That First Day

 We still weren't used to the intensity of Kampala driving: picture everyone's vehicles crowded onto thin red dirt roads trying to get ahead with no traffic rules. People weaving in and out on boda-bodas. Women walking down the street, and I believed we would hit them any second, but our van narrowly missed every time. Occasionally you run into "jam", said with a Ugandan accent, and all I could think was GO. I wanted to see my baby for the first time. 

There aren't road signs, so we weaved and twisted in and out of Kampala, past tiny, dusty shops and people so alive with color and language. 

The Children's Home was a rough experience for us. We sat in a front room for what felt like hours while we waited for them to get him ready. Through a language barrier I remember asking the caretaker what she could tell me about him: he loved to draw. He loved shoes. 

When he came out, he was confused and in shock. It's not quite the beautiful videos you see online. Maybe sometimes it is. But for us, he was almost two, and we were strangers, with funny white faces, and we were taking him away from all he knew. Parts of that day were so hard I just shove them out of my mind.

On the way out, he never cried. No seatbelts or car seats are required, so he just sat in my lap and fell asleep almost immediately. We passed him back and forth in the hot van and looked at every tiny feature, much like you do with a newborn baby. I remember I even counted fingers and toes. 

He didn't interact with us for hours- even through a stop at KFC. I know now he was in shock, but in those moments it was overwhelming. 

Finally, he saw a Hot Wheels car. And he knew what that was. He sat down on the tile floor and wheeled it back and forth to his Daddy. It was one of the best things I have ever seen. 

From that moment on, he grew. He developed. He changed. He flourished. And our family did with him. 

He is so stinking smart. He is hilarious. He is a stinker. He is phenomenal in every way. He came into my bed last night after a bad dream (probably about clowns- he hates clowns and even asked to pray about hating clowns). I got to hold him and trace his face and feel his soft hair on my shoulder, and pray prayers of thanks for my little boy. 

People say he is lucky. He's not. He lost his mama. He lost his culture. He lost his country. He has deep wounds he will always have to work to overcome. He has to learn how to be black in a family as white as can be. He has questions we will never be able to answer. 

We are the lucky ones. We have known that since this moment in the van when he trusted us to fall asleep. We would be missing out on so much without him in our family. He has blessed us so much, and we are honored to be his parents in this lifetime.