Lydia/Die Xi: Our Emerging Butterfly

By Emma Batenhorst

(Pictured, from left, Eva, Emma and Lydia Batenhorst)

        The one-hundredth glance was as hopeless as the first five.  Not the slightest hint of personality could be detected through the black oval slivers that gazed blankly at me from the surface of the flimsy computer paper.  The photograph was of a plump Chinese baby girl, though the shaven head would imply otherwise if not for the e-mail attached to this picture, exclaiming in part, “Congratulations, it’s a girl!.” 

        Dinner time discussion had centered upon the name Lydia. Though at this time a name for this baby, added no intimacy where it was lacking.  I simply could not fathom the idea of this baby as my sister-to-be.

       In those first one hundred glances she remained a little stranger wrapped in a tight cocoon, refusing to share with me a single secret.  At this time, any inkling of identity would have been welcome, though in its place came comic relief.  Lydia sat with her legs straddled. And peeking from the hole created by the traditional slit pants was a scrunched disposable diaper.  My grin deepened as I realized that tucked under the diaper was a set of hands cradling Lydia as if she were a precious gem.  It was a sneak peek into what I would soon have the luxury of enjoying, for my hands would be showing her affection and receiving, in return, the blessing of her little life.  Secure in this knowledge, I began to love this little girl whose picture I could not help but cradle.

        As is time’s way, Lydia’s “got-you” day quickly sprang into being.  This ever-cherished

 day consisted of a plane ride that transported the group of five adopting families from our touring stop in Beijing to Changsha, where our babies were unaware of the decreasing distance between them and their new families.

(Pictured Lydia and author Emma Batenhorst)

     My stomach churned in circles as I paced through the plans of the evening like a hamster on a circling treadmill.  This evening I would begin my journey as Lydia’s big sister, meeting her for the first time at the Grand Sun Hotel just a block from the orphanage she knew as home.  Our one simple plan upon arriving at the Grand Sun was to get settled.  For a group of individuals whose families would be gaining a member in just minutes, the fulfillment of this task required merely that we get our luggage to our assigned rooms on the nineteenth floor.  My mother, father, and I entertained our expectant hands with the busy work of organizing Lydia’s bottle materials, baby toys, and blankets.  When I found myself aligning the blankets according

 to a color code, it became apparent that the room would be better off once I took my humble leave. 

        Outside in the lobby of the nineteenth floor the families began to congregate, giving their cameras and camcorders a final physical before the babies arrived by elevator.  My mother and father lost no time in following suit. The heads of the group shifted back and forth as the numbers above the elevator doors lit up floor by floor with the elevators’ individual ascents. The row of three elevators kept us busy, all demanding simultaneous attention, for it was a mystery which elevator would be carrying up our babies.  The 19 above the center elevator finally broke the suspense when it lit up in a subdued, worn yellow.  Following in suit, there was an abrupt “ding” and the two stainless steel doors parted like heavy red curtains being drawn to reveal the cast of a long-awaited performance.  A stream of flashes began immediately, illuminating all the little Chinese faces buried deep in colorful mis-matched clothing. 

        As the nannies stepped into the group of shaken Americans, I pointed my finger in the direction of a plump, straight-faced little girl, perspiring within an oversized yellow snowsuit; there, indeed, was the exact face that I recognized from Lydia’s referral picture.  All the families clustered behind an imaginary line, drawn by our guide.  Thus, we were cut off from scooping up the little girls who were being delicately stripped of their cold-resistant layers.  These moments were centered on five little orphans who had, before coming to us, each been one of hundreds.  By being introduced to a family, each of these babies would no longer be lost deep within a jungle of cribs, but would be nurtured in a home that could satisfy the human need to be set apart as an individual.

        The nannies began placing the babies, with their single layer of clothing, into the outreached hands of their fan club.  As my mother received Lydia into her arms, I reached out to place my hand upon her shoulder; in response, she delivered a glance in my direction.  In this moment, Lydia brought me hope of a blossoming relationship that would be strengthened with a lifetime of love.  And I knew that in return, our family would provide Lydia a new hope of a future.

        I looked forward to visiting the babies’ orphanage, though I had only partially acquainted myself with the reality of the orphanage through photos.  Our walk to the Changsha Children Welfare Institution landed us before large brass gates that kept the facility hidden to the bustling street.

        Our tour began in a spacious, chandelier-illuminated lobby with formal tiles that hinted that we were entering a building that had once been a well-respected hotel.  The aged walls, bare floors, and thick steel utility elevator doors reminded me of the current use of this facility.  The elevator carried our entire group, with the exception of one father who refused to join us, up to floor 3. A woman who had been one of the baby deliverers the previous evening welcomed us and formally introduced herself as Li Yongqing. She was the overseer of the third floor, where our babies’ cribs were now filled with a new group of little girls. Seeing her dedication to these children despite so few resources was of great comfort.  Li Yongqing led us through a sliding lattice steel fence that was locked with great care as the last body entered, so as not to allow any little toddlers a chance to escape.  I scanned the room from corner to corner.  This room was introduced as the playroom for three- to four-year-olds with minor special needs.  The cleft-palates and missing limbs did not appear to get in the way of play.  A plastic train scooted past me with a little girl in a pink cotton hooded jacket.  She was the conductor.  Her top lip was slightly deformed.  Following closely behind her was a nanny with tightly bound hair, anxious to show the dedication she puts into these children.  As if handling a line of train cars, the young woman led four girls and one boy, all grasping a hand of the person in front and in back of them.  Where was this train headed?  I had a sudden urge to know the name of every little body entertaining him- or herself roundabout me.

        To conclude our brief tour of the institution, we were led farther down the narrow whitewashed hallway into a room on the left. Leaving behind the still gloom of the hallway and entering into a large room with a single window was relieving, though only a slight improvement. The room could only suck so much light from the small barred window. This was the room where Lydia and the other four babies were raised during their first months of life. I got to closely examine my little sister’s crib. It was a piece of a larger puzzle of cribs that had been aligned with the utmost care in order to use space in the wisest manner. While I stood amidst the packed cribs on one side of the room, across from me were approximately five baby girls slouched in the seats of aged wooden chairs and five more orphans were sprawled out on large colorful padded mats.

     In this orphanage visit I met the smile of many proud nannies. This characteristic told me that they were strong role models for the children at their feet who needed hope. This father that opted out of the tour missed out on an opportunity to grow in the knowledge of his daughter’s past—a past for his daughter that was the present for many less fortunate children in China.

        Today we thank Lydia’s nannies in China for preparing her for the love of a family. Though the attention that Lydia received from them came in only small doses, it was valuable; it told Lydia that there were people who cared.

        Die Xi, Lydia’s Chinese name, translates to butterfly. In Lydia’s first years the power a name possesses could not have been a more perfect truth for my parents to anticipate; in response to the hope that a family offers, she was destined to gradually escape the restrictive boundaries of her cocoon, becoming a splendid butterfly.  Lydia is the most perfect transformation.

“Happy Birthday Lydia!” (Clockwise from left) Simon, Emma, Meggie, Lydia, and Eva Batenhorst celebrate, complete with a butterfly cake for “Die XI, the butterfly”.