Babushka

Oy. That is about the closest thing to something nice that’s going to appear in this post. If you don’t like crankiness or if you think that those with nothing nice to say should zip it, you’ll want to skip this one. Let’s call it PG-13 for (imagined) threats of violence and some not-nice language.

Babushka. Please note that no babushkas were harmed in this story (but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t tempted). Please also note that my husband and I have a disagreement over this one – he thinks that Babushka is just a confused, misinformed old woman – basically harmless. I think that Babushka is a crazy old bat. How’s that for blunt? One could argue that Babushka has Y’s interests in mind, to the best of her limited capacity, but I’m sticking with my diagnosis of crazy, potentially dangerous old bat.

Just for background, please note that the lady Y refers to as “Babushka” may or may not actually be biologically related to her and may or may not actually be her bio grandmother. Babushka is not legally her grandmother, guardian or any sort of relative. Legally, Y does not have a father. As far as I know, no one has ever claimed to be her father. Babushka is an old lady that Y sometimes visits (by herself! via marschutka! several villages away from the Internat!) and whose house she has, on occasion, run away to when orphanage life has not been to her liking.
B definitely is not related to Babushka. He is grateful to her for the times she has helped him and Y but seems wary of her. He warned us that she was “crazy” (note, however, that most people who cross B are deemed crazy – but I have to agree with him on this one). He also warned us that it would not be a good idea for us to take Y to visit her (but of course we had already told her we would visit Babushka before we leave Ukraine, take lots of pictures, write, call and, if at all possible, come back to Ukraine soon to visit her. And we will keep our promise, against my better judgment).

So, here’s the story of the day we met Babushka. Read it fast before I come to my senses and take it down. Right now, you’re getting the whole, ugly mess.

During Fall Break last week, many of the children from Y’s Internat came to the camp where Mike and I were staying (more about camp – awesome, awesome, awesome – later). The kiddos arrived on Monday morning. Babushka had come in the gates earlier (unbeknownst to me) and was waiting for Y to arrive. When I went outside to greet the kids, Y introduced me to Babushka. We had a cordial greeting, which neither of us understood (but there was hugging and kissing and hand-holding), and then a translator was sent over so that Mike, Yulia, Babushka and I could all talk. I was definitely surprised and unsettled that Y did not greet me with her usual flying tackle-hug and, in fact, would barely look at either of us all morning.
Babushka opened our little chat by asking us what would happen to Y in America when she was 18. I was a little confused by the question, but we answered that she could continue her education in college or she could begin to work – and either way she could continue to live with us for as long as she wanted, until she was ready to move out and start her career and/or her own family.

“But you will sell her when she turns 18.” Excuse me? Pardon me? SELL her? How I remained calm I will never know. My blood is boiling again just remembering this. By the way, Y is standing there during this whole conversation. SELL her?

Babushka’s neighbors apparently told her that she should not “let” Y go to America because the Americans will sell her when she turns 18. WTH? Somehow we remained calm and reassured Babushka that we had no intention of selling our daughter. I can’t even believe we had to say that! The whole thing was surreal.

I wish I could say that the conversation improved from there. We were questioned extensively about our plans for Y, with Babushka’s periodic interjections of “I just don’t know what to do” and “I cannot let her go wih you”. Babushka also interrogated Y re: whether she intended to learn English. (And yes ma’am, she does.)

Oh, by the way, this was all happening the day before our court date. Please understand that we were well aware that Babushka had no legal standing to challenge the adoption. Our fear was that she would (a) scare the crap out of Y or (b) lay a giant guilt trip on Y, who would then change her mind about being adopted. And if you think that’s paranoid please direct your attention to the story of Max, below.

Babushka mentioned that Y is very small (no kidding), that she “doesn’t want to learn” (i.e. doesn’t always make the best effort in school) and that she doesn’t always do what she’s told (show me a kid who does and I’ll show you a circus freakshow act). These opinions were all presented as damning accusations. In other words, Babushka spent a lot of time insulting Y – in her presence – I guess in an effort to dissuade us from adopting her. I don’t know, maybe she thinks the going price for 18-year-olds in America is based on weight or height. I just don’t know what was going through her head.

Babushka also mentioned that Y helps her in her garden and helps her clean the house (except when she doesn’t want to). Who will help Babushka if Y goes to America? Who will visit poor, lonely Babushka if Y goes to America? What will Babushka’s neighbors think if she “lets” Y go? Oy. Babushka waits for her every weekend, and every weekend little Y comes to visit her Babushka. (And I call a big, fat load of BS on this one. It’s simply not true. Y does visit her but I would be shocked if it was as often as once every 2 months, even including the times she has run away from the Internat. And WHY is the tiny 14-year-old riding the bus alone to Babushka’s anyway, instead of the other way around? Oh, and by the way, THANKS Babushka for enabling her running-away behavior and not sending her back to school. And THANKS for telling B he shouldn’t go to college but should start working, with his seventh-grade education, after he left the Internat. It was really generous of you to offer to let him stay with you while he worked. I’m sure his wages would have been a nice supplement to your pension.)

Our conversation went on and on. And on. And I would just like to reiterate that I did not raise a hand (or finger) to Babushka, curse her, insult her in any way or even get the least bit snippy with her. I sent nothing but sweet, sweet vibes her way. And yes, I do think I deserve a medal (or at least a cookie) for this exemplary behavior. You have no idea. I did point out that maybe, just maybe, Y would be better off with two parents who wake her up in the morning and tuck her in at night and are there for her at all of the times in between – as opposed to a rotating staff of caregivers and teachers who are paid to take care of her until she’s 16, with occasional weekend visits to granny. I showed such restraint. If only I had known the whole story.

After a while, I called my mom over to meet Babushka. They had a grandma-to-grandma conversation and poor Mom was as nice as could be. Babushka refused her offers of tea, a seat, lunch. After the longest conversation in world history, the translator helpfully suggested that Y and Babushka might want to talk alone for a little while. By this point, I was silently freaking out. Freaking. Out.

Eventually Babushka made her way toward the gate to wait for her bus and Y joined the other kids in playing and at lunchtime. I was still pretty freaked out because Y wasn’t really hanging out with us (though someone told me Y had informed Babushka before she left that she was going to America with us).

When B got back from his classes and heard that Babushka had visited he asked if everything was OK. We told him that Babushka didn’t want Y to go with us. “I told you. You see? She is crazy! I told you she is crazy! Don’t worry, there is no problem. Y want to go. I speak with her.” Sure enough, Y still wanted to be adopted by us! (And I know that B didn’t twist her arm – though to be perfectly honest I probably would have let it slide if he had.)

Later that afternoon, Y referred to Mike as her “Papa” for the first time. :-) I got my first “Mama” from her the next day and I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything sweeter.

We haven’t been to visit Babushka yet (I can’t take Y from the Internat until we have the court decree in hand) and as far as I know she hasn’t contacted Y since that day. I will keep our promise to make at least one visit to Babushka (AFTER the court decree is final – just in case) but you had better believe I will be bringing reinforcements. Here’s why:

Although we didn’t know it at the time of our conversation with Babushka, she had actually gone to the Internat that morning to try to take Y home with her. The Internat staff told her she could not take Y; Y was going to the camp. So Babushka hopped a bus to the camp and waited for Y there. When the kids came in the gate, Babushka took Y’s hand and tried to just take her out of the camp, without a word to anyone!

Can you say kidnapping?

She was stopped, of course, because the Internat Director had not given permission for any children to leave the camp during the week. I think it is safe to say that my demeanor would have been different, and the conversation with Babushka pretty heated, if I had known the whole story at the time. I probably would be blogging from the Ukrainian pokey right now because I can assure you I would have been all up in granny’s grill, so to speak. Grrrrrrr.

Believe it or not, I could say more. But I won’t. Can I have my cookie now?