Russian Sunshine on an American Sweater

On the last day of October 2002, my husband and I sat in a dark and cluttered office, waiting for a door to open and change our lives. We were in the small village of Kropotnik in southwestern Russia, not far from the Black Sea. Outside, the weather was lovely, like southern California in the fall. We were in the office of an orphanage director, waiting to meet our future child. We knew nothing about her, except that she was four years old, and her name was Elena.

The door opened and a woman led in a beautiful child. She had fine brown hair cut short, olive skin, chubby cheeks, dark eyes, and a wary expression on her face. This was Elena.

 

I carefully examined my feelings. I expected a rush of emotion, a surge of love for my prospective daughter, but I felt nothing in particular. I put her on my lap. She was too frightened to speak. So the woman handed her the paper and crayons I had brought and asked her to draw a picture. She selected a yellow crayon and carefully drew a circle. She drew long lines emanating from the circle in all directions: a sun. I loved this about her: that she would draw a bright and hopeful picture in a moment of fear. I asked myself, could I love this child? The answer was a resounding yes.

 

Elena's mother had been in prison for six months on drug charges. In that time, she had not contacted her child or inquired after her. Elena was legally abandoned and was in need of parents.   

When we returned home to America to await our court date for adoption, as per Russian regulation, the image of that yellow sun stayed in my mind. For each of my six biological babies, I had made a sweater. I found a pattern with crocheted flowers on the front and a matching hat. I bought yarn and began to crochet a little blue sweater to fit Elena’s measurements. When I was done, I appliquéd the flower motifs and then, in honor of her drawing, I added a yellow sun. As I worked, my love for my faraway child grew.

Then we got the crushing news: When Elena's mother heard that an American couple was adopting her child, she immediately wrote to Elena from prison.  She promised to be a good mother. She wanted to get out of jail, clean up her life, and claim her child.

We began a year-and-a-half wait, hoping something would change, hoping it would work out.  And it did, but not for us.  It worked out for Elena and her mother. 

We started over, with a new home study, new documentation, a new adoption agent, and a second mortgage on our home.

Nearly two years after our first trip, we were again in Russia, sitting in a greeting room in another orphanage, this time in Afipsky village, waiting for a door to open and change our lives. A four-year-old girl entered, holding her teacher’s hand. She had fine brown hair cut short, olive skin, chubby cheeks, dark eyes, and a sweet smile. She presented herself as if she expected to be adored, as if she knew we would be her parents. This was Marisha. I did not have to examine my feelings; I loved this child madly. 

She climbed on my lap. Our agent pulled out a little spiral-bound notebook and handed her some crayons. She chose yellow. She drew a circle. She added long lines, emanating in all directions. It was another sun, another sign of hope from an abandoned child.

 Six weeks later we returned for our court date. It was evening before the paperwork was complete. We drove to the orphanage to collect the child who was now our daughter. Marisha emerged from the children's quarters, once again full of smiles. I helped her change from her orphanage dress into the clothing I had brought: a blue skirt, pink tights, red patent leather Mary Janes, and the sweater with the sun on it. It fit perfectly and she loved it.

As we rode off into the dark night, our family now complete, Marisha asked us questions, translated by our agent: “What do you have in America? Do you have doors and windows? Do you have crayons and scissors and Scotch tape? Do you have inside and outside?” Every question delighted us.  Every answer pleased her. In her make-shift bed on the hotel couch that night, she sang herself to sleep.

(Written for my English 2010 class assignment at Utah State University.  I got an A.)