a very drawn-out recollection of THE BEGINNING, though I still feel it's not detailed enough
I’m really sorry I didn’t document my first days with Patrik sooner and thus much more thoroughly, but since Ignac isn’t here yet, it has obviously been more important for me to be with Patrik, and to get enough sleep to be awake enough to be with Patrik.
I have spent years preparing myself for meeting my first child. Back when we thought we’d make the first one and adopt the next, I would try to imagine the moment of birth. Then, for a while, my visions of coming to get a child at an orphanage were no less idealized than the other version. Later, after I had begun devouring the adoption literature, I realized falling into each other’s arms at first sight was not particularly likely. So I spent a long time trying to steel myself for the initial disappointment. The kid would have no way of knowing that this would be forever, that we’re his parents, or even that parents are better in principle than orphanage aunties. Many children don’t even want to be held by their new parents, can’t be soothed, won’t make eye contact, or don’t know how to smile…
Meeting Patrik was quite different from my idealized dream of having a child at last. It was much more beautiful. Much more intense. It was love at first sight of a kind I never could have imagined.
I got to the orphanage fifteen minutes early for my 11 AM appointment. I was already running on adrenalin from two nights of very little sleep. I waited outside the reception office and tried to hold back the tears. I continued to damage Patrik’s picture in my hand. My first question after finally being ushered into the social workers’ office was, “So it’s really the boy in this picture?” The social worker scoffed, “Oh, he’s much better looking than that!” I was ready to be patient, to go over Patrik’s paperwork with the social workers, and to wait for my baby to wake up. His doctor saw no need for that, however. She walked in and said something to the effect of, “Come on, already!” We entered his section and she asked one of the nurses, “Where’s the American?” “American is the only one still asleep," his auntie answered. I suspected that they had known where he was headed before I was informed. “How did you know?,” I blurted out. “We know _everything_!,” the nurse smiled.
Behind the metal bars of his communist-era crib (Patrik later showed me how good he is at banging his head on them in his sleep), all I could see was his long black hair. When I knelt down, my face was level with his. I bit my lip, held back the flood of tears and touched his hair with a feather stroke. I know now that no amount of racket can wake this kid up, but the softest of all possible touches will make his head start up - both are clever adaptations to institutional life. I immediately snapped the first photo, and just then he woke up fully. He smiled, then extended his arm out toward the doctor. We were introduced. He cheerfully cuddled up to me, obviously drinking up the attention. Capitalizing on his good mood (he’s always in a good mood, they claimed), I swooshed him up and down in the air a few times, and he burst out laughing.
He loved it all, and still does - the kissing, the tickling, the head stroking, the rocking. Only very slowly am I coming down from the initial high of holding him. Patrik seemed absolutely perfect, and he still pretty much does. In a cloud of motherhood, I floated off with him to the social worker’s office, where after some bizarre phone problems I finally talked to Ignac. Patrik heard his dad’s voice for the first time, then proceeded to eat the phone. At one point, as we were sitting on the sofa, he nestled his head against my chest. Even the social worker was reduced to a puddle of goo.
After finding out nothing incredibly useful about the birthparents (where, by the way, I sensed the first indication that all information about Patrik’s family history is to be taken with a grain of salt, e.g., Mrs. K. had said that the orphanage people indicated the birthmom is a dark-skinned, “typical Romani woman,” whereas the actual orphanage people told me both birthparents are light-skinned and don’t look very Romani…and yesterday, the same Prague 3 government woman who supposedly reported having a problematic encounter with the birthparents said something to the effect of their being fine people, just with too many kids), we went to see the director. Not surprisingly, she was in a foul mood. She verbally attacked someone for daring to knock twice. Patrik and I were scared. I tried to take notes on what the director said for myself, future doctors, and Patrik’s life book. Patrik deemed the life book more palatable as food. The director freaked out that Patrik might swallow a piece of paper. I freaked out that Patrik is on so much medication (frankly, I’m more concerned about the effects of overmedication than, for example, the hole in his heart). The director conveyed her gladness at how “tolerant” we were as applicants, as well as her wish that more people were so “tolerant.” I reminded her that it doesn’t particularly count as tolerant when I’m Romani myself, although she might have meant his three-month-premature birth more than anything else. (Amusingly, the application process obsesses over the prospective parents’ “[in]tolerance” of even the most prosaic bodily imperfections, but nowhere did we check or state that we’d gladly accept a baby born at 2 lb 11oz, etc. I am NOT saying this because I ever doubted we could handle Patrik’s health and/or developmental issues, but it almost seems like premature birth is the one physical problem we didn’t think consider, and thus don’t know the slightest crap about.) I did not convey to the director my wish that she were less of a two-faced racist and more - yes - “tolerant.”
The most tolerant person of all was Patrik, who politely refrained from reminding me that it was past his lunchtime. The psychologist was called in. She was adorable. After realizing that she doesn’t remember anything about the patient offhand, she went to get his papers. “So, David, then,” she breathed out. “No, Patrik,” I corrected her. “Yes, I know you’re going to change his name, but we have him here as David,” she informed me patiently. “No, we’re not going to change his name, and you have him here as Patrik,” I smiled with equal patience. (I didn’t know at the time that Ignac would end up picking David as his middle name.) She didn’t tell me anything about his tests that I didn’t already know, but the meeting was worth it just for her flabbergasted reaction when I sang praises to the very cute way she’d written her report on Patrik, which Mrs. K read to me at the magistrate. I fantasized about counseling her on her low self-esteem, but there wouldn’t have been time between all her apologizing, anyway.
After lunch, we got tips on what to do (roll Patrik on what looked like a giant squished scrotum - he seemed insulted) and not to do (YOU try stopping him!) from the physical therapist, a sweet lady whose daughter is majoring in Romani studies and is thus one of a rare breed. (The next morning, I received an invitation to give a talk at the university. The request was mediated by the girl’s mom, who came into Patrik’s and my room all but beating her breast for “invading our privacy.”) Patrik spent the rest of the day teaching me his regime, including his gleeful bathtime ritual. I was impressed by the warmth of the staff, but dismayed at the length of time the babies were left completely alone in the playroom. At first, I naively thought the nurse just took an opportunity to care of something else while I was obviously watching the tykes, but she later explained that it’s perfectly normal to leave them there alone. There are smaller infants who need feeding, changing, and the like before they, too, are left alone. “And this is one of the better orphanages…,” I kept thinking. The playroom is quite safe as far as injury prevention goes, which would explain why Patrik now has no fear even in life-threatening situations - such as various spots in our apartment.
Patrik enjoyed my company in almost complete silence, save for his bursts of laughter. He became attentive when I sang, and during my rendition of “Nane cocha” he joined in. (He likes to make vowel sounds, sometimes prolonged when I’m singing, and in “conversation” with my vowel sounds at other times.) I felt immediate motherly pride at his “undoubtedly obvious” sense of melody and rhythm. Okay, so there’s not much else to do in the playroom besides beat on surfaces or bang simple toys together… But not all kids with an adjusted age of 9.5 months can clap their hands together, and certainly not with such transcendent gusto. He’s gotten slightly sick of it by now, but at the orphanage he seemed eager to repeat sounds after me. One of the first things he “said” was dada, after my none-too-hopeful exhortion. I reported this to Ignac - and everyone else - at the earliest opportunity.
The way I managed to spoil my son within our first twelve hours together was noteworthy. He went from the “no problem” kid, self-sufficient and perfectly happy to sit on the floor by himself or go to sleep with minimal protest, to a much more normal baby than I would have thought possible in such a short span of time. (Since I’ve taken him home, this trend has continued with sometimes eyebrow-raising speed, but of course I’m relieved that he’s letting himself be babied and knows how to ask for it.) He dug the unprecedented freedom I gave him to crawl around the hallways, but eventually decided he wanted to be held - with ever-shortening intervals. When he got tired, I curled him up on my lap and rocked him. I was in a state of indescribable bliss. For his part, Patrik slowly opened and closed his eyes in a gesture that seemed to say, “Ohhh…this is NIIIIIICE…I’m pretty pooped, but sleep would be a waste right now…” I talked to Ignac and told him our son is perfect. A few hours later, Patrik stated with resounding clarity, “Surely you don’t think I’m going to fall asleep in this crib alone!” Already running on fumes (perhaps more accurately described as totally groovy love vibes), I got exactly two hours of sleep that night in our private little room on the third floor. At various times between one and three in the morning, Patrik was transfixed by the view from the window. I don’t think there’s any way he could have seen car or city lights before. He ended up falling asleep in my arms, with me on my back and him on his tummy. Every move I made thereafter, even the slightest adjustment, would wake him up. By the time he was both asleep and not in a position that made the same impossible for me, I was almost falling off the bed. Besides, there was a big part of me that didn’t want to sleep. A night like this only comes along once in a lifetime. I knew I’d gush out and hold back many more tears of ecstasy in the coming weeks, but these moments at the orphanage consumed me.
Patrik’s breathing was even worse (from his virus and general breathing problems) in the morning, but the staff let us go anyway - and I don’t blame them, considering what a tornado we were. At lunchtime, one of the nurses offered to watch Patrik so I could finally get a proper meal. I gave her an injured look, almost indignant. She understood. In the dining room, I had my hot lunch in one hand and my son in the other before I realized I’d left my only allotted utensils upstairs. The sight of my dipping dumplings into the food with one very sauce-covered hand must have inspired ...something. Luckily, I was already quite sick to my stomach, so I didn’t mind finishing early. Back upstairs, Patrik’s appetite wasn’t much better, so the nurse told me she feeds the kids lying down (the babies lie down, not the nurse, although I think the latter would be preferable). I tried it. It was not only slightly more effective on Patrik than any normal method of feeding infants, it also hadn’t choked him or his roommates to death. Yet. (Never mind Patrik’s serious reflux diagnosis.)
Besides our eventual exit, the most memorable thing about the morning was meeting Patrik’s volunteer. In the context of the Czech Republic, it is extremely impressive that this woman even exists, and - not surprisingly, I suppose - we became instantly fond of each other. She came to see Patrik for two hours most weeks beginning in June. I was just relieving our boredom by taking a walk down the staircase with Patrik in my arms, when a thirtysomething woman obviously recognized him. They hadn’t told her he was leaving the institution. “I’m his volunteer,” she introduced herself, obviously wondering who the heck I was. Fighting back tears once again (it’s taken so little to set me off these past two weeks, although this was something of a milestone pronouncement), I announced with a swell of pride, “I’m his mother.” She was so humble, immediately trying to get out of our way, but of course I insisted she spend a little while with us in our room. We bonded over our interest in spending time with orphanage kids, and I told her she could come visit Patrik any time once he got settled and attached to Ignac and me. She recounted some of her experiences with him, and explained that the big singing duck he loves - the only thing that was exclusively his up to that point -- was a gift from her for his birthday. I couldn’t express to her how endlessly grateful I am that she visited him for half a year, and that his first birthday experience had been special only thanks to her. And she, of course, was deeply pleased that Patrik now has a family. She said she’d been sad when his nurse told her he was legally free, but that it would be tough… I counted my blessings that even though it took the court ridiculously long as usual to do its most time-sensitive job, he was placed so soon after decision took effect.
Kapulet arrived with her car, carseat, and a bag full of stuff for the orphanage at one o’clock on the dot. It didn’t seem possible from her demeanor that his beloved nurse would send him out beyond the doors of his section naked save for a diaper, but she did. I think she was trying to make things easier. She told me to undress him and she would just put the clothes in the laundry right away. And so Kapulet, who was waiting in the cold stairwell with his washed and dried outfit, met Patrik in most of his natural glory. It should be illegal to send orphanage kids home without their familiar sheets and at least one piece of attire. These things could be given to new families in exchange for approved new ones, which parents would be glad to provide, assuming they know about the importance of scent and general continuity to babies… Well, at least Patrik had his duck.
After a decided lack of excitement, to put it mildly, at being stuffed into weird fabrics and some big metal monster, Patrik said “I’m outta here!” and slept for the entire ride home. Once we got there, he immediately explored the place the same way he’d checked out the new orphanage room. He crawled around with some glee, until he remembered his right to be picked up and cashed in on it. And I still couldn’t believe how lucky Ignac and I got.
I have spent years preparing myself for meeting my first child. Back when we thought we’d make the first one and adopt the next, I would try to imagine the moment of birth. Then, for a while, my visions of coming to get a child at an orphanage were no less idealized than the other version. Later, after I had begun devouring the adoption literature, I realized falling into each other’s arms at first sight was not particularly likely. So I spent a long time trying to steel myself for the initial disappointment. The kid would have no way of knowing that this would be forever, that we’re his parents, or even that parents are better in principle than orphanage aunties. Many children don’t even want to be held by their new parents, can’t be soothed, won’t make eye contact, or don’t know how to smile…
Meeting Patrik was quite different from my idealized dream of having a child at last. It was much more beautiful. Much more intense. It was love at first sight of a kind I never could have imagined.
I got to the orphanage fifteen minutes early for my 11 AM appointment. I was already running on adrenalin from two nights of very little sleep. I waited outside the reception office and tried to hold back the tears. I continued to damage Patrik’s picture in my hand. My first question after finally being ushered into the social workers’ office was, “So it’s really the boy in this picture?” The social worker scoffed, “Oh, he’s much better looking than that!” I was ready to be patient, to go over Patrik’s paperwork with the social workers, and to wait for my baby to wake up. His doctor saw no need for that, however. She walked in and said something to the effect of, “Come on, already!” We entered his section and she asked one of the nurses, “Where’s the American?” “American is the only one still asleep," his auntie answered. I suspected that they had known where he was headed before I was informed. “How did you know?,” I blurted out. “We know _everything_!,” the nurse smiled.
Behind the metal bars of his communist-era crib (Patrik later showed me how good he is at banging his head on them in his sleep), all I could see was his long black hair. When I knelt down, my face was level with his. I bit my lip, held back the flood of tears and touched his hair with a feather stroke. I know now that no amount of racket can wake this kid up, but the softest of all possible touches will make his head start up - both are clever adaptations to institutional life. I immediately snapped the first photo, and just then he woke up fully. He smiled, then extended his arm out toward the doctor. We were introduced. He cheerfully cuddled up to me, obviously drinking up the attention. Capitalizing on his good mood (he’s always in a good mood, they claimed), I swooshed him up and down in the air a few times, and he burst out laughing.
He loved it all, and still does - the kissing, the tickling, the head stroking, the rocking. Only very slowly am I coming down from the initial high of holding him. Patrik seemed absolutely perfect, and he still pretty much does. In a cloud of motherhood, I floated off with him to the social worker’s office, where after some bizarre phone problems I finally talked to Ignac. Patrik heard his dad’s voice for the first time, then proceeded to eat the phone. At one point, as we were sitting on the sofa, he nestled his head against my chest. Even the social worker was reduced to a puddle of goo.
After finding out nothing incredibly useful about the birthparents (where, by the way, I sensed the first indication that all information about Patrik’s family history is to be taken with a grain of salt, e.g., Mrs. K. had said that the orphanage people indicated the birthmom is a dark-skinned, “typical Romani woman,” whereas the actual orphanage people told me both birthparents are light-skinned and don’t look very Romani…and yesterday, the same Prague 3 government woman who supposedly reported having a problematic encounter with the birthparents said something to the effect of their being fine people, just with too many kids), we went to see the director. Not surprisingly, she was in a foul mood. She verbally attacked someone for daring to knock twice. Patrik and I were scared. I tried to take notes on what the director said for myself, future doctors, and Patrik’s life book. Patrik deemed the life book more palatable as food. The director freaked out that Patrik might swallow a piece of paper. I freaked out that Patrik is on so much medication (frankly, I’m more concerned about the effects of overmedication than, for example, the hole in his heart). The director conveyed her gladness at how “tolerant” we were as applicants, as well as her wish that more people were so “tolerant.” I reminded her that it doesn’t particularly count as tolerant when I’m Romani myself, although she might have meant his three-month-premature birth more than anything else. (Amusingly, the application process obsesses over the prospective parents’ “[in]tolerance” of even the most prosaic bodily imperfections, but nowhere did we check or state that we’d gladly accept a baby born at 2 lb 11oz, etc. I am NOT saying this because I ever doubted we could handle Patrik’s health and/or developmental issues, but it almost seems like premature birth is the one physical problem we didn’t think consider, and thus don’t know the slightest crap about.) I did not convey to the director my wish that she were less of a two-faced racist and more - yes - “tolerant.”
The most tolerant person of all was Patrik, who politely refrained from reminding me that it was past his lunchtime. The psychologist was called in. She was adorable. After realizing that she doesn’t remember anything about the patient offhand, she went to get his papers. “So, David, then,” she breathed out. “No, Patrik,” I corrected her. “Yes, I know you’re going to change his name, but we have him here as David,” she informed me patiently. “No, we’re not going to change his name, and you have him here as Patrik,” I smiled with equal patience. (I didn’t know at the time that Ignac would end up picking David as his middle name.) She didn’t tell me anything about his tests that I didn’t already know, but the meeting was worth it just for her flabbergasted reaction when I sang praises to the very cute way she’d written her report on Patrik, which Mrs. K read to me at the magistrate. I fantasized about counseling her on her low self-esteem, but there wouldn’t have been time between all her apologizing, anyway.
After lunch, we got tips on what to do (roll Patrik on what looked like a giant squished scrotum - he seemed insulted) and not to do (YOU try stopping him!) from the physical therapist, a sweet lady whose daughter is majoring in Romani studies and is thus one of a rare breed. (The next morning, I received an invitation to give a talk at the university. The request was mediated by the girl’s mom, who came into Patrik’s and my room all but beating her breast for “invading our privacy.”) Patrik spent the rest of the day teaching me his regime, including his gleeful bathtime ritual. I was impressed by the warmth of the staff, but dismayed at the length of time the babies were left completely alone in the playroom. At first, I naively thought the nurse just took an opportunity to care of something else while I was obviously watching the tykes, but she later explained that it’s perfectly normal to leave them there alone. There are smaller infants who need feeding, changing, and the like before they, too, are left alone. “And this is one of the better orphanages…,” I kept thinking. The playroom is quite safe as far as injury prevention goes, which would explain why Patrik now has no fear even in life-threatening situations - such as various spots in our apartment.
Patrik enjoyed my company in almost complete silence, save for his bursts of laughter. He became attentive when I sang, and during my rendition of “Nane cocha” he joined in. (He likes to make vowel sounds, sometimes prolonged when I’m singing, and in “conversation” with my vowel sounds at other times.) I felt immediate motherly pride at his “undoubtedly obvious” sense of melody and rhythm. Okay, so there’s not much else to do in the playroom besides beat on surfaces or bang simple toys together… But not all kids with an adjusted age of 9.5 months can clap their hands together, and certainly not with such transcendent gusto. He’s gotten slightly sick of it by now, but at the orphanage he seemed eager to repeat sounds after me. One of the first things he “said” was dada, after my none-too-hopeful exhortion. I reported this to Ignac - and everyone else - at the earliest opportunity.
The way I managed to spoil my son within our first twelve hours together was noteworthy. He went from the “no problem” kid, self-sufficient and perfectly happy to sit on the floor by himself or go to sleep with minimal protest, to a much more normal baby than I would have thought possible in such a short span of time. (Since I’ve taken him home, this trend has continued with sometimes eyebrow-raising speed, but of course I’m relieved that he’s letting himself be babied and knows how to ask for it.) He dug the unprecedented freedom I gave him to crawl around the hallways, but eventually decided he wanted to be held - with ever-shortening intervals. When he got tired, I curled him up on my lap and rocked him. I was in a state of indescribable bliss. For his part, Patrik slowly opened and closed his eyes in a gesture that seemed to say, “Ohhh…this is NIIIIIICE…I’m pretty pooped, but sleep would be a waste right now…” I talked to Ignac and told him our son is perfect. A few hours later, Patrik stated with resounding clarity, “Surely you don’t think I’m going to fall asleep in this crib alone!” Already running on fumes (perhaps more accurately described as totally groovy love vibes), I got exactly two hours of sleep that night in our private little room on the third floor. At various times between one and three in the morning, Patrik was transfixed by the view from the window. I don’t think there’s any way he could have seen car or city lights before. He ended up falling asleep in my arms, with me on my back and him on his tummy. Every move I made thereafter, even the slightest adjustment, would wake him up. By the time he was both asleep and not in a position that made the same impossible for me, I was almost falling off the bed. Besides, there was a big part of me that didn’t want to sleep. A night like this only comes along once in a lifetime. I knew I’d gush out and hold back many more tears of ecstasy in the coming weeks, but these moments at the orphanage consumed me.
Patrik’s breathing was even worse (from his virus and general breathing problems) in the morning, but the staff let us go anyway - and I don’t blame them, considering what a tornado we were. At lunchtime, one of the nurses offered to watch Patrik so I could finally get a proper meal. I gave her an injured look, almost indignant. She understood. In the dining room, I had my hot lunch in one hand and my son in the other before I realized I’d left my only allotted utensils upstairs. The sight of my dipping dumplings into the food with one very sauce-covered hand must have inspired ...something. Luckily, I was already quite sick to my stomach, so I didn’t mind finishing early. Back upstairs, Patrik’s appetite wasn’t much better, so the nurse told me she feeds the kids lying down (the babies lie down, not the nurse, although I think the latter would be preferable). I tried it. It was not only slightly more effective on Patrik than any normal method of feeding infants, it also hadn’t choked him or his roommates to death. Yet. (Never mind Patrik’s serious reflux diagnosis.)
Besides our eventual exit, the most memorable thing about the morning was meeting Patrik’s volunteer. In the context of the Czech Republic, it is extremely impressive that this woman even exists, and - not surprisingly, I suppose - we became instantly fond of each other. She came to see Patrik for two hours most weeks beginning in June. I was just relieving our boredom by taking a walk down the staircase with Patrik in my arms, when a thirtysomething woman obviously recognized him. They hadn’t told her he was leaving the institution. “I’m his volunteer,” she introduced herself, obviously wondering who the heck I was. Fighting back tears once again (it’s taken so little to set me off these past two weeks, although this was something of a milestone pronouncement), I announced with a swell of pride, “I’m his mother.” She was so humble, immediately trying to get out of our way, but of course I insisted she spend a little while with us in our room. We bonded over our interest in spending time with orphanage kids, and I told her she could come visit Patrik any time once he got settled and attached to Ignac and me. She recounted some of her experiences with him, and explained that the big singing duck he loves - the only thing that was exclusively his up to that point -- was a gift from her for his birthday. I couldn’t express to her how endlessly grateful I am that she visited him for half a year, and that his first birthday experience had been special only thanks to her. And she, of course, was deeply pleased that Patrik now has a family. She said she’d been sad when his nurse told her he was legally free, but that it would be tough… I counted my blessings that even though it took the court ridiculously long as usual to do its most time-sensitive job, he was placed so soon after decision took effect.
Kapulet arrived with her car, carseat, and a bag full of stuff for the orphanage at one o’clock on the dot. It didn’t seem possible from her demeanor that his beloved nurse would send him out beyond the doors of his section naked save for a diaper, but she did. I think she was trying to make things easier. She told me to undress him and she would just put the clothes in the laundry right away. And so Kapulet, who was waiting in the cold stairwell with his washed and dried outfit, met Patrik in most of his natural glory. It should be illegal to send orphanage kids home without their familiar sheets and at least one piece of attire. These things could be given to new families in exchange for approved new ones, which parents would be glad to provide, assuming they know about the importance of scent and general continuity to babies… Well, at least Patrik had his duck.
After a decided lack of excitement, to put it mildly, at being stuffed into weird fabrics and some big metal monster, Patrik said “I’m outta here!” and slept for the entire ride home. Once we got there, he immediately explored the place the same way he’d checked out the new orphanage room. He crawled around with some glee, until he remembered his right to be picked up and cashed in on it. And I still couldn’t believe how lucky Ignac and I got.