Goodbye, Baby

There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.  –Elie Wiesel

An infant named Loveness died on Tuesday.  She was four months old, and she was almost our daughter.

We met her when she was 11 days old.  We’d been in contact with an orphanage director who told us that she was available for adoption.  We immediately hopped in our car and drove four hours to make it happen.

We met the Aunt who brought Loveness to the orphanage.  For hours she had dripped sugar water from a plastic sack into Loveness’s mouth, because she didn’t have any milk.  When they finally arrived at the orphanage, Loveness sucked down a bottle of warm formula.

When I met sweet Loveness,   I held her on my chest.  That little spit-fire of a girl lifted her head up and looked around.  She was healthy, despite a rough start in life.

We took the Aunt to the social welfare office and waited in the car while the she talked to the social worker. The social worker, who was convinced that the Aunt was trafficking the baby, tried to make her confess to the crime.  But the Aunt held firm, and the social worker conceded, “Fine.  But you need a letter from the headman [who reports to the chief] in your village giving permission to release the baby for adoption.  And…you will all need to meet with me in my office next week.”

The next step was to get the letter from the headman.  We drove two-hours until we reached her village.  Soon we were surrounded by Loveness’s extended family, who were puzzled by our arrival.

Writing the letter

The family discussed letting us adopt the baby and they agreed that this was the best option for her.  The headman spoke fluent English and crafted a letter officially releasing the baby to us.  My favorite moment was when we showed them iPhone video of our children chasing each other on their scooters.  They laughed and laughed.  It seemed like a perfect fit.

With letter in hand, we returned to our hotel and then back to Lusaka.  We arranged to meet everyone again at the social welfare office in a few days.

But tragedy struck the family once again—another relative died—so they postponed the social welfare meeting so they could sort out funeral arrangements.

And it was at the funeral that Loveness’s adoption plan came unraveled.  The funeral attendees discussed the implications of adoption and what so-and-so would think if they found out.  As the headman later told us, “It threw us upside down.”

The family revoked their permission, even though no one was able to take Loveness into their home.  The headman assured us he’d come and collect her one day--when she was 3 or 4 years old.  Until then, she would remain at the orphanage.

Of course this broke our hearts, but there was nothing we could do about it.

Do I think we could have prevented this tragedy?  I don’t know for sure, but one study indicates babies are absolutely better off living with their mothers in prison than living in an orphanage. 

Author Maia Szalavitz wrote a great post here about the dangers of orphanages.   

 “But how could simply being in an orphanage kill a baby? Basically, they die from lack of love. When an infant falls below the threshold of physical affection needed to stimulate the production of growth hormone and the immune system, his body starts shutting down.”

I wish more than anything that we could have brought Loveness home. And, God forbid, if she had died anyway—despite being loved and cherished—at least our arms could have ushered her to heaven. 

Baby Loveness, I’m sorry your biological mother and father were not able to care for you. That is a hardship. I’m sorry that you died before you had a chance to live.  That is a tragedy.

But the fact that you were denied a family of your own...well, that is an injustice.

Rest in peace, sweet child. 

Malawi Road Trip

 Fake-ation: a vacation with children--Eric Showell

Lake Malawi

Well, another Showell Family Adventure is in the books. To shake up the 15-hour drive to Malawi this time, I decided that this was the week to potty-train Oliver.  Every ½ hour or so, Eric would pull and we’d hop out and do our business.  Within seconds a vacant field would fill with wide-eyed children watching the "mazungus" drop their drawers.  This used to embarrass me, however now I’d rather expose my backside to people than pit vipers.  Besides, it makes me smile to think of the stories shared around the village campfires that evening.

We filled our days with snorkeling and swimming and sand. 

Even Oliver went snorkeling with us, except without the snorkel 

The fish in the lake.  No fish were harmed for this photo.

Best seat in the boat.

During the in-between-times we looked at creepy crawly things under Isaac’s microscope.

I found this smashed lizard under the couch.  Jackpot!

The mother of all snails.

What my kids actually did

On our last day, Oliver woke up with a mild fever.  While we loaded the car, I asked Alex to help him eat at the breakfast buffet.  Mere minutes after I left them, Alex came running out to me.  “Oliver has barfed all over the place.  There is a woman helping him clean up, but you should come.”  Oliver is programmed to empty the contents of his stomach randomly and without warning.  It keeps things  exciting, to say the least. 

What does the cow say?

On the way back from Malawi we drove up through the mountains.  It is such a gorgeous drive and there is a quaint pottery place in Dedza that sells real cheesecake.  Africa is filled with cheesecake knock-offs—but these phonies are only gelantinous, no-bake, nasty-crap concoctions.  So when you find honest-to-goodness-real cheesecake—you stop and eat it.

Why did the cows cross the road?  To get to the UDDER side.

Since this town lures people with dessert, the police have set up multiple speed traps to get a cut of the action.  The first time we got pulled over, Eric paid the fine.  No bargaining.  No pleading.  He just handed over our last $12 and we went on our way. 

Bird Island

The second time, Eric wasn’t a happy camper.  When he normally contests an infraction, he turns on his charm and the police let him go—probably because he has entertained them.  That Eric was missing-in-action.  I walked over to the radar gun station and asked the officer how the radar gun worked.  Some common tricks are to set up a radar gun that doesn’t even turn on, or to display the speed of a different vehicle.  The cop was delighted to show me.  “You see, you point it at the car and push this button.  There.  He is going 62.  He is speeding.”

“How interesting,” I replied.  “What about that truck?”  The cop aimed the gun—and sure enough the truck was going at least 30 kilometers over the speed limit.  “Are you going to pull him over?” I asked.  “No,” he said.  “We don’t have an officer on that side of the [2-lane] road.”  Hmm…I suspected that the cops knew who would have money—but that is just a hunch. Sad thing is that we were out of Malawi kwacha, so we were a bad choice.

We didn't ask what these creepy guys wanted

But we know the secret to getting out of most tickets:    Cops don’t like to waste [their own] time.  They want to pull people over, collect money, and move on to the next victim. If a driver is willing to sit and wait for 20 minutes, then officers will let you go, because you are costing them money.  That is what we did, and sure enough—we were released. 

Fish eagle

This, however, soured Eric’s attitude, so on the THIRD time we were pulled over—and by then we knew it was a little bogus—I was worried that Eric might explode.  He wasn’t in the mood for another waiting game, so I saved the day with my quick thinking.

I made use of Oliver-- the little-barfer.  Fortunately he was passed out in my arms and looked near-death.  Don’t be concerned, he always looks like this when he sleeps—all floppy and snoring like a drunk sailor.    

“Sir,” I said to the officer, “My child is sick.  He has a fever and he vomited this morning.  Do you know where a local clinic is?”  I asked this knowing full well that he didn’t need to go to the clinic, but for the record…it wasn’t a lie.  It was code for, “My son may have 'malaria', so you wouldn't give us a ticket, would you?”

The officer looked Oliver and said, “There is a hospital down the road.  You need to get that baby to the hospital now.  Go!” I thanked the officer and gave Eric a high five when we were out of sight. 

Sadly the three speed-traps delayed us too much to make lunch at our favorite spot in Lilongwe—by 7 minutes. I thought Eric was going to cry when his dream of peri-peri prawns was dashed.  We tried several other restaurants, but none accepted credit.  Finally he plopped us down at one place and stormed off to find an ATM machine.  After five machines, he found one that worked….and, --shocker! --it had a long line….Because it was the ONLY stinking machine THAT WORKED! 

When Eric got back, we threw food in his general direction and waited until he stopped snarling to approach him.  The calories calmed his frazzled nerves, and soon we were on the road again—this time to the border.

Oliver was wearing a diaper at this point of the journey, because all of us suffer when there is a potty accident in the car.  Besides, I was tired of throwing perfectly good (but soiled) outfits out the window.  While we filled out immigration paperwork Oliver explored the small lobby.  Alex and Isaac are learning how to fill out their own paperwork which [sort of] helps the process, wait, scratch that.  In between the “Mom, when does my passport expire?” and “What is my nationality?” I peeked up to check on Oliver.  He was squirming uncomfortably.  Then his saggy diaper surrendered the fight and shot out from his pant leg—right there on the immigration floor.  I’d like to say that no one noticed it, but come on, we are a walking circus—and were the only white people in the room. This was clearly my child who had deposited this nasty package. I picked up the offending item and smiled at the line of women staring at me.  “I know,” I smiled. “I live a glamorous life, don’t I?”

We got over the border and to the hotel.  We had a good meal and a great night sleep.   We were all in much better moods and ready for final 7-hour leg home. 

And this is the point of the story when I could reveal one of my husband’s issues that nearly justified murder. But I won’t, because he has admitted that he is wrong and I am right, so I’m letting it go.  I mean, why ruin memories of a fabulous trip to Malawi with complaints of his unwillingness to buy snacks when there is a grocery store nearby in a country with ZERO rest stops or stores selling anything to eat for 7 hours?  Yes sirree…I’m taking the moral high ground and not bringing it up. 

Now if you’ll excuse me while I take a nap.  I need to recover from my vacation.

 m