Me and John Lee A Mother's Story About Adopting and Loving Her Korean Son. By Caroline Connell The night my baby son arrived from halfway around the world was the beginning of my own journey deep into my heart. I knew what I was supposed to feel for the baby boy who was flying in from Korea to become our son. I was supposed to feel unconditional love. That's a parent’s job. But as my husband, Peter, and I drove to Toronto's Pearson International Airport on that chilly evening in early June, with the empty car seat strapped in behind us, uncertainty gnawed through my excitement. Would he really be ours, or would it always feel deep down as if we were caring for somebody else's kid, a fact that our racial difference would make obvious to everyone we met? Would I feel ready to lay down my life for this little person, the way some mothers said they felt within minutes of giving birth? I knew I could love this child, but would I love him enough? The airport is a very public place to have the most important moment of your life. As we paced the arrivals level and chattered nervously to the dozen or so relatives and friends who had come to be with us, and to the other couple who were also meeting their baby, I could not stop glancing at the monitor overhead. Finally Air Canada Flight 3992 from Vancouver began flashing "Arrived."My heart was thumping but the tears I was expecting didn't come; instead I kept thinking this must be what it feels like to jump off a cliff. Within minutes our son would appear behind the sliding glass doors in front of us. ____________________________ Would it always feel deep down as if we were caring for somebody else’s kid – a fact that our racial difference would make obvious to everyone we met? ____________________________ It was exactly one year since we had taken our first step on the path to international adoption, sitting down with a social worker to start our home study. It was a path I had never expected to travel. Peter and I were in our mid-30s when we met, and a few years older when we began to think about starting a family. We weren't terribly surprised when we failed to conceive, nor terribly dismayed. We liked baby-sitting our nieces and nephews and playing with our friends' kids. But we didn't have to have our own. Besides, we had full lives, between my work as an editor and the jazz piano career that was taking off for Peter. Adoption? Surely you had to really want it to go through all those hoops. But we knew several couples who were happy adoptive parents, including my closest friend of 30 years, Sarah, and her husband, Paul, who had just adopted a daughter from China. We should at least consider adoption, they all urged. Still, I couldn't help looking for downsides. "Isn't there ever a moment when you wish, even for a second, that you could give the child back?"I asked one friend. He looked at me blankly, clearly unable to think of his son as not being his son. Finally, Peter and I decided to each spend a few weeks separately imagining our lives if we adopted, or if we remained childless. When the day came to compare notes, he said: "Let's do it." I laughed and hugged him. I'd made the same choice. So we began the home study, revealing intimate details to our social worker,why we were attracted to each other, how we had been disciplined as children. We scheduled medicals, got our fingerprints taken, gathered financial records, graduation diplomas, references. ____________________________ “Isn’t there ever a moment when you wish, even for a second, that you could give the child back?” ____________________________ Meanwhile, we researched the options –local adoption or international? Private or Children's Aid? China, Russia, Guatemala? Although friends had successfully adopted with Children’s Aid, we felt we didn't share their openness to taking on a child whose background might include prenatal exposure to drugs or alcohol or other risks. Nor did we feel we had the networking skills, or luck, required to locate a birth mother in Canada for a private adoption, never mind the emotional stamina we’d need if such a plan fell through. So we chose to go international: The steps and timelines were fairly predictable, although the cost –around $20,000 for the countries we looked at – would eat up a huge chunk of our savings. More than once, I questioned whether we were doing the right thing by joining the growing trend in international adoption. With so many couples driven by the quest for a healthy baby, who would love those children that weren't young or healthy enough to be chosen, either in Canada or abroad? Nevertheless we moved forward. When we learned about the opportunity to adopt from South Korea via the Children's Bridge agency in Nepean, Ontario, we signed on. To be honest, we knew almost nothing about Korean culture and history, there would be time to educate ourselves, especially since we live in a neighborhood with a big Korean community. Our choice was driven mainly by practical concerns: The babies are placed with their adoptive families as young as possible (an advantage our social worker kept emphasizing), and we would also receive information about our child's birth parents, which we felt was crucial to give him a sense of his origins. Besides, my cousin and her husband were in the process of adopting a Korean child, so ours would have a soulmate in our very white extended family. Slowly we were gaining confidence in the idea of ourselves as parents. But not without stumbles. Logging on to the Children's Bridge "parents in waiting"chat group, I realized that most of the participants knew exactly how many days had elapsed since their applications had gone to Korea. I had only a rough idea – four weeks? Five? Panicky, I began to think that if I wanted this child enough, I would be keeping track – perhaps I wasn’t meant to be a mother. Thank goodness for Peter, who laughed off my doubts. As the weeks went by, our house began to fill up with friends' cast-off baby furniture and clothes. We read about Korea and wandered the nearby strip of Korean stores and restaurants, looking at the children and trying to imagine our son or daughter. But mostly I coped by focusing on anything but the baby – work, yoga, helping Peter’s band promote their new CD. So my mind was on a million other things the day my office phone rang and Jennifer from Children's Bridge told me we had a son. The photos and a few pages of background information arrived the next day. His name was Joon Ho Lee and he was about eight weeks old. As we stared at the pictures together in silence, I marveled at the baby's delicate features, but searched my emotions in vain for the elation I was expecting. It was only a day later that I began to feel a tingle of joy, picturing myself holding this child in my arms, cuddling and comforting him. Over the next two months, as we completed paperwork and waited for Immigration Canada to grant Joon Ho a visa, those feelings would grow into a quiet yearning for him. When we learned that he had been hospitalized in Seoul for a bout of diarrhea, I was distraught, feeling that I should be there looking after him. Even then, another part of me questioned the whole project, wondering if this was a sign that our adoption was not meant to be. Again Peter calmed me down. And the other parents on the Children's Bridge chat group were a great source of support. ____________________________ We read about Korea and wandered the nearby strip of Korean stores and restaurants, looking at the children and trying to imagine our son or daughter. ____________________________ Now, there was no more time to wonder if this was meant to be. As the "Arrived" sign flashed overhead, we stared up the escalator behind the glass doors for the first glimpse of the boy we had decided to call John Lee. Suddenly two young Asian women appeared on the escalator with babies nestled on their chests in blue and green tartan carriers. I wanted to rush forward, but I couldn’t tell which baby was ours. As the woman in front came through the doors and said, “Joon Ho, Joon Ho,” I reached for Peter and we took our first look into our son’s face. It was more beautiful than I had imagined, with wide wondering eyes and a brief smile that faded as the camera flashes began to pop. The next several days passed in a blur. With the baby on Seoul time, we were awake much of the first few nights, sleeping through daylight with him nestled between us. At just over four months old, John Lee cried little and loved to be held upright, looking around at his new home, and into the faces of his new parents. Amid the wonder and exhaustion of that first week, I still didn’t have an answer to my question of whether I’d be able to love the baby enough. As I held him in the airport, my hand cradling his exquisitely rounded head, I felt a rush of desire to protect him from harm and to give him all the affection, wisdom and encouragement we could. But this impulse came from my brain rather than my heart; after all, these things were just what every child deserves. Adding to my determination was a sharp sense of the losses John Lee had already endured – parting first from his 17-year-old birth mother, and now from his home culture as well as the foster mother who had cared for him for his first months (and who had lovingly included an album of photos and other gifts in the package his escort carried). Despite the wrench, John Lee adjusted easily, offering an eager smile to the many visitors who came to admire him. Peter and I began to learn his tastes and habits: the spread-eagled sleep pose that pushed both of us to the edges of our bed; his delighted jumping in the lap of anyone who would hold him upright; his fascination with ceiling fans. As I grew used to the weight of him in my arms and the smell of his scalp under my nose, I began to understand why so many mothers I knew got misty-eyed at news of our adoption, reminiscing about their own baby days. Sitting one evening on the deck of Peter's parents'cottage, with John Lee drifting to sleep against my chest in the summer twilight, I felt almost overwhelmed by the sweetness of the moment. ____________________________ Many people commented on his looks; a few asked if my husband was Chinese. ____________________________ There were testing times too, of course. Like the highchair standoffs when nothing I offered was what he wanted. Or the night he threw up three times just seeing what would happen if he stuck his fingers down his throat. But overall he was an easy baby who ate and slept well and seemed as delighted by our company as we were by his. Perversely, his very "easiness"made some part of me persist in doubting my mothering; would I feel less drawn to him if he were difficult, sickly or plain? As summer edged into fall, I felt my bond with John Lee strengthen in small moments: sitting on the front steps with him lying in my lap, staring up at the branches overhead, or playing peek-a-boo behind a sofa cushion. I got used to strangers smiling and cooing at him as we strolled around the neighborhood. Many people commented on his looks; a few asked if my husband was Chinese. I was happy to tell them that John Lee had come to us from Korea. The outright rude questions (“How much did he cost?”) could be numbered on one hand; I just didn't answer. To those who asked, “Is he yours?” I’d reply with a simple yes. If I still had any lingering doubts about my feelings for John Lee, they were about to vanish in one shattering instant. It was, of course, September 11 – the day that changed so many lives. I strapped the baby into his car seat around 10 a.m., oblivious to the turmoil already unfolding. Hearing the first news reports on the radio, I felt my jaw literally drop as I drove; it wasn't until several moments later that I realized my hand had shot behind the passenger seat to touch my son. I was still grasping his arm when I pulled over. All I wanted to do was hold him. At that moment I knew that my love for him was total and unconditional. Although that nightmare jolted me into understanding my own feelings, the revelation would have come sooner or later. As he neared a year in age, John Lee followed the typical pattern and began to grow shy with strangers, clinging to Peter or me. Seeing his misery whenever we had to leave him caused me an almost physical pain. Yet as we adjusted to this new phase (with frequent repetitions of, “It’s OK, Mommy’s right here”), there was a satisfaction, too, in knowing that he felt safe with us, and loved. ____________________________ At that moment I knew that my love for him was total and unconditional. ____________________________ Of course, the story of our relationship with John Lee is just beginning. And we know there are many challenges ahead, as he begins to understand and perhaps question the way we became a family. As we learn about and adapt Korean customs such as the ceremony to mark the baby's first year, our growing bond with this rich culture feels like an unexpected gift that John Lee has brought us. Through it all, we are savoring the wonder of watching him grow and the happiness of knowing that he's our son. The other day John Lee and I were visiting my friend Sarah and her three-year-old daughter, Leah. To entertain John Lee we switched on the ceiling fan in the living room. As the blades started to slowly spin, he looked up with a shudder of delight, reaching toward them. After watching the fan for a few moments, he turned to me with shining eyes, as if to say, “Aren’t you just loving this?” And I was. Caroline Connell is a writer and senior editor at Today’s Parent, a Canadian magazine geared to families and children. This article first appeared in Today’s Parent. This website: Copyright © 2004 Dream World Media, LLC. / Urban Mozaik Magazine. All rights reserved. The opinions expressed in Urban Mozaik Magazine are not necessarily those of Urban Mozaik Magazine and the publisher cannot be held responsible for them. This website/publication, in whole or in part, may not be reproduced without written permission from the publisher.