Tri-County News

Who’s afraid of the number 13?


Normally, our family avoids the number 13. It doesn’t make sense; we just do. My husband is especially triskaidekaphobic – fearful of 13. He doesn’t travel on the 13th, he doesn’t do anything out of the ordinary on the 13th. I’ve seen enough bad things happen around the number 13 that I kind of go along with it. Imagine, then, our dilemma last year. We were in the Republic of Georgia frantically jumping through bureaucratic hoops to complete the adoption of our son George before our approved paperwork expired. After nearly a month there, we were finally told a court date had been set – for Nov. 13! We actually thought (for a half-minute or so) about requesting another date, but that would mean a delay of at least a week more, and we just didn’t have the time. So we went to court on the 13th, not knowing what to expect. Our attorney had assured us we didn’t need to do anything but show up, that he would handle everything. Our hearing was in the cramped office of the judge, a woman of about 35 or 40. She already was accustomed to Americans who pass through Georgia as quickly as they can, without learning any of the culture or language. Sadly, they perpetuate the “ugly American” image where money is the only language needed and it’s assumed that the whole world revolves around us. After nearly a month in Georgia, I had picked up a fair amount of Georgian (which is an older language than Russian and not at all related to it). I could understand much of the petition our attorney read to the judge. My husband is still a Georgian citizen which made the adoption much easier and, I believe, the judge friendlier toward us. She was especially surprised and pleased, though, when I answered her Russian questions in Georgian. The whole thing took perhaps 15 or 20 minutes. With the judge’s smiling congratulations, we legally became parents. We all shook hands and left the office. Later in the week we received the paperwork stating Nov. 13 as the official date of adoption. In a big way, Nov. 13 is more significant to me now than George’s actual birthday in September. Like a typical “birth” day, that was the day I became a mother – legally and irrevocably. Twenty-six months of “labor” preceded this special “delivery” and now, a year later, I can say it was all worth it. Each day is special with George. Our lives are so much richer (and complicated) now. George is growing into his personality, and what a character he is! He’s healthy, energetic, bright, inquisitive and all BOY. The biggest surprise in all of this is that no words could have prepared us for the profound change in our lives that George would bring. Sure, I “knew” that everything in our lives would change. But we had to live it to see how. I do want to thank (again) everyone who has been so supportive. Almost every day we get inquiries about how George is doing. It was knowing we had the prayerful support of friends and neighbors “back home” that helped me keep my cool during many trying times in Georgia a year ago. I can only hope to share our joy now with those same friends and neighbors. Meanwhile, as life carries on, we probably will never fly on the 13th, fix the roof on the 13th, or ever have an address with 13 in it. We may conveniently “skip” our 13th anniversary, and George may be 12 for two years before he turns 14. But we’ve definitely warmed up a bit to the number 13. Sometimes 13 is okay. In fact, 13 can be pretty darn special.

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