First in a series
Story by STACY ST. CLAIR | Daily Herald Writer
Photos by BEV HORNE |Daily Herald Photographer

GUATEMALA CITY - A soft knock on the Hulls' hotel room door signals the inevitable.

It is time to give back their youngest child.

"It's probably the toughest thing I've ever had to do," Bill Hull says of relinquishing the son he met only eight days earlier. "Somebody has given you something and now they're taking it away after you've fallen in love with it."

Kris Hull sorts through adoption-related paperwork in her home office.

Kris and Bill Hull have spent every moment of the past week with Clayton, the 2-month-old Guatemalan infant they're adopting. The Naperville couple has warmed his bottles, changed his diapers, tickled his feet and talked excitedly about the life awaiting him in Illinois.

That new life, however, remains unrealized until the proper paperwork is approved. Until then, the law requires Clayton stay in this Latin American capital with his foster mother, a young woman whom the Hulls have met only once.

The couple knows the real hardship begins the moment the door closes. They don't know when they'll hold their son again. They don't know when two governments will officially recognize the bond they already feel.

They just have to wait.

And waiting, it seems, is one of the few certainties in international adoption. Even in Guatemala, known for its streamlining of cases, uncertainties abound as prospective parents endure paperwork pregnancies filled with delays.

The Hulls will become one of more than 20,000 U.S. families who adopt foreign-born children each year. The number has more than doubled in the past decade and is expected to climb even higher, in part, due to celebrities' current penchant for international adoption.

But for this family - and about 1,000 each year like them in Illinois - foreign adoption is not an exotic three-day trip with paparazzi in tow. It's an expensive, sometimes heartbreaking, commitment that has altered the suburban mosaic and sparked global controversy.

"If everyone had to go through what we go through to become parents," Kris says, "there would be a lot fewer children in this world."

It won't be as bad

Kris Hull watches over her son Clayton while he naps in the bed where her oldest child, Myles, slept for his first nine months.

Kris and Bill always wanted a house full of children. But they always knew they would not be biological ones.

Kris, a diabetic, could not have children. A hysterectomy and other medical complications made sure of it.

The couple decided to adopt, having a grand plan to raise children from different continents. None, though, would be born in the United States.

The risks of adopting U.S. children, they thought, were too great. They didn't want to end up battling a birth mother who changed her mind or a father who claimed he'd never signed over his rights.

The Hulls brought home their first child in 2003, a 9-month-old Guatemalan boy they named Myles Kenneth.

Before he arrived, during the year-long wait for paperwork to be approved, the Hulls endured dozens of bureaucratic snafus and even more sleepless nights. The waiting was almost unbearable.

This time, Kris says before meeting Clayton, it'll be easier. She knows the great reward at the end, so she won't allow herself to wallow while she waits.

"We know what to expect and we have Myles to keep us busy," she says. "It won't be as hard as it was the first time."

Even as she says it, she doesn't sound convinced.

The opposition

In concept, the bureaucracy attempts to appease a strong resentment in this Central American country toward international adoption. In the past decade, Americans have adopted more than 24,000 Guatemalan babies.

In raw numbers, Guatemala, a developing nation about the size of Tennessee, is the second-largest provider of adoptees to the United States. Only China provides more.

The 7,906 Chinese babies adopted by Americans last year represented a mere .04 percent of the country's 17.3 million births. Russian children, who rank third in U.S. adoptions, were .03 percent of the country's births last year. In Guatemala, though, one in every 100 babies is adopted by a U.S. family.

That ratio has led critics, in this country and abroad, to blast Guatemala as a baby farm for rich Americans. UNICEF has joined the debate, repeatedly calling for a moratorium until the country implements standards established by the Hague Convention on Intercountry Adoption.

Guatemala agreed to the treaty in 2003, but has not yet enacted it. The pact, ratified by China, Russia and 40 others, requires that a government agency oversee foreign adoptions. If Guatemala fails to create a centralized system, U.S. families could be prohibited from adopting there.

The Hulls' case, however, most likely would be allowed to proceed because it had been under way.

"UNICEF is well aware that international adoptions provide loving homes for children in need," spokeswoman Kini Schoop said. "What we are gravely concerned about are the thousands of children who are sold, trafficked, exploited and made victims of profiteering through illicit adoption practices."

Such concerns have led to urban legends about Americans adopting Guatemalan babies so they can harvest their organs for ailing U.S. children. They have become so pervasive, American couples are advised to stay within Guatemala City limits for their safety.

Guatemala City, where Clayton will live with a foster mother until the adoption is finalized, is home to more than 2.5 million people.

Yet with 75 percent of Guatemalans living in poverty, many see adoption as a way of giving poor children a good life.

"Some people here oppose it but I have no problem sleeping at night," says international adoption attorney Beatriz de Ortega. "I know what kind of life they would have here. Many would be living on the streets without a roof over their heads or food on their tables."

How it works

Clayton Hull might have been one of those children, if not for fate.

He was born April 26, 2006 in Guatemala City to an unwed El Salvadoran immigrant. She earned about $100 a week as a maid, but, de Ortega says, her unplanned pregnancy -frowned upon in a Catholic country like this - most likely cost the woman her job.

Without a job, money or a husband, the woman turned to de Ortega's law firm. De Ortega says she works with a lot of free clinics and religious groups that recommend adoption rather than illegal abortion or single motherhood. Many adoption attorneys also employ "connectors," typically older women who know everyone's business in the neighborhood. Connectors often approach pregnant women - most of whom are either single or already have several children - to ask about adoption.

If the expectant mother follows through, the connector gets a finder's fee of about $700.

The law firm typically pays for prenatal care. Though Guatemalan law prohibits biological parents from profiting from adoption, Guatemalans who work in the system say it's not uncommon for the mother to get a few hundred dollars.

When the child is born, the law firm contacts a U.S.-based agency. Guatemalan lawyers rely largely on their U.S. counterparts to interview prospective parents, conduct home studies, review applications and process paperwork.

If the newborn is a healthy girl, she'll be snatched up immediately. Nine out of 10 Americans hold out for girls, de Ortega says.

The Hulls place no such demands on their child's gender. More than once, their flexibility sped up the process. They jumped to the front of line in 2002, when seven couples passed on a newborn boy, their first son Myles.

Soon, they began contemplating another adoption. They abandoned their dream of adopting from different continents for logistical reasons. They returned to Guatemala where they understood the system and the streamlined process would offer them a shorter waiting period.

Soon after, Bill, a technical writer, chose to go back to school for his teaching certificate. The career change put their adoption plans on hold.

Or so they thought.

In late May, Kris' sister e-mailed about an orphaned Guatemalan baby. His name and brief bio had appeared accidentally on a Chinese adoption list Kris' sister received. The baby's name was William, Bill's given name, and he looked just like Myles.

It was as if he had e-mailed himself to the Hulls.

The next morning, Kris called the Seattle agency handling his case. Yes, they told her, the baby still was available.

They encouraged Kris to make a quick decision. The boy would be assigned to the first family willing to commit.

Kris and Bill asked for a few days to make their decision. It took them only two hours.

They knew the financial demands. Myles' adoption had cost about $33,000 and Clayton's would not be any cheaper. They talked with a financial planner and took out a home equity loan.

It wasn't as if they had another choice. Fate had sent them this child.

"We felt from the beginning that he was ours," Bill said.

Given their finances, Bill assumed they would have to hold off on visiting Clayton.

But Kris couldn't wait. She bought tickets for them in June.

The trip was touted as a joint Father's Day-40th birthday present to Bill. In reality, it was a gift to an entire family bursting to meet its newest member.

"He's our child," says Kris, a 38-year-old psychotherapist. "It would be impossible for us to stay away. We'd go crazy."

A lot of kisses

When Kris takes her son into her arms for the first time, he's wrapped in fleece and weighs 8 pounds. She cradles him at first, looking down into his large brown eyes through her brimming blue ones.

She lifts him so his face is next to hers and plants small kisses across his forehead.

"You're going to get a lot of kisses," she whispers.

Bill reaches over and caresses Clayton's cheek.

Bill Hull sits quietly with Clayton.

"We have a lot of kisses to give in our family," he says.

Kris and Bill tell the baby of the aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents waiting for him back home. Myles offers to share his toys, many brought along in a miniature backpack.

It's a scene played and replayed in countless maternity wards daily: Tearful parents whispering to their newborns. Excited older siblings thrilled by a future playmate's arrival.

Clayton's first moments are no different, except for the logistics.

As the Hulls coo and fuss over their baby, they sign papers granting them temporary custody. They have permission to stay with him for the next eight days, but no longer.

During that time, they can cuddle with him, feed him his bottles, sing him lullabies and spend every waking moment consumed with joy.

They can live as family, teaching Myles how to play gently with his brother. They can go to restaurants and take late afternoon walks along tree-lined streets.

But once those eight days are up, they must wait once more. Clayton will go back to his foster mom, Paola, who still lives with her own mother.

In total, they'll spend at least nine months waiting for the paperwork to be approved.

Well-meaning friends tell the couple it's not so bad. After all, they say, if Kris could get pregnant, she would have to wait nine months.

"It's an unfair comparison," Kris says. "When they brought home their children, had they already missed the first time they rolled over? Their first steps? Their first smile? Their first tooth? It's not the same."

Hotel Baby

The Hulls spend the week at the Guatemala City Radisson in tourist-friendly Zone 10. They are one of more than three dozen U.S. families here.

The hotel offers a special "adoption package" that includes shuttle service to the U.S. Embassy, tickets to the zoo and discounted laundry service. It also has a family floor, where all the rooms come with cribs, bassinets, baby baths and strollers. It's completely filled this week, however, forcing the Hulls to a different floor.

Everywhere you look - the lobby, the restaurant, the business center, the elevators - there's an American with a Guatemalan infant dressed like a Baby Gap model.

The adopting parents form an instant support group. They trade information on the process, e-mail addresses and jubilant hugs when one of them finalizes their adoption.

Many bunker down, refusing to go beyond a one-block radius of the Radisson, because of warnings about the animosity toward adopting families.

The Hulls, though, are seasoned world travelers. They explore the city, taking long walks through Zone 10's streets and sampling its restaurants.

Bill and Kris Hull take a day trip to Antigua, Guatemala's colonial capital, during their week-long visit.

They even take a day trip to Antigua, a town famous for its Spanish New World Baroque architecture. Given the country's political climate, the family draws stares as they stroll the city's cobblestone streets.

Most onlookers noticeably relax when they hear Myles speak in English to his parents or show them affection. It allays their fears the children have been abducted to save a blue-eyed child's life.

Adults and children are drawn to the family. A woman selling miniature calendars approaches with her son.

At 2, the boy is everything 3-year-old Myles is not. He's malnourished, unwashed and dressed in a tattered sweat suit.

Yet he is everything Myles might have been had his 19-year-old birth mother not allowed him to be adopted.

Kris recognizes this. She buys miniature calendars she doesn't need or want.

A 10-year-old shoe shiner approaches. He asks Kris where they're from and eyes Myles, who has climbed up on Bill's shoulders and is kissing the top of his head.

"Does he live with you in the United States?" the shoe shiner asks. Kris answers yes and the boy nods. He talks of his own life, sharing how he goes to school in the mornings and shines shoes in the afternoon.

Carlos Zamora, a 10-year-old from Antigua, Guatemala, earns about 10 quetzales (roughly 77 cents) a day shining shoes. He gives half of the money to his mother, who works as a cook in town.

He makes about 77 cents for four hours' work. He gives half to his mother, a restaurant cook, and keeps the rest.

He has shined so many shoes that, no matter how hard he scrubs, he can't wash off the black that stains his fingertips.

"The work is good," he says.

He stays with the Hulls as they wait for their hired car. He never once asks for money or solicits a shoe shine.

When the cab arrives, they say goodbye. Kris hands him 20 quetzales - four times what he'd make on a typical day.

She knows it wasn't what he wanted.

"I think he wanted to come with us," she says.

Baby's first bond

Clayton's foster mother left detailed instructions.

He takes a nap around 9 a.m., following breakfast. He dozes off again around 1 p.m. and sleeps on his back.

He drinks Similac formula. He laughs if you jiggle his feet and make a funny noise.

"Good, good," Kris says to herself as she reads over the list for the first time. "This is good information to have."

Kris is glad another woman is raising her child - temporarily. She prefers it to the orphanages used in other nations. "If he can form one attachment," she says, "he'll be able to form another."

Her experience with Myles proved as much.

Maria Vega, who was Myles Hull's foster mother for nine months in Guatemala, embraces the boy she once cared for as an infant. Her daughter Karla Alvarez looks on.

He spent his first nine months in the care of his foster mother, Maria Vega.

A single mother of four, Maria supports her family by caring for orphaned children. With more than 4,100 children adopted this year in Guatemala, foster moms are in high demand. They receive about $125 a month from adoption attorneys who recoup the money through their fees.

Maria took in Myles when he was just five days old. As agencies struggled to find a family for him, she hoped he would end up with her permanently. She considered him her own and greeted the Hulls warily.

As they went through the process, Kris and Bill slowly gained Maria's trust. They called often, sent care packages and visited three times.

Still, she was despondent when Myles left for America, convinced she would never see him again.

The Hulls promised to call and send photos, but she didn't believe them. In 24 years, not once had a child visited or even sent a letter. It was as if she never existed to them.

Her own children urged her to quit. The emotional toll, they told her, was simply too much.

"She gets so attached," her oldest son, Omar Garcia, says. "It was like having a child die."

But the Hulls made good on their promises. They still call often and send photos. They mail care packages and money.

When the Hulls return to Guatemala to meet Clayton, they make an extra effort to see Maria. Seeing Myles for the first time since his adoption, Maria pulls the boy into a bear hug as tears run down her face.

Though Myles has been taking Spanish and understands the language, he responds to all her questions in English. He tells her about his dogs, his tree house and his backpack filled with Toy Story action figures.

"He looks so happy," Maria later says. "That's all I wanted for him since he was a baby."

In the ghetto

The Hulls celebrate the reunion by taking Maria and her extended family to dinner. Maria reciprocates by inviting them to her home for lunch.

Kris and Bill jump at the chance to see where Myles spent his first nine months. Their lawyer previously had forbade them from visiting until the adoption was finalized. Once the Hulls see the house and surrounding neighborhood, they realize why.

Maria lives in Peronia, a poverty-stricken ghetto outside Guatemala City. The community is so dangerous, the Radisson chauffeur admits he refused to go there when he was a taxi driver.

He has never taken hotel guests there and insists the Hulls leave before dark. Walk straight into the house, he tells them. Don't do anything to call attention to yourselves.

Maria's home is a cinderblock shack with a steel door. There is less than 700-square-feet of living room space and no potable water. The floor is part concrete, part dirt. The roof is made of corrugated steel, a home improvement project, she says, begun after Myles' departure.

Myles re-enters his first home looking like he came out of a Banana Republic catalog in his khaki shorts and print shirt. He wears sandals featuring Disney characters.

Yet he never questions the home's appearance. He plays with Maria's children as if he has been doing it his entire life.

Kris and Bill, though, are stunned by the dwelling. They hide their surprise well, but it's difficult for them to imagine Clayton returning to such a home in just a few days.

"I knew she was poor," Kris later says. "But I didn't know to what extent. I could not have imagined that for my child."

Maria cooks a traditional lunch of chicken, rice and potatoes. As she serves it, she says it's a simple meal but one made with great affection.

The dish poses a problem for Kris, a strict vegetarian. She hasn't eaten meat since she was 18, but she knows Maria has spent what little money she has on the food.

Kris smiles and thanks Maria, the woman who gave so much of herself to Myles. She eats the meal knowing she won't digest it well.

"Maria will never know how much I care for her by eating that meal," Kris says later. "There aren't a lot of people in this world that I would do that for."

Already feeling the pain of Clayton's absence moments after his departure, the Hulls embrace each other and weep.

Time's up

During their visit to Guatemala, the Hulls never pretend they won't have to give Clayton back. They just pretend it won't be that bad.

On their final morning together, Kris dresses her son in a blue teddy bear outfit she bought for him back home. She writes a letter to his foster mother, telling her about their family and how lucky they feel to have Clayton as their son.

She packs a diaper bag with several new outfits and baby formula. She folds the blankets she washed and slept with in Naperville, so Clayton will fall asleep each night surrounded by the smells of home.

She puts a family photo album in his bag, hoping Clayton will recognize them on their next visit. She includes a few toys to help her son get through any teething trouble.

And then she gets sick.

It might be caused by her ongoing health problems. It might be the meat she ate. It might be the separation anxiety.

Most likely, it's a combination of all three.

Whatever the cause, the Hulls stay in their hotel room for much of their final day together. They cuddle with Clayton and enjoy mundane moments mixing formula, changing his diapers and giving him one last bath.

He slipped so easily into their family. He never fussed or cried while out with them on excursions. He seemed content just to be held in their arms or pushed in his stroller.

"It's like he has always been with us," Kris says, looking at the hotel room alarm clock.

Clayton's foster mother is 5 minutes late.

"Good," Kris says, "more time for us."

Myles, who normally is in constant play mode, has ceased all activity and hovers over Clayton. Kris and Bill have explained to him many times that his little brother won't be coming home with them. They're not sure how much he understands, but he can feel the sadness in the room. It's palpable - even to a 3-year-old.

Without any trace of bitterness, Bill says these are the moments most people never really know about. They don't realize the struggles parents of internationally adopted children endure.

"There's a misperception that we're just going out and buying a baby in another country," he said. "It's not even close to that."

Clayton's foster mother is now 30 minutes late.

"Maybe she's not coming and we'll have to stay another day," Kris says. "That sounds good to me."

Four minutes later, there's a knock. Paola and her mother are here to take Clayton.

Kris begins to cry as she explains the diaper bag's contents to Paola. She gently places her son in his carrier, tucking his blanket tight around him.

She whispers to him in Spanish, promising they'll be back for him. She says she loves him, they all love him.

Myles Hull kisses his brother Clayton before the baby goes back to his foster mother.

"Nos vemos," she says. "We'll see each other soon."

Bill and Myles take turns kissing Clayton goodbye. Kris tries to prolong the farewell until she can stop crying.

When it's clear the tears will not end, she hands the baby to Paola. The young foster mother smiles and tells Kris everything will be all right. She promises to take care of Clayton.

"No llores," she says. "No llores."

Don't cry. Don't cry.

The door closes behind Paola and the three remaining Hulls embrace each other. They weep en masse, already stung by Clayton's absence.

When they break the hug after several minutes, Kris and Bill no longer are telling themselves the waiting will be easier this time.

"It's the hardest part about the entire process," Bill says. "The waiting almost kills you."

Epilogue

Ten months later, the Hulls still wait - though now their anxiety has doubled.

They have decided to adopt a third child from Guatemala, a 19-month-old boy named Abel.

As uncertainty swirls around the Guatemalan adoption system, the couple hopes to complete the paperwork as quickly as possible. Where once they hoped to have the boys home before Thanksgiving, a delay in U.S-based paperwork has pushed their family reunion back until at least February.

They have visited the boys again since their first meeting with Clayton. The weeklong trip didn't make the waiting any easier.

Monday -- Chapter Two: Uncovering the mysteries of Madison of China