To Sing Frogs Chapter 5c

In September of 2011, six years after Sarah’s adoption, this is what remained of the abandoned concrete shack she lived in. She said; “Light came through cracks in the wall and it snowed on the floor.”

The cloth books were just the beginning. Amy created every possible image that might assist children in a trans-world adoption and relocation. Stuffed animals and baby blankets were prepared for the girls. They were splashed with either my cologne or her perfume to enhance their effectiveness in helping the girls attach to us. The expectant mother locked herself in the bedroom where she sang lullabies and read stories into a microphone. Then she bought headphone players to leave with Katya and Luba so they could grow accustomed to her voice. She studied words and phrases in their native language. She devoured Russian history and culture. The computer became my wife’s lifeline, its keyboard, an appendage to her hands. Emails were sent to question other adoptive parents. Adoption blogs were ransacked. All of that was just to help the two little girls. Amy’s endeavors were not so narrow, though.

We had four boys at home who would also need to adapt.

Tiny drops fell onto the dark red carpet in our living room, leaving dots that turned almost black. Boys and dads like to be tough. It didn’t matter. Tears couldn’t be stopped when Amy showed a picture of Katya’s scar.

“Her birth-parents didn’t even take her to the hospital when she was burned,” Amy told them.

There were gasps instead of words.

“These little girls have learned they shouldn’t rely on others. It’s far too dangerous. This attitude has become a survival skill for them and it will take a long time for the girls to be able trust you.”

“We didn’t hurt them!” It was Stephen. Even though the older boys had the same feeling, they were mature enough to understand.

“They know that,” Amy responded. “What will take time is for them to understand you won’t hurt them.”

“That’s not fair!”

“The fair is a place you go to eat cotton candy,” I said. “Fair doesn’t matter.”

Steve just shook his head. Fair had always mattered to my son; purposefully nicknamed Even Steven from the time he was two and a half.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” my wife continued. “It doesn’t have to. There is no such thing as an imagined fear. If someone is scared it’s real, whether the reason is legitimate or not.”

Amy turned it personal. She gave our boys perspectives from the position of one who has been abused. Her voice faltered and her tightly clasped hands trembled as she described in detail the deep, hollow, painful emotions a child feels when they are betrayed by a parent. My wife taught our sons lessons she learned during the trying times of her teenaged counseling—the beginning of a lifetime of healing. Amy told them to be quick to apologize. They didn’t need to be wrong to be sorry. She made sure they understood that physical contact needed to be kept on the terms of the person who has been abused. “If this is going to work it will take everything each member of our family can do.”