When I board the NW flight home, the flight attendant takes one look at Liliana and glares at me.  “Does she have chicken pox?” she says.

“No,” I say.  “It’s only on her face.”

She looks at me skeptically (and kind of meanly, if you want the truth, but I suppose they have to watch for that sort of thing).

Dan tells me later that when he walks through the boarding door seconds later (because he was checking our stroller), she asks him if he needs help finding his seat.  “No,” he says.  “I’m with them,” pointing to Liliana and me, still standing near our seats.

“Oh,” she says contemptuously.  “The one with the rash.”

True, Liliana’s rash has worsened, and the products that the Ukrainian doctor has given us are worthless.  In fact, we think they’re the culprits for worsening her condition.

9 hours of flight.  Now, I have to say I was expecting the worst, because if you mix 9 hours of flight with a child who doesn’t understand why she has to do certain things (“You have to have a seat belt on, sweetie.  See?  Mama and Papa do, too.”)  In general, you don’t have much power over a child when there are rows and rows of people who want quiet (and not to be continually kicked in the back).  If the child acts up, you quickly console her, rather than ride out her screaming.

Only once does Dan have to go into a vacant toilet stall to ride the screams out, but she stops quickly because she wants to see the people outside more than she wants to cry.  Funny how that works, isn’t it?  Later, when she starts crying, because she can’t have something (“I’m sorry.  I can’t give anymore to you.  That piece of candy has too much sugar in it, pumpkin.”)  Dan holds his hands out, indicating he is perfectly willing to go stand in a toilet stall again, and she immediately stops.

Anyway, we get to Minneapolis.  We whisper to Liliana, only because we know she can’t understand us, “We’re never going to your God-forsaken country again,” laughing, too, knowing that we’re venting.  Of course we’ll go back at some point, so she can see where she came from.

We’re pulled aside at Customs, so they can go through our sealed envelope from the U.S. Embassy.  The envelope is full of all the necessary documents that the government needs, because the minute the plane touched ground, Liliana became a U.S. citizen.  We answer questions like, “Are you Daniel and Elissa Elliott?” and “Is this your current address?”  We pick up our luggage and head home.

We’re aware that Liliana needs to be seen by someone (now the area behind both ears is weeping with fluid), so we call up Mayo, and they arrange for an appointment as soon as we get back to Rochester.  Liliana is a gem for the appointment, considering it’s midnight–Ukrainian time.  It helps that she has a wonderful, patient nurse practitioner who explains to Liliana what she’s going to do before she does it.  She prescribes hydrocortisone cream, an antibiotic, and an antihistamine (to get rid of the itching).

Here’s the best part.  For months, I’ve been preparing a room and playroom for this girl we did not know.  I did most of it the old-fashioned way–knitting, painting, and sewing.  I wanted a room of simple beauty (children deserve beauty, don’t you think?) with lots of textures and colors–but not so busy, that it’s distracting.  I was well aware that she might not like it (or at least like it like I did!).  I was also aware that although I spent hours knitting her a bunny doll (Bella the Bunny, if you must know), she might not choose it as her “lovie.”

And I think I’ve been clear about my general stance on this–I never want to force anything on my child in that way.  She will have a separate personality from me, and that means she will like different things, and I want to honor that and encourage her in the direction she chooses.

When Liliana walks into the house (a little sleepy because she’s fallen asleep on the drive from Mayo to home), she perks up.  She wants to explore, even at 2 in the morning our time.  So, Dan and I act like real estate agents (“Here is the little chair Papa bought for you,” “This is where we watch for the hummingbirds,” and “This is Mama’s study, full of books you’ll be able to read.”).

We get to her room.  Her eyes grow wide.  She steps on the rug in her room, squishes it between her toes, and bends down to feel how soft it is.  She sees herself in the crazy multicolored mirror I painted for her (a grand Salvation Army find–$20!).  She sees her bed, her bird mobile, her books–everything!  She wanders from one thing to the next, pointing and doing that tiny gasp she does when she’s surprised, which is always.  We say, “Liliana, all this is for you.  It’s yours.”  We put our hand on her chest and say, “Liliana’s.”  We think she understands, because she’s just beside herself.

When she walks down the hallway to the playroom, she sees the tissue pom-poms hanging mid-air (they look like floating flowers; you can find the Martha Stewart kit at Michaels), and this vision of her–mouth open, eyes wide–I will treasure forever.  It makes me tear up writing this.  Sorry, ahem, I need to take a time out to blow my drippy nose.

There.

All in all, the sheer delight on her face makes me think we are in for a treat, raising this child.  I know it won’t be easy, but I’m looking forward to getting to know this girl child of mine.