By October of 2008, my husband Scott and I had been waiting a solid year since we finished the last of our paperwork. The number of our adoption agency flashed on my phone. I picked up with a shaking hand. The voice on the other end said, “We have a beautiful 10-month-old boy for you….”
I opened my computer to find an email with two photo attachments, which I forwarded to Scott as I dialed his number. The blurry photos were of a gorgeous infant with dark, thoughtful eyes, a wide forehead, skinny legs and a face like one of the famous Ethiopian paintings of wide-eyed angels that adorn the ceilings of their churches.
“There’s my son,” said Scott. “Look at him. He’s perfect.”
I was smitten. I blew the pictures up and put them in every room in the house. I carried them around in my purse and shoved them in the face of everyone who would look.
Flash forward to today.
Tariku is still unexpectedly napping and I’m sitting a few feet away in the shade under our camphor tree, having one of those quiet moments that seem deliciously stolen out from under the day. I suppose I should wake him but I just can’t bring myself to do it.
I’m thinking about an afternoon a few days ago, when Tariku made friends with a group of older boys at the beach and told Scott to scoot, saying, “You can stand over there near my mom.” This was a first.
T is not a kid who likes to be without one of us for even five minutes. He ensures that we’ll be glued to his side by doing things like “cleaning up” by dumping a glass of water into the DVR player while I’m making dinner. So it seems like a huge step that he wanted to fly solo with his new friends.