people in the grocery store, Target or the produce market are thinking, I found myself caring a heck of a lot about what was going through the minds of people in Ethiopia. Since we definitely plan to return to Ethiopia with our whole family in a few years, I was thankful that we did not feel nearly as awkward in the couple of outings in Addis that Hus-B and I later took with Miss K, just the three of us. People would smile at us and invariably make a fuss over Miss K, kissing her cheeks, talking baby talk to her and, if she wasn't attached to us riding in the Ergo, taking her from our arms to love on her. Several curious people asked us various "how" and "why" questions about our adoption and seemed to understand and appreciate our responses.

The U.S. Embassy was not at all what I was picturing. The image in my head was something similar to a Federal courthouse or legislative building--marble-tiled floors and wood-paneled walls. Once we passed the armed guards, entered the grounds and made our way through a basic security check, I was surprised to find that the facility was more akin to a large version of a DMV office and a little reminiscent of a school or other institutional building constructed in perhaps the 1950's or 60's and not really updated since. Like much of the rest of Addis, parts of the facility were under construction, but the area where we went was old and outdated. Concrete block, minty green, peeling paint, worn out vinyl-upholstered chairs. Over the course of 2-3 hours, each family had its turn meeting with the consulate. The meetings were brief. They looked through our paperwork. We were asked questions such as "Is this the same child that was referred to you?" and "Does this child fall within the criteria approved in your home study?" A couple of stamps and signatures and we were done.

Back at the Union, we ate lunch and took the afternoon easy. As much as Miss K longed for familiarity at night, she was curious about everything new by day. She didn't object to me holding her in the daytime at all. She opened up to us and began to reveal her sweet, happy disposition. She loves people and activity. She's so smart and so observant. Her favorite place to be was the hotel lobby, where she seemed to study every person and understand our conversations. She would look straight into the eyes of anyone talking to her and would almost always smile a wide, gummy grin and babble in response. If anything she did made us laugh, she would repeat it over and over again, just eating up the attention. Her sweet, loving personality makes her so easy to love and was so fun to get to know.

The highlight of our evening was giving her a bath and washing her hair. She had a ball kicking her legs and splashing in the little baby tub provided by the hotel. After her bath, we slathered her up with lotion and massaged her little back, arms and legs, and I tried my hand at applying some "Baby Buttercream" hair product to condition her curls.


That night, she still wanted Hus-B to put her to sleep, but she actually let him lay her between us (and get a little rest himself) for two three-hour stretches!

Ethiopia Journal: Day 4 (December 27) GOTCHA DAY!

At 3 a.m., we were awakened by the low, melodic, soulful chanting of the Orthodox call to prayer, broadcast across town via loudspeaker. It was surreal--and unlike anything we had ever heard. Hus-B got out of bed and sat by the window in the dark, listening. I stayed in bed and listened. We were still and quiet, trying to soak in the sounds of morning in Addis Ababa. I thought of how the chanting must be something Miss K heard every morning. Was it a part of her routine? Did it cause the babies to stir and wake up? Or were they all so accustomed to it that, like the trains that pass through our town, they had learned to sleep right through and not even notice? The chanting continued for several hours, growing fainter by daybreak.

A couple of our travel friends, the M Family, whose room was right above ours, filmed this scene of families living behind our hotel, going through their morning routines that day. You can hear the chanting in the background (scroll down and pause (II) the background music before playing the video). It really captures the mood of that morning.

It was a Sunday morning and A had invited us to attend a service at the International Evangelical Church. Not where he and his wife usually attend, since the services are in English (though they also have Sunday School classes in Amharic, French and Korean) and the congregation is mostly comprised of American and European aid workers and missionaries, but something he thought we would enjoy. And we did. Morning worship prepared our hearts for the life-changing event that would take place that afternoon.

D, one of IEC's Ethiopian associate pastors, had helped to raise A and had also cared for our friend S's older children for 4 years while S and his wife were living in New York and S attended Columbia University. After the service, Pastor D gave us a tour of the facilities and took us into the kitchen for coffee and bread and to meet some a few of the Ethiopian church members who also know S and his family and were excited to hear how they were doing and to ask us all about our life in Florida.
We stayed until just before the second morning service began, then A took us to his home where we were greeted with big hugs and sincere smiles from his sweet children and the smells of injera and beef tibs flowing from the kitchen. A's wife M emerged from the kitchen, set up two TV trays in front of us, and fixed our plates with injera and heaping portions portions of kitfo (usually served raw but she cooked it for us Ferengis) and tibs. Then she, A and their children found seats around the living room and watched us eat. It was a little awkward, but the food was delicious. Although we were full after our first helpings, we did not refuse the seconds that she quickly dished out, wanting to make it clear to her that we liked the food and appreciated her hospitality.

After lunch, M took our plates to the kitchen, brought out a TV tray and plate of food for A and prepared plates for the children to eat at the table. Another woman (we were never quite clear as to whether she was M's mother or a family friend) came out of the kitchen, spread out a faux-grass rug, and started setting up everything necessary for a coffee ceremony (portable stove, box-style table topped with small teacup-sized coffee cups, a stone incense burner, pan for roasting coffee and bowl of green coffee beans for roasting). Ethiopian people in general are very welcoming and hospitable and it is an honor to have a traditional coffee ceremony performed when visiting someone. The room filled with the strong smell of incense and coffee beans roasting. The beans were roasted in a pan over the fire, then crushed and added to a clay pot of water and boiled to produce rich, dark coffee, which is customarily served with popcorn or seeds and nuts. It is a feast for all of the senses.


After lunch, A took us back to the Union, where we were scheduled to meet with Almaz, the director of Hannah's Hope, at 2 p.m., to complete our Embassy paperwork and, more importantly, walk to the orphanage to meet our children. It was hard to focus on the paperwork knowing that such a huge a turning point in our lives was so imminent.

Photo courtesy of the M Family

The meeting with Almaz took about an hour and concluded with her asking (in her cute Ethiopian accent) "So, are you ready to meet your kids?" Everyone scurried around to gather their cameras, camcorders and diaper bags and we headed out the gates of the Union and turned down a nearby cobblestone path. The walk only took about 4 minutes but was so heavy with anticipation that it seemed to happen in slow motion. We had all seen the videos and pictures posted by families that had traveled before us and had walked that walk in our imaginations hundreds of times before. We approached the red "All God's Children, Inc." gate--was it really happening or was it a dream?

Almaz opened the gate and a crowd of curious older children quickly gathered around us. She asked for the A Family to join her to enter the orphanage and recruited a couple of other people to film and photograph them meeting their precious little twin girls. After a few minutes, the As emerged with their babies, followed by one of the special mothers holding another family's little one. About every 30 seconds after that, another baby was brought out, with all of the families watching eagerly as it was brought closer to see if it was theirs. Everyone was scurrying around filming and photographing everyone else's first interactions with their children, until their own child was brought out. Miss K was the last baby to come out. We recognized her big brown eyes as soon as her special mother stepped out onto the front steps. As everyone else was busy getting to know their babies, Hus-B handed the camcorder to one of the Hannah's Hope drivers and I handed my camera to Almaz herself to capture the special mother placing Miss K in our arms.

It was a moment in time that we will always treasure. This child that had been born in our hearts even before she was born to her first mother--this child that we had longed for and prayed for for years, that we had loved from the core of our beings from the moment we first saw her picture in September, was finally here, ours. She quietly snuggled into me, seeming unsure of what was happening, but willing to trust my hold. It was an immediate connection on Hus-B's and my part. Hus-B eventually coaxed a smile out of her with some of his silly antics, but her interactions with us remained tentative.

After an hour or so of bonding, taking pictures and mingling with the other families and their babes in the courtyard, we walked into Hannah's Hope to see Miss K's home for the past several months. We walked upstairs and several of her special mothers crowded around us to love on Miss K. One in particular wanted to hold her and spent several minutes hugging her, holding her close, whispering to her and sobbing as she said goodbye. The special mothers' love of these children is simply amazing. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to give so much then say goodbye. Over and over again. She asked if we would send pictures, and we promised we would. She showed us Miss K's bed--not the one that a previous family thought was hers--but one of two little cribs cozily situated in a room about the size of a walk-in closet. Her special mother laid her down in the crib and then entertained her in what was a special game the two of them had enjoyed. Her special mother flapped her arms and said "MaMaMaMaMaMa" as she swooped in toward Miss K in the crib, in response to which Miss K kicked her feet and just squealed with delight.

The sun was setting and it was getting cooler outside. The special mothers were starting the children's evening routines and the just-united families began making their way back to the Union Hotel. From this point on, these children were our total responsibility.

We exchanged good-nights in the lobby and made our way to our rooms, wondering what adventures this first night would hold and what stories would be shared the next morning at breakfast. . .