Seven & Counting

As she soars into the adventure of the breaking day, her jet-black hair waves a glad farewell to her family in the home behind her. There is no mistaking that she is a daughter of our adopted nation. Her round face and broad forehead are a perfect setting for the almond-shaped black eyes [glistening with warmth and friendliness when she is happy and glaring with “mad” when she is not]. One of her distinguishing marks is a duo of dimples punctuating the ends of her frequent smiles.

She began life as a castaway child- somewhere in another province to a mother who could not care for her. To view the princess charm and beauty now makes it even more difficult to understand how someone could have relinquished her willingly. The mother she has now had 2 natural-born sons when the desire to choose her stirred inside. She definitely needed a girl. The daily flow of bows and dresses and meticulous tresses required an outlet. [Internal damage of some sort would certainly have been the consequence of leaving that part of mothering unused.]

There is a strange kind of irony that she has returned to the nation of her origin where her parents care for children who have a similar inauspicious beginning. Two years ago when we arrived, she shared her home with 3 sisters and no fewer than 5 brothers. Two of the sisters have moved on to forever families in the States. When she was asked if she was going to miss the sister who last left- the one who wore a ring that matches her own- she glanced at her ring finger thoughtfully for a minute and said, “No, I’m not going to miss her. I’m going to remember her.”

Recently she came to class and noticed a cut on Miss Nanette’s finger. “What’s that?” she inquired. “It’s a paper cut.” “A paper cut? Miss Nanette, paper can’t cut you,” she responded incredulously. “See?” said she, with her finger sliding along the edge of a sheet of paper picked up from her desk. “Well, it can cut you if it hits you just right,” responded the teacher. “Miss Nanette. In all my seven years, I have never had a paper cut [certain that seven years of experience qualified her as a competent judge of whether paper could actually cut one’s finger or anything else].”

What fun to watch her learn in 2 languages, assimilating as much of 2 cultures as we can provide her. [She, the Chinese daughter, was thinking in English when we arrived, while her blond-haired, green-eyed brother was thinking in Chinese!] She is secure and happy, and doing many of the things 7-year-olds normally do, like learning to ride a 2-wheeler. “What might her ‘other’ life have been like?” I ponder. I have no clue; but I am certain it would have been totally different from the one she now gets to live.