A year and two days ago I met my daughter for the first time. It wasn't in a hospital, there was no umbilical cord to cut, or doctor smiling at me announcing that it was a girl.Instead I was on the 5th floor of an office building in southern China surrounded by a slew of youthful orphanage workers who were openly crying about handing over their tiny little charges. Then there was the row of babies. Identically dressed in hot pink tank tops, black knit shorts and pink jellie-sandals, all looking scared, able to sense that something big was about to happen.
More quickly than I had imagined I was holding a little girl that looked about 9 months old, with short wiry ponytails and and red pocks splattered across her face. She screamed as she was passed from nanny to me and I cried, cooed and rocked her trying to calm her while facing my own fears of being responsible for this complete stranger. She reached back to the nanny, over and over, and the nanny reached for her, making me feel useless, like a bad mother only minutes into our relationship. I my mind I prayed for her to stop crying so I would look like someone capable of parenting her.
She was so, so thin, and cried all the way into the elevator, through the lobby of the building where her nanny was peering longingly at her, and onto the waiting bus. She cried all the way to our hotel, and up to our hotel room. She cried till suddenly, about 5 hours later she collapsed, asleep on my chest. An hour later she woke up and cried some more. We were able to get her to eat some dinner, amidst her crying, and put her to bed. She willingly went to sleep, but woke crying the next day, and cried all day long, and all through the following 3 days and nights.
Nothing we did calmed her. Nothing.
Finally we spoke to our adoption guide, a very likable man name Michael. He was very concerned that our baby wasn't adjusting well. He called her orphanage and relayed our million questions and added some of his own. We learned the position she likes to sleep in, the temperature she liked her food, and as an afterthought they mentioned that she likes towels.
JL RAN to the bathroom and grabbed a small hand towel bearing the logo of our hotel. Our daughter grasped onto it in the most aggressive move I'd seen her make and proceeded to smother herself with the towel. She rubbed the terrycloth across her cheeks, eyes, nose and mouth. Fingered the material looking for reassurance, and finally, stopped crying. I was so relieved that I almost burst into tears. It was a light at the end of the tunnel situation. Perhaps, just perhaps she would stop crying long enough for us to get to know her, to love her, to show her that we meant no harm.
Over the next few days, with the towel constantly by her side we learned that she loved to eat and that she was terrified of men, especially her new dad. She didn't resist the presence of her sister, and we latched onto this and let the two interact as much as possible, with the big sister bringing toys, encouraging her to pick things up, feed herself, and finally to crawl. She was 14 months old.
We toured China with our children in tow, and stole hand towels from every hotel we stayed in, telling ourselves that if they knew the situation they wouldn't begrudge us a measly towel.
Over the past year, Rong Fu Yan has evolved into Gigi--a laughing, dancing, dress loving little girl who adores her mother and her father and tells us cutely, "Don't be sad."
She loves Cinderella aka "Rella," strawberries, Elmo, and cries out "APPLE JUICE!" when she's sad.
