When I imagined my life as a 17-year-old, I never pictured myself staying at home with multiple children at any point of my adulthood. I really didn't even foresee myself having children. It's not that I was opposed to the idea, but I had other plans. Plans to perform in the Riverdance troupe for a year before college and then get some liberal arts degree. My plans included a job in government, advocacy, or social services while living in a city with exceptional public service so I wouldn't need to own a car. Of course, my plans also included falling madly in love with a man who loved and cared for me in equal amounts.
One year ago today, we welcomed 'A' into our home.
After months of preparation and countless prayers, our home of one husband, one wife, one toddler, and a dog was soon to be the new home of a child in foster care.
The time had come and on March 13, 2017, around dinner time, on a work night, we were introduced to a four-month-old in a white onesie in our living room.
It all started on a Tuesday morning when our eldest son had blood in his poop. That's right, blood.
The poor guy had a dairy and soy intolerance that didn't rear its ugly head until about 2 months of age-- a common age when the body begins to counteract foods and substances that it can't break down. Unbeknown to us, dairy (and most likely soy, too) were gathered in his gut, eating away at the lining of his stomach (hence the blood).