Our youngest daughter started her life with us by crying the entire hour-long drive home.

« Les crises de colère de notre fille ont été sans relâche pendant les six premiers mois d’école. Simplement repenser à tous ces pleurs et hurlements me fait toujours autant chavirer le cœur. »

« Notre aînée se plaignait à nous qu’elle allait “manquer de temps” parce qu’elle avait été trimballée de foyer d’accueil en foyer d’accueil pendant sept ans et qu’elle avait déjà onze ans en arrivant chez nous. »

Dès que ma fille a commencé l’école, elle avait besoin de mon attention tous les jours. Toutes les occasions étaient bonnes pour me sauter sur les genoux.

Every game of tag, every goofy joke—even the arguments about whether he needed to wear his coat—were all small steps to deepening our attachment.

My daughter craved my attention daily, as soon as she started school. She’d jump in my lap at every opportunity.

My children are still struggling to get to know a stranger they now call Mom.

I was only eligible for 35 weeks of parental leave, even though we adopted three children from foster care over a two-year period.

When my son says “cuddle,” everything else stops, so he knows that love, security and family come before everything.

We use our time as currency, our hugs and kisses as money in the bank.

Our daughter tantrumed non-stop for the first six months of the school year. Just thinking about all the screaming and crying at that time still rocks me to my core.

I had never heard of post-adoption depression and would think to myself: How can I feel sad when my dreams of being a mom have finally come true?

Our doctor likened our experience to PTSD, after we adopted our twins internationally.

We hurt from knowing the trauma our children have experienced and not being able to just kiss it better.

We did everything we could to prepare him for being a big brother. Yet one day, on a car ride to the grocery store, he asked, “When we get a new baby, who will I go to live with?

As I moved towards the bags to pick them up and bring them to the car, I saw it—the flash of terror in his eyes will be etched in my memory forever.

Nous avons testé nos nouveaux parents pour voir s’ils nous aimaient vraiment, pour voir qu’est-ce qu’il faudrait faire pour qu’ils nous renvoient comme les autres l’avaient fait.

We boarded a shuttle to the airport in Seoul, and it was as if our son understood what was happening: He was leaving his homeland with two strangers and would likely not return for a very long time. He became inconsolable.

My daughter was five and a half years old when she was placed with me. This was her fifth home. Her entire life had been marked by loss and instability.

We looked different; we smelled different; we spoke very little Mandarin. And we took our daughter away from the orphanage to a hotel where everything was different, very soon after we all met. I can’t imagine how scary it was for her.