The swine flu has come to our house. Because I’ve been writing about it for my office, I know that you’re supposed to call it H1N1, but swine is easier to say. Less scary, too. H1N1 sounds a little too Space Odyssey-ish to me.

Boy has a mild fever, coughing, congestion and his asthma is aggravated. No sign of it in Girl yet. I’m wondering if Bob already had it two weeks ago (when he wouldn’t go to the doctor, even when I cast the evilest evil eye I could muster). As for me, I’ve decided I’m just not going to get it. Period. End of story.

Honestly, I’ve been scared shitless that Boy would get swine flu because, in my research for work, I kept reading that asthmatics are high risk. High risk for what, I didn’t exactly know.

So the trip to the pediatrician today was pretty much for my benefit as well. She didn’t even test him for the flu — she knows it when she sees it. It’s rampant in Fort Bend County, the doctor said. And most of the kids have a mild case, like Boy. She expected him to go back to school on Monday. As for Girl, we’re going to cheerleading practice in a few hours — no need to isolate her, the doctor said. If she comes down with a fever over the next few days, we’re to call the doctor for a second bottle of Tamiflu — which is getting hard to come by in liquid form.

So now we bide our time and see what the weekend brings. I’m really hoping that the little ache in my back is just the worry flowing out, and not a sign of swine.

On September 10, 2001, I was obsessed with the contents of a thick brown envelop. The stack of papers inside had taken more than six months to amass – birth certificates, marriage certificate, letters of recommendation, home study report, photos. Every scrap was notarized, and the notaries had been verified by the State of Texas and the whole packet bore the stamp of the Guatemalan Embassy in Houston.

That morning we were to take that envelop, along with a chubby brown baby, to the U.S. Embassy in Guatemala City as the last step in the adoption of our son. It had been the longest six and half months of my life, with the last three months the slowest and most painful leg of the journey.

In June 2001, we traveled to Guatemala City for the first time to meet our son, who was then three months old. His foster mother, our attorney and her sister, who served as an interpreter, brought him to our room at the Princess Hotel. Although it was 80 degrees outside, he was wrapped in a blanket and wore a Winnie the Pooh stocking cap, along with a heavy sweater and three layers of clothing. We stripped him down to his onesy the minute they left.

The Princess was one of three major hotels in the area serving adoptive families. You could spot us on the streets right away – white man and woman pushing a brown baby in an umbrella stroller. The Princess lent us the stroller and the pack-n-play our baby slept in. The waitresses at the hotel restaurant would smile and automatically take the baby from our tired arms so we could rest during meals. We got little sleep. We made bottles with powdered Similac and tap water from the hotel sink. To bathe, we held him like a slippery football in the green marble shower. By the end of our short visit, I felt as if I had become an expert at taking care of a strange baby in a foreign hotel room. And I was just starting to feel like his mama. But I had to give him back to his foster mom, crying all the way home and for months afterward.

On our second and final visit, Boy was six and a half months old. He had changed so much that I resented even more the time we’d spent apart, waiting for our paperwork to grind its way through two legal systems. On September 10, 2001, he would be ours.

Our interpreter and a driver collected us at the hotel and took us to the U.S. Embassy. But first, a quick stop to a van parked outside the government building. We ducked inside the van, sat the baby on a bench seat and snap, had his Passport photo taken.

The Embassy itself was much like a Social Security office or a DMV, only it was filled with white couples and brown babies. And the atmosphere was much happier. Everyone was smiling, relieved, joyful. Except for one woman – her attorney had just dropped off her new baby girl, and the baby was freaking out. The woman was just as distraught as the baby.
“That’s why we don’t do it that way,” our interpreter told us, pointing to our Boy, who was peacefully sleeping in the umbrella stroller.

When it was our turn, the Embassy representative asked us a few questions, shook our hands, gave us our baby’s Guatemalan Passport and a much thinner brown envelop to give to U.S. Customs, and that was that. We celebrated that night with two other adoptive families at the Princess. We called our babies the Three Amigos.

The next day, a Tuesday, we were packing to fly home when the phone rang. It was Dad. I only heard Bob’s end of the conversation: “Hey, how you… What? What? Christi, turn on CNN!”

We stood there and watched as the World Trade Center burned. Then a second plane hit.

We went to the airport anyway. No flights that day. Or the next day, or the next, or the next. The Embassy had also shut down. “Thank God we got our paperwork through,” became the mantra of the three families stuck at the Princess, waiting to fly home. We shared diapers, Similac and medicine – by then, all the babies had taken sick.

By Sunday we got a flight out, arriving at the ghostly Bush Intercontinental Airport. No one came to meet us because only passengers (those few souls brave enough to fly) were allowed inside the airport. We were greeted by men with machine guns – the same sight we gawked at in Guatemala City.

Boy and Girl are wrestling on the bed. Girl is trying to shove her foot into Boy’s face.

“Come on ya’ll, let’s play Barbies,” I say. I have just turned off the TV, shamed by a recent trip to the pediatrician’s office. Examining Girl for a check-up, the doctor said, “And she watches TV for no more than one or two hours a day, right?” I mumbled an answer. I should have said, “Yes, not counting SpongeBob.”

So now, with no TV, they have reverted to the wild animal state, which I am trying to tamp down with a few of the million toys they own.

“She won’t wake up! She’s under an evil spell!” I say, grabbing the Barbie that looks like Sleeping Beauty. That gets their attention.

“It was Ken. He’s evil,” Boy says. Ken takes off in the pink convertible Barbie car, which can now fly like a Star Wars pod racer. “Pretend he cut his little brother.”

“He cut him?” I say.

“Yeah, he’s evil,” Boy says.

“We gotta take care of the little brother. Make him some chicken soup,” Girl says.

Now Ken’s riding toward the Barbie house on the back of a two-foot tall T-rex.

“Have Ken’s girlfriend come out and get him,” Boy says. “She knows karate.” He pronounces it KAH-RAH-TAY.

Now Ken’s back in the pink pod-racer and he suffers a horrible crash. “They feel sorry for him now. They all surround the car. His girlfriend pushes everyone else away. KEN! KEN!” Boy says.

In a huddle of blond hair, the Barbies carry Ken to the Barbie house, which is now a hospital. Girl operates as the chef Barbie transforms into Dr. Barbie. Ken makes a remarkable recovery. Boy tells Girl, “Go get me the T-Rex.”

As she walks by him to get the toy dinosaur, he trips her and she cries.

Back to square one.

Writing quickly before I have to get in the pick-up line at school. I hope the kids who get in my car this afternoon will be a lot happier than the kids we dropped off this morning. Both were apprehensive, so we tag teamed them. Girl clung to my hand as we arrived at her classroom, while Bob escorted Boy down the hall to his class.

“Dad, when you’re nervous, do you ever feel like you have to barf?” Boy asked Bob on the way there.

No one called me from the nurse’s office today, so I assume no barfing went on. I assume no crying did either. I sure as hell didn’t cry. I know lots of moms do when the youngest one goes off to kindergarten but not me. For me it’s happy happy joy joy.

Why do I feel so goooood today? A weight has been lifted from me, a weight called GUILT. Because until today, I felt guilty for leaving my little one with anyone else but me. Even Bob. But I don’t feel guilty about her going off to kindergarten because it’s the best thing for her in the world. So happy happy joy joy.

At the same time, boy’s butt has been removed from the couch (even though it still bears his indentation) and his face is free from the PSP. He’s back with his friends and what we’re hoping will be a kinder, gentler teacher this year. Happy happy joy joy.

So I savor this moment. Because in 15 minutes, they’ll be in my car giving me the lowdown on the day. Right now I’m imagining it was a good one for them both. For me it was, as SpongeBob says, “The Best Day Ever!”