The Adoption Journey

Nightfall and a cool evening breeze provided welcome relief from the sweltering heat and smothering humidity of the city’s hottest summer in recent memory. We were 8,000 miles from home and exhausted from the journey that had begun months—maybe even years—before.

We had checked into our hotel only a few hours earlier, and had just met the six other families who were, like us, there to complete the adoption process. I asked Mrs. Thuy, the owner of the hotel, if she knew when our agency facilitator would be returning—we were all anxious to know which day we’d be heading out to meet our babies. In broken English, she told us, “No! Babies come here. To hotel. Babies come tonight.”

“Tonight?” I gasped. Our agency had told us it would be at least two days before we would get to see our son. We hadn’t even unpacked our suitcases. “Maybe one hour,” Mrs. Thuy said. Upon hearing the news, the hotel was a flutter. We all returned to our rooms and quickly located our diapers, bottles, formula, and baby clothes, and arranged them as best we could. Then the word came from Mrs. Thuy: “Babies come now!”

We rushed down to the lobby, not sure what to expect. A ramshackle red Chevy Suburban rumbled to a stop in front of our six-room hotel in Hanoi’s Old Quarter. Five Vietnamese women stepped out of the car holding five tiny black-haired babies.

Bobo, our Romanian-born guide, consulted with the women and began calling out family names and directing the women toward clamoring, anxious families:

“Steinour . . . Robinson . . .”

I held my breath, wiped my eyes, and tried to steady my knees. It seemed that this day would never come; so many sleepless nights filled with questions about our son: How was he doing? What would he . . .

“. . . McCollum . . .”

“That’s us!” I exclaimed. The woman smiled and gently placed in my trembling hands the world’s most perfect child. He was more beautiful in person than we had ever imagined—his name written in blue ballpoint pen on his tiny forearm: Chien. A common identity marker for an extraordinary boy.

The days that followed were magical. My wife and I spent the next couple of weeks in complete euphoria: strutting along the streets of Hanoi with Chien slung to our chest—beaming with pride, smiling uncontrollably, waking up at odd hours of the night just to stare at him and stroke his cheek as his chest rose and fell to the rhythm of sleep. All the preparation that went into this new reality was a second thought. Now there was only blessing and thankfulness. We had a new son and nothing in the world could compare to or hinder our joy.  

Adoption has changed and defined our family. It’s given us a beautiful family and a new outlook on life. We’re more open to the world, more willing to take financial and emotional risks. We’ve learned to keep an open mind and question the conventional wisdom about what our lives could and should look like.

Today at 14 years old, Chien is a shaggy-haired, athletic middle school student. Chien has been joined by a brother and a sister, both adopted. Pak, 13, is Korean, and Xiu Dan, 6, was born in China. On a day-to-day basis, though, life as an adoptive family is surprisingly normal; it’s not at all glamorous. Most days, we don’t think about adoption—we think about getting to soccer practice on time, and getting dinner on the table.

Yes, our children will have to deal with the bittersweet nature of their entrance into our family. Their stories are different from their friends’. But our kids aren’t our “adopted children.” They’re simply our children. We’re not their “adoptive parents.” We’re just mom and dad.