Almost There sounds like we’re not living in the moment, and that’s not entirely true.  We’re here.  We’re enjoying our time with Liliana, and we know we won’t all be together like this, in this fashion, until our next vacation.  We’ve had a couple of days where, in the scheme of things, Dan has been elevated in Liliana’s view, and I’ve been demoted.  All that to say that we think we’re reaching that level playing field with her, where she feels she can go to Mama or Papa for comfort or love.  Dan has to leave the apartment this morning, briefly, to check if our driver has appeared (to take us to the Embassy).  She bursts out in tears both times, so I suppose that’s progress.

We flew to Kiev last night.  The only thing Liliana has a problem with is being constrained by the seat belt.  She isn’t unusual in this regard, since the girl across the aisle decompensates over the same thing.  And somehow I get the brilliant idea to give her a sucker right before takeoff–for her ears.  One guess as to how stupid this is.  She wants to touch everything with her Magic Sticky Wand.  Note to self: next time, a piece of hard candy will do the trick.

This morning we start our U.S. Embassy paperwork.  We fill out immigrant and visa papers for Liliana, go to her mandatory doctor’s medical evaluation appointment, sit in two hours of traffic, then return to the Embassy to submit the doctor’s completed forms.  We have our interview at the Embassy tomorrow morning at 11 am.  All forms–necessary for our return to the U.S.–should be completed by then.  We hope.

Liliana is a gem all morning, not getting lunch or taking her nap until two hours later than normal.  The only time she breaks down is when the woman doctor has us remove her clothes.  Dan and I say to each other in hushed tones that the only women she’s known like this (who wear white smocks and speak Russian to her) has been in the orphanage, and any removal or donning of clothing meant something.  Maybe she thinks we’re giving her back to the orphanage, because she doesn’t start crying until we start to remove her dress.  Poor thing.  I hold her on my lap the whole time and clasp her hands in mine.

I wish there were an emotional I.V. unit for times like these, to give her a dose of assurance.