To Sing Frogs Chapter 23c

More Flowers had bloomed by the time we returned that evening.

Our fellow adopting parents had offered to buy us dinner in celebration of us getting the girls. So after a quick half-hour of clean-up, we found ourselves in the hotel restaurant.

The time with the other parents was nice, even if a little bit awkward. One of the fathers and several of the mothers were quiet. They smiled at the appropriate times and answered when spoken to but offered nothing more. It had to have been difficult to watch us with our daughters while their own new children were being put to bed in dormitories.

Katya was a real charmer and the life of the setting. She had to interact with everyone. It was amazing how much she was able to communicate using simple charades and body language. The little girl had never seen such an array of food and other hopeful parents gladly gave her tastes of their meals when she pointed and made what were obvious requests for samples. We kept trying to get her to stop bothering the others but it was no use. If we kept her on our laps she squirmed to get down. If we held her back, she leaned against her clothing—at a 45-degree angle—hacking from the pressure of her collar until we released her.

“Katya, sit down.” “Katya, hold still.” “Katya eat your own food.” “Katya, leave them alone.” It wouldn’t have mattered even if she understood. It was as if she had been raised in an orphanage.

The other parents were more intrigued than troubled. Katya had gone from being a number to being the center of attention. She floated around the table from parent to parent feasting on the overabundance of attention. It was such a contrast when compared to the famine in the orphanage. She was now in a place where she mattered. She was in a place where she could choose. There were choices of food, choices of clothes, choices of activities, choices, choices, choices… We all sat mesmerized, observing someone new to everything we had always expected; and consistently taken for granted.

 

If dinner was intriguing, bedtime was a shock.

“Pará spaht,” I said, using the phonetically spelled cheat sheet to tell the girls it was time for bed.

“Nyet!” Katya called. I figured as much. Five-year-olds never want to go to bed. Beyond that fact, who would want to go to sleep after arriving in utopia?

“Sweetheart, I don’t want to put off teaching them to pray,” Amy interjected.

“Great. There’s no time like the present.” Amy knelt and pulled Luba onto her lap. Before I could get down Katya was kneeling next to Amy with her head bowed and hands clasped. I wasn’t prepared for that. From time to time we witnessed traces of religion in Russia. We had seen icons of saints from Orthodox paintings and occasional churches on sides of roads. They were more museums than places of worship. I had never seen anything or any behavior in Russia indicating that people might actually practice religion. Still, it was obvious Katya knew about prayer. Weird.

Amy said a few simple English words at a time. Katya mimicked the sounds of a foreign language, oblivious to the meaning of what was spoken. Luba squirmed on Amy’s lap. She chirped, barked, and wrestled in an attempt to escape. The prayer probably would have been quite short anyway. Luba’s restlessness ensured it. Amy said “amen” and we started to stand.

“Nyet!” Katya called, looking up with troubled eyes. She quickly closed them again, bowed her head, and continued to pray in Russian. Amy rushed back to a kneeling position and re-secured an angry Luba. I didn’t know what to do and remained in limbo—half standing—while Katya prayed for another thirty seconds or so. Both Amy and I said amen, again, after Katya finished her prayer.

“Wasn’t it sweet how she prayed for us?” Amy asked as she helped the girls into their new pajamas. The only words we understood in Katya’s prayer were Mommy and Poppy. What else could she have been praying about?

“Yes, it was sweet.” It made me feel guilty though. How many other kids from that orphanage had so much less to thank God for? If Katya was grateful for parents, how many others couldn’t be?

 

“Nee Katya. Sadah. Yá Sadah.” Amy was helping our oldest daughter with her hair as I sat on the edge of one of the unmade beds in our room.

“You want me to call you Sarah now?” My wife touched my daughter’s chest. “Sarah?”

“Dá. Sadah. Sadah preensessa.”

Amy had introduced our daughter to her new name and its meaning in the soft books. “Yes, Sarah means princess. Okay—Sarah! Papa, this is Sarah now.”

“Prevyét Sarah.” Hello, Sarah.

“Dá! Sadah. Ee aná nee Luba. Aná Sah-lest.”

“Celeste?”

“Dá. Aná Sah-lest.”

“Okay,” Amy responded happily. Sarah and Celeste. Done.” That was it.

“Those soft books were unbelievable!” I couldn’t have been more impressed.

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