Tuesday 18 September 2012

Almost Mine

We are so close.  So crazy close.  One step (one visa) and one flight (well, 3 planes) away from Fortunate coming home with me to the States.  Wow.  I am a strange combination of confident and stressed about the exit interview at the US Embassy.  On the one hand, I have turned in my papers (which actually doesn't consist of just dropping them off, no - it is a long wait and then a thorough review of the papers) with this fabulous woman at the Embassy.  She answers my emails and other crazy things like that.  She says I'm ready to go, and I believe her.  On the other hand, our appointment time has been postponed two times so far, not to mention the 4 times I have changed my flight due to delays.  Another delay would really be horrible at this point.  I am doing well mainly because I have my eye on my Thursday departure.
 I am really exhausted and worn out of trying to do and be so much for so many people.  I cannot yet be the mother I want to be with Fort, because he is still at the orphanage, and still needs to follow their rules.  Simple requests ("can I have water?") turn into a line of children following me Pied Piper-style into the small kitchen (where they really aren't allowed) and using half of the boiled and cooled water the caremothers have prepared for the next meal.  It is my job to give Fort special attention - to teach him that we are special to each other - and in doing so I acutely feel the other children's pain because of their awareness that they have been left out. Sometimes I forget that these kids have all been abandoned, have suffered from the disillusionment of that fundamental trust.  The family home is so lively, and so generally happy that people often stop by to inquire if it is a school.  There is such a fantastic ratio of adults to children - there are the caremothers, who rotate; the guard who also kicks the ball with them or picks them up when they fall; a Dutch volunteer, staying for 7 weeks; the 2 social worker and the manager, whose office is adjacent to the home; the workers who come and go but are Ugandans working on the continual construction of a the home - now working on a volunteer room; "mzungus" from other projects who stop in to converse with the organization leaders; and me.  It's not a quiet or forsaken place.  So you can forget that these children have holes in their hearts. 
But then you see it - and it comes whizzing back at you - and you are sick for a moment.  Every little choice you make throughout the day is weighed and measured by the children, consciously or not.  If they all want to swing and I let Winnie have the first turn, the other children feel that she is my favorite.  There is immediate collapsing to the ground and screaming by those not chosen.  There is difficulty in sharing, and little comprehension of taking turns.  When Maria is sitting in my lap, and Fort gets jealous, I am proud that he can now say "no Maria in lap.  Mama for Fortunate".  And then I have to manage Maria's meltdown when I put her right next to me - because clearly to her, I have rejected her.  When James asked me if I could be his mother "You Mama for Jamesy?", Fortunate went into full toddler tantrum land.  Simultaneously I had to calm him and convince him I was not picking James over him ("Mama is for Fortunate, only Fortunate") I was keenly aware that James was hanging on every word.  I could literally see him caving in on himself. 
I have some guilt that I do not spend every waking moment with Fort.  I see him every single day.  I promised him I would, and unless I had to fly back to the States, I would be sure to keep my word.  Some days I come later in the morning, depending on my ride situation, the weather (boda in the rain? no thank you), the appointments I have for the process.  I always leave by 6pm at the latest - to ensure I am off the road by dark (I know it can be unsafe, and I don't need to tempt fate) and also be back to the home where I am staying for dinner time.  Some days I am there 10 hours, once in a while only 2.  If I am later than lunchtime, Fort is clearly distraught - worried, sad and angry.  I have to manage his moods, and now I come prepared for that.  But it is so completely draining to be there - every time Fort goes off playing happily, I take a moment to cuddle with one of the children who are always clambering to sit with me.  There is someone who needs something at every minute.  The caremothers want to talk about their difficult lives.  Even the dog needs attention.
And me, I come back to this quiet room at the end of each day, where I sit and process and hurt and heal and get ready to do it again.  I will absolutely hate leaving these other children- I have come to know and love them.  But I am ready.  More than ready.  I want to take my son and go home. 

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