"A Mother's Tale"
by Rabbi Lenore Bohm, Encinitas, CA

[The following talk was given by Rabbi Bohm on Mother's Day 1995. The talk covers Lenore and Dr. Paul Goodman's international adoption of daughter Alena. ]

My husband and I truly felt blessed with the birth of three sons in 1987, '89 and '92, but a longing remained persistent within me, and that longing bore the name "daughter". In no way did my sons, with their incredible beauty, innocence, energy and spirit, disappoint me. They were and are infinitely precious to me, but sometimes people feel a calling for something beyond what has been attained or has been given, and this call came to me in the form of a longing for a daughter, and it did not abate, and it sought fulfillment.

That we pursued expanding our family with a daughter through the somewhat unconventional path of international adoption was both serendipitous and bashert (foreseen). How it was bashert I will address at the close of my remarks; it was serendipitous in that we only internationally - this wasn't an obvious choice for us; it was neither suggested, nor was it the reasonable outcome to a well-thought out assessment of considered options. But one day in July, 1992, I read a paragraph in the Reform Rabbi's newsletter submitted by an attorney who was arranging for the adoption of Jewish children from the Ukraine. Did we rabbis know of any congregants who might like to consider this road to parenthood?

I read this blurb when David was 5, Daniel 2½, Ari 4 months and Paul 45. After the initial moment of intrigue with this possible avenue for fulfilling my desire for a daughter, my immediate next thought went to Paul: He is never going to go for this. I was wrong.

Paul felt keenly and compassionately the depth of my longing and agreed to proceed with inquiries. Ultimately, our contact with this attorney proved fruitless, and we don't know if he ever united any Russian Jewish orphans with American Jewish families, but I feel indebted to him for having provided the prologue to the story which will now unfold before you.

We learned through this first attorney of all the paperwork we needed to complete - literally dozens of sheets including FBI checks, police records, credit statements, personal references, three visits (comprising what is called a "home study") from a licensed social worker, our marriage license, our and our children's birth certificates, assessments from their teachers, and on and on. Paul handled the paperwork and legalities with infinite patience and good humor. We proceeded with the collection of these bureaucratic items through the fall of 1992 and spoke to no one about our plans. Conception (of the idea) had taken place and initial growth had begun, but I wasn't, so to speak, ready to wear maternity clothes. There was nothing yet "to show".

In December, I was teaching a class at the La Jolla JCC on Feminism and Judaism, and I overheard a participant in the class talking about the son she had adopted from Romania and how she was now once again ready to contact her "stork" (the individual who makes the adoption arrangements and accompanies the baby/child to his/her new home) to plan a second adoption, this time, hopefully, of a daughter from Russia. I was elated to meet someone, again serendipitously, who had successfully accomplished what we were, at that time, struggling with, and Liz and I talked at length about the processes surrounding international adoption and our shared hopes and dreams.

Liz introduced us to Bal Jagat, an international adoption agency in Chatsworth that services families like our own. Bal Jagat means "Children of the World". It was founded in 1983 by a most loving and unusual Indian woman named Hemlata Momoya. She has united close to 500 children with about 400 American families. The children come from Russia, India, Paraguay, Bolivia, China, Mexico and Guatemala. They comprise a rainbow of colors, faces, voices, handicaps, talents, limitations and gifts. Hemlata describes her mission: "Our goal is to unite orphaned children from around the world with loving and stable families in America." She herself is an inspiration.

Through Bal Jagat, in March, 1993, we learned of a woman, herself an adoptive mother of internationally-born children, who started her own agency to place Russian children in American homes. She accomplished this with the considerable help of a Russian woman named Tanya. Tanya is married to an American man, lives in the Washington, D.C. area, and has a personal and on-going relationship with two orphanages located near the town she grew up in, Irkutsk, Siberia. For a fee, Tanya escorts small groups of American would-be parents to these orphanages to arrange for sanctioned adoptions. The children need to be selected and approved in advance, but otherwise, the procedure is relatively straightforward.

Tanya told us that children were always available, but not always the children expectant parents wanted. What exactly, she asked, did we want? Our reply was a healthy girl, about two or three years old. (Many people ask why we didn't want an infant, someone whose earliest memories vaguely knew any people who had adopted would be of/with us. The answer is two-fold. Since we already had three children, we were well familiar with infancy and early toddlerhood. We didn't feel the need to experience that again, and we recognized that for many adopting parents, this would be a priority since they had no other children. Also, we felt that a child of this age would be least disruptive to the birth order of our "existing" children, and that we could learn something of the child's personality more definitively by this age.)

"Alena Comes Home"

Within days, we received a picture of a sweet-faced though rather sad and frail-looking child, aged three. We were told she was an economic orphan (relinquished by her mother/parents because they could not afford to care for her - an increasingly prevalent phenomenon in Russia since the fall of the Soviet Union), had received all appropriate inoculations, already had had chicken pox, was out-going and bright, and would soon be moved to an orphanage for school-age children from which is was far less likely to be adopted. We decided to go for it.

It was now April and we were busy preparing for Seders and Passover. The theme of freedom for the season had intensified meaning for us as we planned Paul's two-week trip to Siberia. We built and decorated a new bedroom for Alena, and Paul and I, like typical expectant parents, readied the house in obvious and subtle ways - an additional chair for the kitchen table, Russian recipes, the beginnings of a wardrobe, new toys and an appropriate announcement of Alena's arrival to send to family and friends, near and far.

Paul, meanwhile, read up on Russia and Siberia (he had visited Russia in 1983 on a medical education tour), and had lengthy conversations with Tanya, Bal Jagat, and our local Russian friends who gave us excellent information and perspective on Russia in its new mode of functioning.

How and when we exactly began telling people about this addition to our family, I don't remember, but I do recall sitting with David (then six) on his bed one night and explaining that Daddy would be gone for a few weeks because he was meeting a little girl who had no family of her own, and he would return with her to join our family. I remember he asked why our family, and I responded, because our hearts and our home have room for her. And he looked at me very seriously as he is still wont to do, and said, "We're doing the right thing, Mommy." His teacher told me he spoke about the pending events excitedly, and that he showed her and his classmates where Angarsk, Alena's hometown, is on the map. We all practiced some basic Russian words (not easy!), and I remember several times in the days prior to Paul's departure mentally and physically holding our family close and thinking, "It will never be the same. Please, G-d, make this a good decision for us all."

Many people were astounded by the news that this was the direction we had been moving in for several months, and that there was a young girl sitting in an orphanage almost half way around the world who would soon be part of our family and community. Many gasped at the news - but those gasps were small in comparison to our friends' reactions when they saw Alena for the first time. Her beauty, even in those first days and weeks, was so pronounced, her manner so expressive, her zest for living so apparent, that few didn't fall in love at first sight. And that's pretty much how it's been since.

Fortunately for us, the adoption laws at that time were such that only one parent was required to claim, so to speak, the child. I was relieved to be able to stay in Encinitas where I could keep our sons' lives as normal as possible. Part of me was sorry not to be able to experience the earliest moments of Alena's connection to us, and not to be able to see first-hand her living situation so that I could tell her about it at a later date (I'm anticipating she'll want lots of details, and we won't have much information), but I also appreciated giving Paul the opportunity to midwife this birth.

When our sons were each born, Paul, of course, was present and even held them before they were laid in my arms, but with Alena, I really felt Paul was the parent giving birth, and I welcomed the opportunity for her to know him first and for him to meet her in unique fashion alone. (This reminds me of one of the most humorous comments made to me regarding our plan for Paul to travel to Siberia to escort Alena back home. A good friend looked at me in disbelief and said, "Most women I know won't let their husbands pick out a piece of furniture, and you're letting him choose your daughter!") That Paul spent several days with Alena before I had ever seen her is very meaningful to me, to him, and ultimately, I hope it will be to her. To me, Paul will always be the birthing parent to our daughter, and this is a role few fathers know and fewer know how to appreciate.

I would now like to share some entries from Paul's travel journal:

"April 14, 1993 - There are two things which are quite difficult for me to realize - one is that I am in Siberia and living in a place that I thought was nothing but a giant snow bank, but more amazingly, that tomorrow I will see my new daughter for the first time! We will visit the orphanage soon and I'm not sure I am ready to walk in and have a little girl say "Papa." I have certainly thought about this seriously, but somehow the enormity of it has not hit. It is now a fact that I am taking this enormous step for our family for generations to come.

"April 15 - Tax Day seems 10,000 miles away - and it is! I had a wonderful night's sleep and awoke to a glorious day in Siberia. It was 55 - 65 degrees with sunny blue skies. It is a fitting day to see my new daughter. We had a 40-minute drive to the orphanage. It is well-kept and bright. We first met the orphanage director, a doctor named Vladimir. There were more introductions, and then some nurses came in with Alena. She was wearing a big yellow ribbon in her hair and immediately came running to me, calling "Papa, Papa." Of course, I melted. She was very cute and personable. She sat on my lap and I felt the whole trip was now worth it. I gave her the first doll of her own and she had a big smile on her face. As everyone watched, we became immediate friends and all of a sudden, I realized, it's done! We have a daughter! Alena and I took a long walk outside and played on the swings. She seemed very happy, and we continued to play silly games and laughed.

"April 16 - An amazing thing happened today - we adopted Alena! We returned to the orphanage, and she once again ran into my arms yelling, "Papa, Papa." She was even more beautiful than I remembered. She is bright, cheerful and full of laughter. She has green eyes and a face that could melt a continent of snow. We left the orphanage to attend the ceremony which formalized the paperwork guaranteeing the adoption, and then we celebrated with vodka toasts and dancing.

"April 20 - I awoke to snow, a terrible storm. This was to be Alena's last day at the orphanage. We finally made it, and she was ready at the door waiting. Some of the nurses were crying - they had known her since birth - but she seemed happy to go with me. A whole new world awaits."

On this end, as the days of waiting decreased, and Paul's and Alena's return was approaching, my anxiety level increased. What if this was the wrong decision? What if she just didn't fit in? What if the boys resented me for imposing this new being, a sister, on them? What if I couldn't handle four kids? What if, what if? I tried to stay calm. I don't think I did.

On the Monday they were due to return, my closest friends had planned to accompany me to the airport to videotape the arrival. I was highly emotionally charged all day. My aunt and uncle would meet Paul and Alena in New York when they arrived and wait for them during the customs ordeal. Then they would call me to relay their impressions. Can you imagine your relatives meeting your child before you? It was very strange.

The flight to Los Angeles was late and consequently, the plane to San Diego was canceled until morning. I couldn't wait until morning! Paul's brother and sister-in-law who live in Orange County were kind enough to retrieve the weary travelers from the airport and escort them to our front door. They had been in flight and in airports for over 26 hours and were exhausted. Although they were now father and daughter, they barely knew each other, and didn't speak the same language. Paul really was heroic in his handling of it all.

I had alerted my friends that the airport arrival wouldn't come to pass, and readjusted my thinking to greeting Alena and Paul in our front yard. Fortunately, it being 1 a.m., the boys were all asleep, and my dear friend Ellen was considerate enough to keep me distracted on the phone. Every so often I would shriek - "I think I hear something!" - but no, not yet.

The night was very cool and clear and I was thankful that I couldn't distinguish my internal shivering from the external cold. I purposely put on satiny, cream and rose-colored pajamas and a soft terry robe on top because I wanted Alena's initial sensory experience of me to be inviting and peaceful. Her room was ready, fresh flowers had been planted in the garden to greet her. A warmer welcome could not have awaited. I kept thinking, "If the first time she was born was not under the best of circumstances, let this second birth be all that she could dream of."

Finally, the delivery car drove up and the door opened. I didn't know where to look first - at Paul's face or Alena's. I kept going back and forth - and only ten seconds had passed. Paul looked totally drained, but very happy and relieved. Alena looked thin and pale and a little frightened. Paul put her in my arms and we went inside. He said to me, "Here is your daughter." And he said to Alena with great tenderness, "Here is your Mama."

She held on so tightly, I was surprised by the strength of her underdeveloped arms. I thought of the verse from the biblical Book of Ruth (1:14): "and she clung to her," because of the ferocity of the need expressed in that initial embrace. I don't know how long we sat there but it seemed like forever and then I pulled back a little to really look at my new daughter and to wonder in amazement that all this came to be.

The ensuing days were filled with confusion, interrupted sleep, lots of crying from my sons, enormous tension and strain. I will not dwell on these moments. Suffice it to say, they were not unlike what I experienced each time a child of ours was born in the traditional sense of the word "born". However, here there was no raging hormones to attribute the panic to, and the panic was very real. In retrospect, I realize that in the weeks and months surrounding the births of our biological children, I did feel tenuousness, self-doubt, fear and exhaustion, but these emotions vied for center-stage with great love and trust in the being who was unfolding before our eyes. This time, neither transcendent love nor total trust held sway. These were uncharted waters I was treading, and there was no one who had swum here before to guide me.

In no way did I blame Alena for the difficulties of this initial period of adjustment. To the contrary, I was constantly amazed by her resilience, her eagerness to participate, to be accepted and to function as one of the family. She was, from the first, full of curiosity and delight. Her intelligence was obvious as she explored every room, every drawer and every corner of our home. She ate with great appetite, particularly relishing fruits with the large, juicy strawberries being her favorite. She was friendly to her brothers, affectionate to us, energetic and anxious to please. She had little sense of limits and boundaries (something we still deal with daily), but caught on quickly to what was expected of her.

"A Part Of The Whole"

To this day, Alena is known for her warmth and embracing personality, her ready laughter, her pleasure in excitement. One teacher describes her as "all heart". She plays with abandon, she adores animals, she is tender to her dolls and to younger children. She loves fireworks and scary rides, dress up and swimming. Cotton candy, for that matter, candy of any kind, makes her thrill. She sings and dances, loves to color, pick flowers and be chased and tickled by any willing tormentor. Many who get to know her without learning of her background are amazed that in two years she had integrated herself so completely. I often see people looking at her with wonder: a child whose destiny could have been so different.

People often ask about the treatment she received at the orphanage. From an emotional standpoint, it seems to me it must have been excellent. I say this because Alena is so incredibly open and loving, so gentle to animals and babies. I can only assume that this is modeled on behavior she either witnessed and/or experienced first-hand. Her trust level was high from the start. It is a great credit to those who cared for her during the first three years of her life.

Paul told me he had worried when they departed the orphanage for the last time that in the moments of realization that she was actually leaving everyone and everything she knew that she might panic and run back to the arms of familiar people, to the sounds of a familiar language. I ached for both of them, anticipating that crisis: her turmoil, his uncertainty - am I really doing what's best for her? But Paul related to me from Siberia the great relief he felt when she eagerly took his hand to exit the orphanage premises, how she smiled her magnificent smile, waved and never turned back. This courage, this willingness to belong, to give and receive love so wholeheartedly has made her, in these two years, an integral, necessary and dearly cherished part of our family.

Now I would like to address a sensitive area in the adoption experience, and I will speak about it as honestly as I can. This has to do with the question of whether and when an adopted child really feels like "yours", and can it ever be the same kind of "yours" as when the child has biologically emerged from your body. This is a question many thoughtful adoptive parents address at different times along the way. For us as adoptive parents who also gave birth three times, the perspective is enhanced.

I can tell you without hesitation that for well over a year after Alena joined our family, it did feel different. We did not treat her differently than our sons in terms of less nurture, care or affection, fewer toys, treats or privileges. If anything, perhaps both Paul and I made extra efforts to express our warmth towards her and to bring into her world what she seemed to love and desire most. But maybe because of the initial language barrier, or maybe because we hadn't grown together through infancy and toddlerhood, the intensity of my love was not the same until sometime during her second year with us. (By the way, we never "taught" her English - over the months, she communicated more and more and now speaks quite fluently. Also, people often ask if she remembers Russian. For the first six months of her life here, we had her spend time with Russians two or three times a week to help the transition. Slowly, she seemed to lose her need for this, and eventually asked only for her American friends and playmates. Now, she won't speak at all in Russian, although I do hope she will want to relearn it at a later date. A few weeks ago, out of the blue, Alena whispered to me that she remembered some Russian words. I was thrilled! I asked her excitedly what she remembered. She looked at me mischievously and said "Buenos Dias".)

A turning point came one night when I was putting Alena to sleep, and noticed, as always, her porcelain beauty and the delicacy of her features. As I lay beside her, safe in mother-child intimacy, I noticed how our breathing was in harmony and how her breath seemed to enter my body, and then when I breathed out, it was as if I was breathing into her, as well. What came to mind for me was the verse from Genesis where it says, "And G-d blew into Adam's nostrils the breath of life." (Gen. 2:7) - and thus creation of human life commenced. I thought of our shared breath and breathing as a primordial life force of creation passing from one body to another. I recalled a verse from the Indian poet Tagore: "Once we dreamt we were strangers... We wake to find we are dear to each other," and I thought of the birth and creation Alena and I made possible for each other - our creating a life for her filled with opportunity and family, her creating for us a life touched by a daughter, and a heightened sense of responsibility for all children everywhere. In a sense, by changing one world, we had changed the entire world. It was a great risk, a great responsibility, and a great privilege.

If the theology of bringing forth biological children finds its roots in the creation of human beings from substantive material - i.e., the dust of the earth as Genesis also describes, and our own genetic pool through which many of us get to experience the miracle of creation for ourselves, then, the theology of bringing forth adopted children can find its pertinent metaphor in children being breathed into life as was Adam by G-d and as was Alena in our home that night.

Further, in Genesis 2:18 the words "It is not good to be alone," which are usually used in conjunction with marriage, has come to mean to me - it is not good for a person, a child, to be alone in this world without family and a community to guide and nurture her. Although to me mothering never felt like a biological call or function - it was always more spiritual than that - I don't think I recognized the fullest dimensions of mothering until Alena came into our lives. For me, pregnancy, birth, lactation and even those fleeting firsts - first smile, tooth, steps, words - were not nearly as compelling or as binding as the continuity of the relationship and understanding I was building with each of my children on a daily, weekly basis. And now that I have experienced two years of being Alena's Mom, and have watched her grow and flourish and struggle, I can say assuredly that I feel no different towards her than I do towards our sons. She evokes in me the same pride, tenderness, rage and frustration, and I am charmed and challenged by her in equal measure to our sons.

Alena is so many things I'd like to be! Where I am careful, she is carefree. Where I am spiritual, she is spirited. I am earth-bound, she flies high. My laughter is reserved, hers would fill a reservoir. I am manifestly a feminist, she is quintessentially, feminine. Through her as through each of my other children, I experience worlds vastly different from my own, and I rejoice in these differences. I try to honor what makes each of my children unique. I hope they will learn to respect the differences between them and me, between themselves and all others whose paths they will cross. To the extent that living in a now multicultural family will help prepare our children for a multicultural world, I believe Alena's adoption will be, for her brothers and for her, a valuable key to functioning well in society at large.

"The Best of Adoption And Life Itself"

Alena arrived in San Diego on April 26, 1993. One month later, we named her in a memorable ceremony at the Temple Family Service. In August, we all drove to L.A. s University of Judaism to enact Alena s formal conversion through immersion in the mikvah, another very meaningful event for us all. (Many people asked if she knew what we were doing. Of course not! She was only three and a half then. We did tell her and our sons that we were taking part in a ceremony to seal Alena s Jewishness, just like the boys brises had done. To Alena I added, "And we get to go swimming in a small pool with lots of people watching and smiling." To her, it was another adventure to relish.)

In January, about nine months after Alena arrived, we celebrated her fourth birthday, and her first within our family. We made a big Russian party, catered by a Russian friend who is an excellent cook. We decorated tables with Russian trinkets, enjoyed festive music and a big cake.

Initially, I focused on the party and its details, but as the day approached, I found myself thinking less about the event and more about the woman who gave birth to Alena. I began to pray for her. I prayed that she was in good health and had enough money to meet her needs. I prayed that she was at peace with her decision to deliver Alena to the care of an orphanage and that she was not tormented each year on the anniversary of the day she gave birth. I prayed and cried for her, and hoped that the winter winds -- the same winds that carried Alena on the plane to us -- would carry my prayers to her. I had come to view the sky as a birth canal -- through it, Alena was born into our world -- and now I viewed it as a means of communication for bearing my prayers for contentment and resolution to a woman I am sorry I will never know, but whom I imagine to be bright, fearless, and flamboyant, strong and passionate, perhaps a great dancer, a talented musician or some other kind of creative artist, certainly someone who celebrates life.

This unexpected thinking of Alena s first Mom taught me in ways I had never fathomed before, the true meaning of motherhood, the deep, underling connection between all who give birth and bring forth life, and the responsibility we have to recognize in each other shared stewardship of the young. In a wonderful book entitled Also A Mother, a Nicaraguan woman is cited as writing to her daughter, "A mother isn't just someone who gives birth and cares for her child. A mother feels the pain of all children of all peoples, as if they had been born from her womb." And, as I alluded to before, I again realized the secondary and relative place biology plays in the construction of the ideals of family and in the building of community bonds that matter. You see, along with everything else Alena has taught and given me, this relevatory experience of the true meaning of motherhood, complements of Alena, has filled me with humility and insight, a new understanding of what it means to authentically propagate life.

I am pleased to tell you that this story doesn't have a happy ending; it has ongoing beginnings, perpetual rebirths which I and others will be privileged to experience at both predictable and unexpected moments. One of those unexpected beginnings had its roots planted a few months after Alena came to be with us. We were taking a family vacation in Santa Barbara, and we met another family with two domestically adopted daughters of their own. I did recall a pleasant conversation we had, but little else. You can imagine my surprise when, a few months ago, I received a letter from the Mom stating that she was so moved by Alena and her story that she had been working ever since to create a foundation to foster awareness of international adoption, and with her own money, has set up a fund to grant interest-free loans to families who would like to adopt from Russia. She named her organization Domoi which is Russian for "Let s Go Home". She remembered Paul telling her those were among Alena s first words to him which the nurses translated. Domoi s explanatory brochure explains the general circumstances under which Alena joined our family, and her picture in the orphanage and at home with us graces the pages of this pamphlet. Ideally, her face and story will now inspire others to open their homes to wonderful children just like her.

Also, you may remember earlier, I mentioned Liz who hoped to adopt a daughter from Russia (Part One, Summer 1995). She led us to Bal Jagat, and we led her to Diana and Tanya, who, just days after Paul s return from Siberia, escorted Liz husband to the same orphanage from which he brought home Miri, now sister to son, Kivu. Because Miri was a baby, even though she and Alena were housed in the same institution, they had no contact with each other. Even so, I have asked Liz to help me keep opportunities for friendship between the girls alive. One day, it may mean a great deal to them to have a local friend whose origins are so similar.

Finally, I stated early on in this article that in some ways it seems our choice of international adoption was bashert, destined, foreseen. Both my parents were born and raised in Vienna and only left at the ages of twelve and seventeen under the horrible circumstances of the approaching Nazi onslaught. My parents immigration to America, their learning of English as a second language, their living between two cultures, all that they left behind, all that they gained from their new life in our incredible land of freedom -- all these were relatively silent but deeply powerful themes in my growing up years. Unlike many who were victimized equally, more, or less, my parents chose to use their experience as raison d etre for reaching out to others, for embracing the stranger and building bridges to those from different backgrounds. Throughout my youth, our home was visited by people from dozens of countries who spoke many different languages, ate strange foods and were culturally displaced for at least a short period of time. Although at the time I vociferously objected to their presence in our lives, I see in retrospect the sizable impact it had on me. For me, international contacts were familiar and comfortable. Foreign might mean different, it could never mean alien or undesirable.

That my daughter was born elsewhere and owes her earliest allegiance to a different culture makes her more like my parents than I ever was! It feels like an identity coming full-circle. Several years ago, my sister and I contributed, in our parents honor, a donation to the Ellis Island Immigration Museum. Their names are inscribed on a wall with the names of hundreds of other immigrants to these shores. To mark the first anniversary of Alena s arrival, I sent a donation to this same Museum in Alena s honor. I doubt if their names literally rest side-by-side, but in my mind they do and always will.

This year, we celebrated Alena s second anniversary with us by having an ice cream party (her idea) with special friends. Someone thought it was her birthday we were celebrating, but she corrected them. She said, "We're having this party because I am adoption." She certainly represents the very best of adoption and of life itself.

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