Ryan and I first met online in the fall of 2013, just before my 30th birthday. It really was a chance meeting. My profile was set to match only men my age or older, and his was set for women his age or younger. Somehow, we connected in the 26 short days of the year when we were the exact same age. From that moment, we never really left each other’s side. Within a year, we moved in together. We spent so many nights talking about what married life would look like, how many kids we wanted, and even what our dream home would be like.
In July of 2016, Ryan surprised me with a trip to Pittsburgh for a long weekend. I had gone to college there, so it felt special to share my favorite places with him. At the end of one perfect day, he proposed. Of course, I said yes. We didn’t wait long. By November of that same year, we were married. I always warned him that I was impatient. My rule was, if you propose, you better be ready to get married.
Before Ryan came into my life, I had already been dealing with endometriosis. The doctors had given me medicine that pushed me into a kind of temporary menopause, and later I had to stay on constant birth control to manage it. I knew deep down that getting pregnant might not be easy for me, but it felt like my only option to live with less pain.
As soon as we got married, I stopped birth control, hoping we could start a family. We didn’t pressure ourselves too much at first, but after two years of negative tests, I decided to see a specialist. Just before one of my scheduled procedures, I took a pregnancy test and it was positive. We were over the moon. After waiting so long, I don’t think I have ever felt that much joy.
The doctor had me come in every two weeks to check on the baby. At our 8-week appointment in July of 2018, we were supposed to hear the heartbeat. Instead, we learned the baby had stopped growing. I was miscarrying. I cannot even explain the depth of that heartbreak. People often say miscarriages are common, but that truth does not make it any less painful. I still wonder what life would be like if that little one were here with us today.
Before that pregnancy, we had already looked into adoption and fostering. We met with an agency and quickly realized traditional adoption was not something we could afford. They told us about fostering and how many children were waiting for loving homes. It stayed on our minds, and after the miscarriage, I knew I needed a break from trying to conceive. My heart couldn’t handle another loss, so we went ahead and did the training, filled out the paperwork, and became licensed foster parents.
For two years, we got calls about kids needing placements, usually once or twice a month. Sometimes we said yes but weren’t chosen, and other times we had to say no because the visits were too far away. It was frustrating because we knew how many kids needed families, but nothing seemed to work out for us.
Then in May of 2020, right at the start of the pandemic, we got a call about two-year-old twins who needed emergency placement. Since we were both working from home, we felt it was the right time to say yes. Fifteen minutes later, our caseworker called back to say we had been chosen. My heart dropped. I ran to tell Ryan while he was on a work call, mouthing the words, “They chose us. The twins are coming in two hours!”
We rushed to Target, buying car seats, clothes, toys, diapers, everything you can think of. On the way home, the caseworker called again. It turned out they weren’t twins. It was a 27-month-old boy and his 11-month-old baby sister. I didn’t even stop to ask Ryan what he thought. I just said yes.
That afternoon, they arrived at our home. The little girl, Vivienne, clung to me right away, while her brother, Lucca, held the caseworker’s hand. After a quick safety check, the caseworker left, and there we were suddenly parents to two small children we had just met. That first night we fed them chicken noodle soup on the kitchen floor because we didn’t even have high chairs. Lucca immediately started calling me “mama,” no matter how many times I tried to correct him.
The first weeks were hard. They woke up crying at night, and Ryan slept on their floor to comfort them. Friends and family dropped off supplies at our door because of the pandemic. I cried most nights after putting them to bed. It was exhausting, but slowly, we found our rhythm.
Over the next year, visits with their biological parents went up and down. Sometimes the kids came back upset or confused. I tried to remind them often that they had two mommies and two daddies, and that having so many people love them was a gift.
After 16 months, parental rights were terminated. My feelings were mixed. I was happy we could give these children a forever home, but my heart ached for their parents. I had wanted a relationship with them, but it never truly happened.
Finally, in April of 2022, after 417 days in our care, Lucca and Vivienne officially became ours. Surrounded by family and friends in court, we made it permanent. The kids even answered questions in front of the judge, and our boy shouted “YES!” when asked if we understood this was forever. It was a beautiful, unforgettable day.
Through all of this, I’ve learned patience. Most of all, I’ve learned that the two little ones who call me mama are better than anything I could have ever dreamed of. My life did not turn out how I once imagined, but I wouldn’t change a single thing.
