My wife (to whom I shall henceforth refer to as Kirsten) and I (Avi) have been married for just over 3 years. Last year, early 2016, we decided we wanted to have a kid. I have never once wanted to birth a tiny human from myself, but that has been a long-time dream of Kirsten’s. We did research, found an amazing fertility/reproductive specialist, searched through sperm banks (learned more about some donors than we know about ourselves), purchased just the right one, spent a lot of money, drugged up my wife with hormones, inseminated intrauterine… eight times. There was even a surgery somewhere in the middle to remove endometriosis and some adhesions. There was a blip of pregnancy, but it miscarried before it became anything real.

It never worked. That’s devastating.

We’ve decided not to force Kirsten’s body through that again. Not to force ourselves through that again. Kirsten and I didn’t set a time limit, but the research we read showed that past 6 attempts, the success rate did not increase. And as she was getting closer to 38, and then 39, she wasn’t prepared to continue.

In the middle of the multiple attempts at insemination, we met a little 8 month-old boy (Charlie) – he was removed from his parents and shipped off to live with aunt and uncle as what CPS calls a “kinship home”, where the kid is under the care of the state but lives with someone within their family who passes the bar for “acceptable caregiver”. That couple happens to be friends of ours. We met Charlie, babysat him, and fell immediately and irreversibly in love. We were introduced to the foster care system in a very tangible way.

Kirsten and I had discussed fostering and adopting several times – we planned to adopt children after Kirsten gave birth to one. At that point, we jumped into foster parent training quickly – a month of training classes twice a week for 3-4 hours each, several home visits and inspections, background checks for our close friends and family along with ourselves, references from family and non-relatives, childproofing, purchasing lock boxes for all our medications… the list goes on – with hopes that we could have Charlie in our home one day soon. Due to their child’s special needs, Charlie’s aunt and uncle weren’t prepared to be permanent guardians for the little man, and they hoped for us to be able to take him into our family, whether temporarily or as a more permanent status (such as adoption).  Before we could finish jumping through hoops to obtain our foster parent license, a paternity test was done – turns out the aunt and uncle weren’t actually blood relatives, so Charlie was moved again to a non-kinship foster home miles away. We finished the process and got our foster parent license nonetheless, though we have never seen Charlie again.

Not 6 weeks after being officially licensed foster parents (we opted to start with no more than 2 children under the age of 6, though we had no other restrictions), we received a call – a 3 year old boy (Scott) needed a place to live stat – he had been removed from parents the previous month, and placed with another relative as a “kinship home” much like Charlie had been. However, the relative was no longer willing to keep him in their home. By the end of the day, Scott needed to have somewhere else to live. I called Kirsten first – she of course said, “Absolutely, we’ll be there for him.” I called my mom, then my closest friend who is a mother of 2 boys – OMG what is a 3 year old like? Does he feed himself? Can he use the bathroom on his own? What food do we need to buy? How tall is he? Can he take his own bath, or is that something we do? Does he speak in sentences? (I’ve clearly never been a parent before…) Kirsten’s reaction was more calm and parental than mine, certainly. She also has some experience being a mother, which helps. Kirsten was married previously and helped raise a wonderful step daughter (who Scott calls George) into the amazing 19-yr-old she is today.

Four hours later, a case worker dropped a 3-foot tall tiny human off at our house. Pretty sure I stared at him wide-eyed for a solid 60 seconds. Scott is the cutest little man. Thankfully, I haven’t matured much since childhood and have animated movies and cartoons, chocolate milk, and fruit chew snacks readily available. He didn’t seem too weirded-out by the staring, which really helped make this transition. 🙂

Thus began our journey into parenthood.

A bit over four months later, Scott has a routine that he knows, a house he calls his own, a set of grandparents from me and from Kirsten (complete with adorable grandparent names Granna, Grumps, Nana, and Poppie), and so many toys and clothes that he doesn’t even know what to do with it all.

Scott and I have matching outfits (I’m SO that parent). We both wear Captain America underwear, Avengers pajamas, and shirts that don’t really match our shorts (much to Kirsten’s chagrin). We sing and dance and watch cartoons, usually stay up later than we’re supposed to, and are learning how to “family.” (I’m simultaneously learning how to “adult” which might be the hardest thing. I gave him my Spider-Man trashcan, not that it bothered me at all…)

Every day is a new day. Every day we worry about our ability to parent (mine anyway – Kirsten is an amazing mom). Some days I’m “poppa Avi” and sometimes “momma Avi” – I’m not yet sure how Scott decides, but he just does. Some days he’s an angel, listens to everything, and never talks back. Some days I literally have no idea how to handle the challenges. So far, though, he never has wondered if we love him.

 -Avi and Kirsten