Wednesday, June 1, 2016

The painful work of grief and love

I've really struggled with blogging lately- struggling to find the balance between honesty and over-sharing. I've started countless blog posts and then deleted them, unable to find the words. I know a lot of what I write is heavy and most people don't want the heavy version, but I feel compelled to write and to share, not for any sort of self-promotion but for understanding and compassion, mostly within myself and for my daughter. It's a lonely road that few have walked, with friends and acquaintances often keeping a weary distance. So often the talk of bonding and attachment with an older child is vague and white-washed, at times unrevealing of any sort of struggle for years following. I don't believe that does anyone any favors. I write with the intent of Hengxin being my primary reader as she gets older, and try my best to avoid writing anything that I don't think she would want disclosed. That being said, please consider yourself fully disclosed. :)


She spoke and laughed easily with her sister and as she did, she rested her hand on my knee. It was such a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. It told me how far we have come in the past three months. Just a few hours before we had been working through another dark pit of grief, and now she was smiling and relaxed. Each time, we seem to come out of it a bit better and a bit closer.

If there's one thing the last few months has taught me, it's how little I really knew about grief or about love.

Grief isn't always what many of us imagine it to be- the images of a child crying in the night or the mother sorrowing over a lost child. Perhaps it's because these images draw us in, instead of push us away, that we are more comfortable with them. These images evoke tenderness and sympathy, a yearning to comfort. But grief, I've learned, is so much more. It's at times despondence, it's blaming, it's guilt, and sometimes it's confused and angry tears. It's messy, uncomfortable, and hard for even the griever to identify. It both pushes away and yearns for closeness. It's awkward. It's painful. It's rigorous work. And there is no easy fix. 

We see pieces of that grief almost every day. Sometimes in small fragments, sometimes in icebergs. 

This past weekend I attended my brother's master's graduation ceremony and thesis presentation. His thesis was on complicated grief and melancholia. As he presented, he talked about those who were well-acquainted with grief, some enduring a lifetime of complicated grief. I thought of my little girl. She has endured more grief in the past 12 years than most will endure in a lifetime; and considering it all, how amazingly well and dignified she holds that grief. But still, it's not an easy burden for her to bear. 

We've read books and taken courses, and yet I don't think anything could have ever really prepared us to meet the grief head-on with full confidence and assurance. But it's most certainly present and I can't help but believe that grief is perhaps meant to be a part of life because it's often by traveling down the road of grief that we learn the most about ourselves.

And along with her grief, I've discovered a grief of my own, albeit only a tiny portion when held in comparison to hers. A grief for a simplicity of life that will likely never be mine. A grief for things that have resurfaced from the past. A grief that the life I once lived has been replaced with doctor's offices and waiting rooms. A grief for the woman I want to become, but who always seems out of reach.

Through it all, it has been amazing to watch love- a new love- flowering alongside the wasteland of grief.

Nor is love, I have also learned, what it had once seemed. I had once believed that love is a natural inclination for us all, something that would come easily strolling in if we simply opened the door. Of all the things I had worried about before she came home, the ability to love was not one of them.

Yet again, I have learned how wrong I was. Love has to be earned and worked for. It has to be prayed for, sought after, and then inexhaustibly nourished. It has to be shown even when- no... especially when- it's not felt. I've come to more clearly understand why the Savior insisted on serving those He loved. He knew what I have only recently come to understand- that love and service are inextricably linked.

We've all had to work towards love- her, perhaps, more than any of the rest of us. Sympathy and affection, while wonderful elements of human emotion that often propel us towards things like adoption, are not the same as love. They may drive us to action, but are woefully inadequate in navigating the mountains and valleys of a long-term relationship.

Almost daily people ask how things are going with our growing family. I always hesitate, looking for an answer. Do I tell them what I think they want to hear? That everything is wonderful? That our house is bursting at the seams with joy? That it's not as hard as people told us it would be?

Or do they really want to know, I wonder? That it's hard... like, really hard sometimes? That I've never done anything harder or doubted my abilities more? 

But then I want to tell them not to feel sorry for us because hard is okay... because these are the things that make the good days seem even better, and these are the things that make us stronger- stronger than we ever knew we could be.

This photo, though seemingly unrelated, was taken early one morning while the children slept. We had a busy day on deck, full day of doctor appointments and lab draws. I wanted desperately to remember, and perhaps carry with me, some of the serenity I felt at the moment that would so soon be gone. And it helped. We got through another day, just like we do every day, and came out stronger in the end.

Thursday, May 19, 2016

Learning to Dance

A couple of weeks ago, I came to the hard realization. I need help.

I was sitting in the doctor's office listening to him tell me about Hengxin's condition and what it would mean for the rest of her life. My head was spinning with implications. So much has happened and so much is still yet to come. The endless doctor visits, the mounting medical bills, thinking of all the other areas in my life that are suffering and neglected, feelings of guilt... it was all crashing in at once. All of the sudden I felt like I was floating- but with weights pounding in my head. My ears started ringing, and my fingers and lips were tingling. 

I spent the rest of the afternoon in a deep fog, tears coming several times throughout the day. After dinner, I withdrew into my room and fell into a deep sleep for several hours. I awoke to a darkened house. The kids were in bed and the house was quiet except for the sound of Dennis feeding the dog and closing up for the night.

"I need help, Dennis. I can't keep doing this on my own," I told him as we sat in the darkened dining room. I had said this in the past, but this time I meant in a way I never had before.

In every way, Dennis is my better half. I could never ask for him to be more. I'm beginning to think that he's quite possibly the inspiration for the romantic hero in Nicholas Sparks' books- as well as MacGyver, Spiderman, and the Hulk, all rolled into one. He gives everything he has, exhausting himself trying to help in anyway he can; but because of the reality that he needs to hold a full-time job to support the family, the heaviest part of handling Hengxin's medical issues has landed with me.

I don't know what I've been trying to prove for so long or why I thought I had to do it all. Maybe to prove to all the naysayers and everyone who warned me that this would be hard that I could pull it all off seamlessly- that we could emerge unscathed. But that's just not the case. We were never meant to be islands, and what we think are circling sharks are actually lifeboats, just waiting for us to say the words, "I need help."

So, I started getting that help in different areas of my life. None of this to get a better life, but simply to help clean off my looking glass, and to allow myself to see the beautiful life that I already have.

I once heard the relationship between a parent and a child described as an intricate dance: two people learning to move and sway in sync with each other. When child cries out, mom steps forward to comfort. When mom uses that tone of voice, child steps back knowing she means business. It's an ebb and flow of sorts as they learn to anticipate and react to each other's subtleties, each rhythm unique to each parent and child. With my biological children, that dance began when they were in the womb. By the time they were born, we had already been dancing for nine months. 

With Hengxin, that dance began just two and a half months ago. Dennis pointed out the other night, that we still know so little about her. What was her life like in the orphanage? What else does she remember about her birth family? What's going on in her mind behind those beautiful almond-shaped eyes? We have so much making up to do... so much lost time.

That day in the doctor's office, she shut down again as the interpreter told her some of the medical things that were coming down the pipe for her. She rolled over on the exam bed so she wouldn't have to look at us, and the tears began to flow. As I moved towards her to comfort her, the interpreter, a Chinese woman we have come to love and trust, advised that I give her space and back off.

For a split second I was torn. She knows Hengxin's birth culture better than I do. Hengxin was not taught to display or react to emotional gestures the way I do. Maybe she was right. I hesitated, wondering if I should listen to someone, who in many ways, probably knows more about my daughter than I do.

"Screw it," I thought. That's not how I dance. I went over and hugged her and stroked her head. "Things will get easier. This has been hard, but you have been strong," I told her. I knew she didn't understand what I was saying, but I needed her to know that when she cried, mom would come.

And I'm learning to dance as well... to the reality of my new life- one that involves a lot of jumping between lifeboats and remembering that the music was not given to us so we could dance alone. Nor were we meant to dance with gritted teeth and white-knuckles, but to embrace the music for what it is: crazy, messy, and unpredictable; but intricate and amazing, and full of beauty.

And what a beautiful little dancer my girl is turning out to be.

Thursday, May 5, 2016

She called me "mama"

There's something about being exhausted that makes me want to sit down and write, I think to try to sort it all out. We've been in doctor's offices and waiting rooms all day. Aside from two thyroid scans, we were evaluated for the worst double ear infection I've ever seen, and an arm fractured in two places from four-wheeling- all for Hengxin. Poor girl! Trying to keep Mila contained and acting semi-human for that long was a task of Biblical proportions in itself- like trying to feed Cheerios to a cross between a wet cat and T-Rex. So yes, I'm tired and my nerves are raw.

The other day someone said to me, "You're a strong person. I don't think I could ever do what you're doing. I'm just not that type of person."

I was embarassed. If I have ever made it seem like I am "that type of person," then I have been unintentionally but terribly deceiving, because "that type of person" is certainly not me. Sure, I have my moments, but that's all they are... moments. And sometimes, when I'm in a good place, those moments are longer and closer together, but usually they're sporadic and unpredictable. Hopefully some day those moments will all string together and I will in fact become "that person," but that woman is still light years away.

My children will tell you that I've taught them lots of things: how to say "thank you" and to respect all life, from the tiny ant to the huge oak tree. They've learned tolerance, tidyness, and how to work hard. They've learned that true beauty comes only within- that anything else is superficial and fleeting.

But I've also taught them other things- many of them not so stellar. I've taught them that 8:30pm is the witching hour when moms turn into momsters. They've heard me say (and then repeated) a few four-letter words. And I've taught them - no, shown them- that people can be selfish, short-sighted, and impulsive.

In the few years that they'll live under my roof, my children will see both the best and the worst of human nature, all from the same person- their mother.

On Tuesday Hengxin called me "mama" for the first time. She said it casually, without even looking up, as she called for me to help her with an English assignment.

I answered equally non-chalantly, but inside my heart wanted to burst. She called me mama! I had been waiting and wondering how long it would take. Two months and two days.

I think of the vulnerability it took for her to call me mother. So recently I was nothing more than a complete stranger. What if she called out for me and I scolded her that I was not her mama? What if I told her I was only a mama to my biological children? What if I hadn't answered? I can only imagine. It would have been crushing. But once again, my brave girl stepped up to the plate and took a risk, and I was amazed by her.

But man... I sure hope she knows that she's not getting a fairy godmother version of a mama- that I'm just a 34 year-old kid, still trying to get my crap together. That everyday I pray for the strength to do and to be what I'm utterly incapable of being on my own. As Mother's Day approaches this year, I'm grateful for the greatest gift I've ever been given: the beautiful little souls God gifted me that have helped me so clearly unearth both my short-comings and my potential.

But I guess that's both the beauty and the beast of motherhood. We will never- can never- be everything we should, and somehow these amazing little people still love us and call us mama.

Friday, April 22, 2016

It never should have been this way

It's really a remarkable thing to watch. Watching her learn to love and trust again, watching her blossom right before our eyes, watching her take risks and push herself- it's incredible. She is remarkable. Truly. But I can't help watch her and think that it never should have been this way. She should have never been here in the first place. She should have never had to cry herself to sleep in an orphanage, wondering why her father left her on a street corner that day and never came back. She should never have to be haunted with the fading memory of her mother's face. She should never have to wonder why she was the only one, and why her siblings were spared. She should have never been taken to a strange land with unfamiliar people. I am often told how fortunate she is to be with us, but I don't think I'll ever be able to agree with that statement. If she had gotten out of life what she deserved- what she was rightfully entitled to- she'd never be here today.

It's impossible to quantify the leaps and bounds we take each day with her. It's like having an 11 year-old newborn, but on warp speed: the first taste of peanut butter, the first sip of apple juice, her first time riding a bike, getting her ears pierced, coaxing her into a swimming suit for the first time, teaching her to say "thank you." Last night before bed she gave me her first real hug- the kind where she holds on a little longer and leans her head against my chest. Every day there is another "first."

I love watching her push the boundaries on her comfort zone with me too. Today I saw it as she groggily emerged from her bedroom and climbed into my bed to catch 5 more minutes of sleep, just like my other kids do when morning comes too soon. Another first. Each tiny first seems like a huge milestone.

A few weeks ago I sensed that our restrictive cocooning period was wearing on her. I feared that perhaps it would start taking the opposite effect if I carried on with it much longer. We toured the local elementary school with an interpreter and she eagerly told me she wanted to start school. Now! I hadn't planned on enrolling her until the fall, but she emphatically told me she was ready. So exactly one month after coming home, she began half days at school. It's hard for me to wrap my head around the courage it has taken her to do the things she's done over the past two months, none with the guarantee of ease or success, but all almost entirely with enthusiasm and cheerfulness,

She is astounding. Truly. She has no reason to believe that we won't betray her, that everything here isn't temporary too, just like everything else in her life used to be before we came along. She has no reason to trust us and yet somehow she does... implicitly. How she has managed to maintain a level of trust in the frailty of the human spirit alive for so many years is beyond me.

It has been one of the most incredible things I've ever seen but, like anything else that's built to last, has also had its challenges. We have moments of being tired of each other. Her new siblings get under her skin sometimes, and her heart aches for the ability to speak freely, without the confines of a language barrier... and sometimes we all just want to go back to the way things used to be when things were simpler. But like in every relationship, each challenge is part of a greater whole- a greater overall wellness. Because without these challenges, our relationship would lack roots- it would lack any depth. It's the very moments of wanting to give up, but not giving up, that help her to realize that we are here to stay, come rainbow or thunderstorm.

Yesterday evening I got a wonderful phone call from her endocrinologist- a diagnosis! Thankfully, of all the possible diagnoses that had been thrown our way, this one is the most reassuring. It's interesting how when the other possibilities are so daunting, a person can breathe a sigh of relief when they're told that all their child will need is a couple of major surgeries and life-long management and medication. But that, I can handle! The other prospects... not so much. We still have a long road ahead, but at least now that road has direction.

And so here we are, almost two months after meeting for the first time, and Dennis and I both agree that she's not the same girl we met that day in the Civil Affairs office. Her eyes are brighter and she's come alive in a different way. She's a sister, a daughter, and an integral part of a family- none of these for the first time- but now forever.

Friday, April 1, 2016

Imperfect Child

Today marks one month that HengXin offically became a part of our family. This past week has been both beautiful and rough. With HengXin battling constant low-grade fevers and brutal insomnia, she has felt utterly miserable. She has become weary of taking the new medications since the promise of feeling better has proved to be anything but true. If anything, she has felt worse since starting them.

The stress is starting to catch up with me as well. The possible diagnoses they're throwing out are scary and overwhelming. The magnitude of how our lives have and will continue to change is hitting me like a ton of bricks. It was a long morning of doctor's appointments and testing, and it's looking like this might become part of a new norm for us, at least for the forseeable future. I had a good cry this afternoon and felt better.

From the first day we started looking into adoption, it has been a rollercoaster, with both amazing vistas during the highs, and intensely discouraging valleys during the lows. Coming home has been no different. 

As sweet as she is, she manages to push buttons and trigger insecurities I never even knew I had. Almost constantly throughout the day, a silent dialogue is running through my head.

It's from having lived in an orphanage.

It's cultural.

She's never been taught differently.

She's grieving.

Don't take it personally.

This isn't about you.

...But even knowing these things, it's still tiring.

Thankfully my little girl seems to feel a close bond to me and Dennis, and seems content to be within arm's reach of me at almost any time of day. Hugs are beginning to be something she enjoys, and readily embraces us several times each day. For someone, like me, who loves physical affection but also needs her space, the constant physical closeness has been both a blessing and a challenge.

Earlier this week I had to go for a jog to decompress. After a long day of eye-rolling and typical pre-teen attitude, I needed some space and a break... a four mile break. Dennis talked to her about how mom gets tired and needs a rest sometimes. And sometimes mom feels sad and overwhelmed.

I returned home at dusk to an eager little girl awaiting me at the gate. She eagerly hugged me, pointed out the beautiful colors of the sunset, and led me inside to a surprise she had prepared for me. Banana slices- cut in the shape of a heart- with Skittles sprinkled on top, a tall glass of water, and marshmallow Peeps were neatly arranged on a plate. Sitting next to it, the stuffed animal she had bought me in China, with the bracelet we had worked together on in the hospital. Oh.... that girl. How does she do it? One moment I want to rock in a corner, banging my head against the wall, and the next moment my heart is a melted puddle on the floor.

One of her favorite ways to unwind is to sing along to Chinese music videos. The sounds of a prepubescent Chinese boy band are heard throughout the house almost any time of day. I love hearing her sing along, though it's usually the same song over and over and over ...and over again. 

After my tearful mini-meltdown today, I came home from work to find her listening to her song again. She brought me the phone and pointed to the screen, indicating that she wanted me to watch the video. She had found a version of her song on Youtube with the lyrics translated into English. The song was titled, "Imperfect Child."

As I finally understood the words to the song she had sung along to, dozens of times each day, my tears again flowed freely. But this time the tears were different. I couldn't believe this was what I had been hearing all along. She eagerly watched me and then smiled, asking if I liked the song.

Did I like it? Are you kidding me? I gave her a big hug. I love it. Now, please excuse me while I mop up the puddle on the floor that used to be my heart.

When my smile shines like the sun
When my dreams are bright enough
The whole world will applaud me
But only you worry that I will get hurt

While the whole world waits for me to fly higher
Your heart hurts for my tiny wings
You support me
And give me a place to rest

When I need to seem like a perfect child
And fulfill everyone's expectations
Yet it seems you don't mind
The sight of my foolish mistakes

My imperfect dreams 
You think about with me

My imperfect courage
You tell me to be strong

My imperfect tears
You wipe with your smile

My imperfect songs
You sing each one

My imperfect worries
You worry about each one

This imperfect me
You treat like a treasure

The love you give me is not perfect
But is most beautiful

The whole world is rushing me to grow up
But you hold me tightly in your arms
And shelter me from unknown storms

When I work hard to be a perfect child
And fulfill everyone's expectations
You don't tell me all your wishes
Fearing the weight on my shoulders

The love you give me is not perfect
But is most beautiful

Sunday, March 27, 2016

Dying, Grief, and Rebirth

It was an awful dream. Gruesome and bloody and terribly disturbing. It came when we were in China, the night after HengXin's first major shutdown and I wondered why it seems like the dreams that are the most telling to me have always had a gruesome element to them.

I dreamt I was still in college, and as with most dreams, much of what I saw made little sense or was strangely bizzare. But the one thing that was perfectly clear was the terrible aftermath.

I had come home from class to find police tape restricting the entrance to my dorm room. A flurry of investigators were inside my room, taking pictures and collecting evidence.

"Your roommate died today...murdered," the policeman told me off-handedly. "But feel free to go on in and go about your business. Just ignore us while we finish up our work. We'll be done and out of your hair soon."

I ducked under the police tape and was aghast. Blood was splattered throughout the room that we had shared. It was horrifying. Choked with grief and shock, it was staggering to comprehend the loss of my friend and the horror of what had just happened. My world had been completely turned upside down and I knew I would never be the same again. There had been a terrible tragedy and I had been asked to pretend that nothing had happened.

I woke up, still overcome with grief from my terrible dream. I looked over to the little girl we had just adopted a few days before, sleeping restlessly in the room next to me, and realized this dream had been about her and her life.

She has had a hard life. Abandoned at the age of five, she remembers many of the details of the terrible day that forever changed the course of her life- the day her biological father abandoned her. She remembers her parents, her siblings, and many of the painful aspects of her first few years. Life has always been difficult for her, even when she was home with her biological parents.

She was then sent to an orphanage, where she would spend the next six years bouncing between foster families. Developing deep friendships with her foster siblings only to have them severed as they were either adopted or shuffled around to other foster families. The only permanent thing about her life was the very nature of its impermanence. Nothing stayed. Everything eventually left. And left behind in the wake of so much tumult and uncertainty was a small little girl, with medical issues and grief of her own, expected to pick up the pieces and continue on her merry little way. She speaks of it matter-of-factly. It is what it is, she says.

This girl is a fighter and I am continually amazed at her resilience- at her ability to be cheerful and kind and selfless when life has given her so many lemons. But it still breaks my heart.

This weekend was tough. Friday morning she was admitted to the hospital for tachycardia and severe hyperthyroidism. Her endocrinologist said he had never in his career seen thyroid levels so high and that he couldn't send her home until she was more stable. Her tiny heart was racing at 180 beats per minute- dangerously high- but again, she continued to smile and said she felt fine. The doctor had confirmed what I had suspected from the first day I met my cheerful little girl- that she is much sicker than she looks.

And then came the tests: MRI, EKG, echocardiogram, ultrasounds, blood draws galore, and the promise of dozens of more tests and visits to every possible type of specialist in the coming weeks and months.

I once heard grief described as the waves of a storm on a sea, pummeling a traveling ship at unexpected times and in unexpected ways. As she lay on a hospital gurney after eight hours of being unable to eat, and an hour and a half of being poked and prodded by an ultrasound technician, she was hit by another wave. Curled up in the fetal position, she sobbed. Tears streamed down her face and her tiny body trembled. It was just too much for such a young mind and heart to be taking in all at once.

Although I believe she truly likes us, and possibly even loves us, there is still a chasmic grief for the life and the little sense of security she left behind. There probably always will be. Although we will love her forever and are here to stay, no amount of love can ever reverse the many terrible things that have happened in her past.

Not to say that her life can never become beautiful or move on- but for there to be a rebirth, there has to first be a death, or a series of them. The death of her medical symptoms. The death of blame she places on herself for the course of her life. The death of being an orphan. The death of feeling like she has to do this all on her own.

As we sat in the hospital room and I watched her undergo test after test, I thought of the beautiful irony that this all was happening on Easter weekend- during the very days that tell the ultimate story of death and rebirth. The Son of God, who Himself was well-acquainted with grief, was surely buoying up this precious but wounded daughter of mine during her grief.

After the wave passed, this little ship put a smile back on her face and resumed her teasing of the doctors and nurses, and making me laugh with her silly antics. We read books, strung beads, and spent way too much time playing games on the IPad the hospital had lent to her.

When we were in the hospital, she told me that when her birth mother would leave her home alone to care for her younger brother, as she did every day while she went to work, they ate ice cream to pass the time. I had to smile to myself. In the four weeks that we've had her, we've made it our little tradition to have ice cream every day. I didn't realize that this was perhaps why our little tradition is so dear to her. It is as a link to her biological brother who was also torn from her that terrible day.

On this weekend that we celebrate the beauty of death and rebirth, I give thanks to God for letting me witness such a beautiful rebirth in such a precious daughter of His. Because of Him, she will live again.

A dozen roses from her dad as a welcome home gift from the hospital,
as well as soft blanket with her name embroidered on it.
We still aren't sure who brought it by but she loves it! Thank you!

Sunday, March 20, 2016

No longer just the nice lady

Tomorrow marks three weeks that HengXin will have been a part of our family. In some ways it has flown by and in other ways it seems like the days have crawled by. In many ways, having her as felt like having a newborn again, and I seem to have much less time and sleep than I did before, but I am eternally grateful to have her in our family. As I write this, my eyes well up with tears at my gratitude to God for having led us to her. She truly is a special girl and I love her dearly.

We had so many friends and family praying for a smooth flight home, that I realize I need to follow up on how it went, as I know their prayers and faith were what brought us home in one piece.

I had quite a bit of anxiety leading up to our flight because of her history of motion sickness and how she had shut down for us a handful of times in the past. I had prayed that God would grant us yet another miracle- that she would handle the flight home well and not shut down until after we got home.

On the first leg of the trip from Guangzhou to Shanghai she did amazing- thrilled at the take-off, and marveling at the city and tiny cars below. The newness of the experience seemed exciting and exhilarating to her, enough that she wasn't affected by motion sickness. Phew... Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. 

Soon after landing at the Shanghai airport, I could see her eyes hooding and growing distant. She stopped making eye contact and started increasing the walking distance between us. I had seen it enough times to recognize the warning signs. I looked in despair at Dennis and thought, Oh, no, no, no... We can't do this now!

We were in one of the busiest airports in the world, surrounded by a sea of quickly moving people. We had just spent an hour waiting for our luggage, only to realize that the airline had lost one of our suitcases- the one with all of our souvenirs and gifts. Our next flight was scheduled to leave in 30 minutes and we were frantically trying to check our remaining bags in through Seattle and make it through the long security line that seemed to be moving at a snail's pace... and she had just shut down. ...clamped down. She was no longer responding to me or Dennis and insisted on sitting on a curb around the corner from us, just out of sight.

I had to get through to her- desperately so. Again, I prayed silently for wisdom. Where in the past I had quietly given her space and time, that simply wasn't an option this time. I knew I needed to try something different so for the first time in the two weeks that she had been with us, I knelt in front of her, leveling our eyes, and used a tone that every child understands in their mother's voice. I knew she couldn't understand my words, but she watched my hand motions, heard the gravity in my voice and saw the seriousness in my face. I saw that she understood what I needed her to grasp.

"I know you're sad, and it's okay to be sad, but you have to say where Mama can see you. There are too many people and you will get lost."

Our battle of wills went back and forth for several minutes- her giving me death glares as I continued to insist that she stay where I could see her. She angrily motioned that she had no intentions of getting on the plane, that she was staying right where she was.

"What are you going to do?" I asked her exasperated. "Are you going to stay here alone in Shanghai, because Baba and I are getting on that plane."

With furrowed brows she begrudingly stood up, motioning that she would follow us and stay within sight, though she still maintained her distance.

As we stood in the agonizingly slow security line, I peaked over and saw her staring off in the distance. Huge crocodile tears were streaming down her face as silent sobs shuttered through her tiny body. I had seen her cry before but never like this. I reached over and hugged my grieving little girl, sure that she would push me off, but she stiffly stood still without pulling away. I stroked her head and told her I loved her. A thousand memories came flooding back, of me standing in the airport, with tears streaming down my face as my family moved to another country, yet again, leaving all of my friends behind. We did it so many times, and somehow it never got easier. My little girl was aching, and in a very small way I had felt some of her pain. I had to blink back my own tears at the painful memories. And yet, in an odd way, I was relieved to see the grief because it told me she understood.

Within minutes she was smiling and back to her cheerful self, having given her grief its space and time- as she should- and had moved on.

We ran full speed to our next flight and made it on the plane by the skin of our teeth. She sat down in her seat, out of breath and laughing at how frantic the airline attendants were to get us in our seats so we could take off. She was back.

The rest of the trip was wonderfully uneventful. She did amazingly well on the rest of the flights and seemed thrilled at the prospect of finally coming home to her forever family.

I think our relationship took a turn that day in the airport in Shanghai. I was no longer just the nice lady who took her to get ice-cream at the 7-Eleven and bought her gifts, but someone that cared about her enough to wag my finger at her and insist on her safety. Oddly enough, I think she found a strange sort of maternal comfort in that. Surely this is not the last we've seen of her grief, but it's something that I know must be met and embraced for what it is, each time it comes.

We are home- and I am so glad for it- but I realize now, more than ever, that our journey is just beginning.