Pa and I had never scrambled before as much as we did the minute we got our appointment date at the adoption center in Kiev. Literally, the tree went up Christmas Eve and was taken down the day after Christmas. We bought our tickets, packed our bags and hopped on a plane bound for Kiev on January 5.

We finally landed in Kiev after flying all night and making a connection in Amsterdam, but we were both a tad nervous getting off in Ukraine given that we each were carrying a substantial amount of cash to pay for our trip and our facilitator’s services. Ukraine is very much a cash-based society and our facilitator made it pretty clear, too, that the bills had to be new and clean—without tears or dog ears. Our local bank branch actually audited us when we took out the amount of money needed.

At the recommendation of a few adoption group message board members, we used a service through our travel agent to have an escort move us through customs quickly, without having to count our money in front of several hundred people. I immediately saw the benefit, too, when I saw a man on our flight counting out his money in front of a customs official. Our escort simply pushed our customs cards in front of the official, who stamped it without so much as glancing at Pa and me. This was the first of many services we used to “expedite” our time in Ukraine.

Our facilitator, whom I’ll refer to as “Klasno” (or “Klas” for short) found us through the sea of people outside of customs. We shook hands and Klas carried my suitcase outside to our driver’s car. Pa and I sat in the back and held on for dear life as the driver navigated the icy streets leading to Kiev. We’d been warned that driving in Ukraine is much like playing “Smash Up Derby”. Drivers had very little regard for other drivers or pedestrians or curbs or sign posts, and sliding around in the snow made the experience even more harrowing. I figured if anything was going to kill me in Ukraine, it’d involve a car.

Klas told us that our appointment was at 11:00 a.m. the next day and that we would be staying in an apartment just outside of the city’s center. Our driver would come to collect us at 10:00 a.m., but he cautioned us not to go outside.

Once we got to the apartment complex, we discovered why. The gray and dingy building was one of six facing one another in a rectangle and all I could think about were the hundreds of housing projects I had ever seen in Queens and the Bronx. As we made our way into the “lobby” of our building, darkness enveloped us though it was the middle of the day. Klas pressed the elevator button and a very small, rickety box with a giant, spray-painted anarchy symbol on the doors took us up to the third floor, where we were lead to two doors leading to the apartment—the first was a heavy metal fire door lined with various odd-colored colored carpet squares. Even more attractive was the second door which was adorned with white upholstery. But once we got inside the apartment, it was warm, cheerful and spacious, with the last of the midday sun coming through a series of windows overlooking the other buildings. Once Klas gave us the grand tour and showed us how things worked, he locked us in for the night. The apartment wasn’t stocked with any food and I was grateful for bringing along packets of instant oatmeal and Cliff Bars. That was dinner.

We had a tough night of trying to get some rest. Both of us were keyed up with excitement and also on Seattle time, so we dozed more than slept. At 4:00 a.m., Pa’s parents called to see if we made it to Kiev without problems. After that, Pa couldn’t sleep at all. He went into the living room and turned on the TV. Ironically, the movie “Parenthood” was on and so he watched it in Russian.

The next morning, our driver collected us and Klas met us at the adoption center. We climbed up two flights of stairs and entered a long, narrow hallway lined with chairs and doors. We sat in the chairs and watched a dozen or so people leave a room from one door, walk across the hall and go inside of another. Then another door would open, a person would emerge, close the door, cross the hall, open another door and go through it. This went on for fifteen minutes and I remembered someone mentioning that it reminded them of being in a Scooby Doo cartoon. They were spot on.

Finally, someone called our names and Klas took us inside of one of the rooms. We were introduced to a man and a woman sitting at desks across from one another. The woman was a social worker and the man was a psychologist. We sat down at the woman’s desk and she proceeded to ask us a few questions about ourselves: why we wanted to adopt from Ukraine; what sort of child we were hoping to find; and why we would make good parents. These were all questions that had been asked of us since we had begun the adoption process, and we had our answers memorized, but I couldn’t help but wonder why adoptive parents always had to be grilled so much the hardest part about having a biological child for most people was giving birth.

The woman gave Klas a binder to look through. He flipped through the pages very quickly and because of my understanding of very little Russian, I found it hard to keep up with him. But he said that the profiles he had been looking at were of children with terminal illnesses. That was our cue to turn to the woman and tell her that we weren’t able to parent a very sick child and that we were hoping to find profiles with children that had minor, correctable medical problems. She nodded and held out four loose sheets each with a one-inch by one-inch sized photo of a baby. These were profiles of two boys and two girls that had just come in that day and they were all from the same region, all under the age of two.

I had this moment where I couldn’t even remember my own name, let alone pick one of the four children’s profile before me. I thought I had it all figured, out ahead of time, too, that I would have this epiphany once I saw my child’s picture; but nothing but sweat rose to the surface. I froze. Luckily Pa was able to think clearly because of the four children, he honed in on one little boy’s picture and said, “Look at him. I know he’s only a few months old in this picture but he’s looking at the camera with curiosity. Almost like he’s wondering what is that thing?” I looked at the child’s picture and saw nothing but a baby with a small tuft of brown hair and very large brown eyes. It wasn’t even the entire baby—it was just his face and hands. But he was cute and I just looked at Pa and said, “Ok, let’s go meet him.” I don’t know where the words came from, but I figured I’d go with it.

We told Klas who then translated it to the woman. She nodded and told Klas that she would phone the orphanage that day to let them know we’d be coming to visit.

The baby lived in Donetsk, a city about 12 hours away, by train. Klas told us he’d go and get our tickets and meet us at the train station for a 7:00 p.m. departure. Our driver took us back to the apartment so we could rest and pack. The packing was easy, but the resting was not.

I mean, how could anyone rest when they were about to meet their son for the first time?

To be continued…

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