There was a heat wave in Northwest Poland while my husband and I sat clammy and glowing in the adoption center. I was taking furious notes in the Vera Bradley journal I brought, trying to look organized and qualified, but aware every few seconds that I was neither. The social workers were describing our children to us, explaining their behavior at school, what was known about their birth parents, and what the kids wanted to forget. That’s when I heard them. Just outside the door, little voices were laughing, little hands were pushing, and little feet were flying. I am a teacher and those noises are in the hallways of my life at 8 a.m. every morning, but this time it was different. Those were my children, and they were real people. John and I watched through a one-way mirror as the kids tossed a soft ball around a Polish Gymboree-style play space, with blue cheese-wedge slides and crimson mats. “That one’s Krystian, and that one’s Woitek,” I explained to him in case he was too excited to remember which one of our sons was older. Wictoria’s hair was combed perfectly and tied in a sweet bow, but she sat very close to her foster mother. I’m still not sure if my kids were certain that we were their new parents when we were introduced to them, though Wictoria did color us a picture of a bending flower that said Wictoria i Mama i Tato – Wictoria and Mom and Dad – which we still have. What I do know is that as John joined the boys for a game of catch and I got Wictoria interested in the dollhouse, we struggled to talk about anything. I remembered some color names I learned from the Polish Rosetta Stone software, and kept saying them as we moved the dolls up and down the stairs. I knew the Polish happy birthday song “Sto Lat” from my childhood, and we sang it right there even though there was no reason to. But besides that, I could not communicate with my new family, and it was frustrating for everyone. Other adoptive parents had warned us that the language barrier was an issue when adopting older children from a foreign country. I was prepared for some hindrance, but I was not ready for how deeply it would vex my kids. I was also surprised by their aggressive display at my not being able to understand them, stomping their feet and even throwing things when I looked at them quizzically in response to a request. The good news was that underneath it was a desire for a trusting relationship with parents who would meet their needs, and the bad news was that I couldn’t always respond because I didn’t understand them. My children were able to communicate in English after we were home for only three months. Now, they speak in full sentences and even use phrases such as “well, actually” that sound adorable from the mouth of a seven-year-old. What I understood from other adoptive parents was that this was not uncommon, since children are such fast learners, but we did employ some strategies in the beginning that helped to make the transition easier:
