Post written in 2018 but not published until now.

I had a dream last night…

[and there goes all readers but my mom]

…where two of our foster children came back to us. Our little boys brought a baby brother this time and—in that weird way dreams go—they required a lot of care, as in, all of them were babies with really bad diapers. I was weary in parenting them but also very happy and I remember exclaiming to Jeremy how wonderful it was that I didn’t have a job yet so I could be free to care for them.

I woke up and felt crushed. Crushed with the fact that carrying children in your heart once means you carry them there always. These little boys are my question marks. I’ve tried to figure out where they are and if they’re being cared for, but every avenue pursued for information has been a dead end. I also felt vulnerable, as though Freud himself was examining my dreams and floated out two very big and confusing life issues all in one relatively brief moment of REM.

My life now doesn’t look the way I intended it to. This is quite a theme for me, and sometimes the pain of it will seemingly come out of nowhere and smack me in the face, just like the dream did from last night. As I get older and meet more people, I’m keenly aware that not everyone knows my story. What is obvious about us Tredways is that we have one child. And good grief, sometimes that really kills me. What’s not so obvious is that we said a thousand yeses prior to our four years in foster care and all throughout our time welcoming children in our home. We said yes to adopting children two years before Livia arrived and we haven’t ever closed that door really. We said yes to biological children from the time Livia was one. We loved our peanut baby who is now in heaven, and I went through multiple surgeries and drugs to conceive, all with a no as the final answer. And then we rolled the dice big time and started caring for other people’s children through foster care. We knew reunification was the goal and always cheered on the parents whose lives we were privileged to join for a time. Meanwhile we said yes; yes to all the phone calls for more placements and yes to the children needing a permanent home.

When you say YES all those times and the answer is always NO, you feel confident that God is speaking.

I care too much about what others think. This is a lifelong struggle of mine. But I don’t mind saying out loud that God closed the door to more children.

And then I dreamed again of our little boys.

Oh, this life. It doesn’t always make sense, right? It doesn’t make sense that you could want something very badly and just not get it. It doesn’t make sense how grief works—both in our situation and in your lives, too—and how you might feel fine one moment and feel whammied the next. It doesn’t make sense that the future doesn’t seem crystal clear and that we might have seasons of feeling goal-less and aimless. As much as we fill up our schedules and find ways to be productive and necessary, at the end of the day, what are we doing with ourselves? Where do we find comfort and rest?

I cling to God’s promises in the Bible. I’m completely aware that many of you may not find hope there, but I do. My faith is weak, my vision is poor, my memory is forgetful, and even my dreams sometimes punch me in the gut, but I have faith in a God who is sovereign and who loves me very much. This world has all kinds of trouble, but He is good and He is faithful from the beginning of time to the end.

I skipped right past the onesie with “Mommy’s Little Sweetie” on the front. Onesie shopping is, apparently, like shopping for the perfect Hallmark card for whatever occasion you’re celebrating. One size truly does not fit all when you’re a foster parent.

I know from experience.

Years ago we brought home our first foster baby—a precious African American daughter—straight from the hospital. We stopped at a grocery store to get the right type of formula, and due to generous friends I did not have to pick out onesies. We had what we needed. The onesie this time is for a friend, and I felt a profound need to celebrate the homecoming of this little girl who may not stay at my friend’s house for long.

Fostering is some weird wacky stuff. It involves a thousand different emotions.

I want so badly to celebrate this baby girl because she is a HUMAN who is new on this earth. I remember exactly nothing from my own birth, but I know what happened: I was loved and wanted by my biological mom and my biological dad and my biological big brother whose footsteps I’ve followed in since the day I came home. I never considered my first car ride home as an incredible blessing until I peeked into the world of foster care. No doubt bio mamas and daddies love their children, but the reality is that not everyone is equipped to care for an infant’s needs. Sometimes one’s age or goals prevent them from parenting. Other times the ability to safely love and tend is masked by drugs or alcohol and long days of bad decisions, little family support, and hard obstacles. Regardless of the reason, not every child goes home with a family who rejoices in them.

Which is why I’m so proud of my friends who are loving children within foster care. And it’s why I am delighted to be able to pick out girlie onesies (OMG, the cuteness nearly bowled me over), and little teeny socks, and headbands to go on the curls on her precious baby noggin. Let’s CELEBRATE this child! She’s human. She’s beautiful. And she is SO LOVED ALREADY.

I wish everyone could feel that level of joy when they arrive in a home for the first time. This baby will come home to two parents willing to love her as long as she’s with them. She’ll arrive and greet a biological sibling who she crazily and beautifully resembles. She’ll be touched and fed and diapered by a whole crew of big foster brothers and sisters who have cheered her arrival long before she was born. What an amazing thing.

The hope of a foster parent is not in possession.

It is not in doing the right things and making all the connections.

It is not in being the better mother and father, in loving the most, in providing better than another person.

No, the hope of a foster parent is found in treating other human beings with dignity and compassion because God made them. God has made man and woman in his image and cherishes each and every person. If God loves people like that, who are we to do anything different?

Fellow foster families, keep on keeping on. We love you and we’re proud of you.

To God be the glory.

I once worked alongside a woman who was tough. In an office building full of warm and empathetic individuals, she stood out as a person who wasn’t interested in chitchat, didn’t smile very often, and certainly didn’t seem to care if you were the latest student-worker in a long line of uninteresting student workers. She was not, shall we say, nurturing whatsoever and her reputation preceded her.

I was nervous every single time I had to approach her desk and ask her a question. As a person who excelled in the “getting people to like me” category (I could say a few thing about my idolization of likability now), I wasn’t used to interacting with personalities like this one. After I got over my initial surprise at her lack of warmth, I decided something: I was going to work hard to win her over. Putting my own feelings aside was not the norm for me—and still isn’t—but I recognized something in my early 20’s and it was that I was going to have to work on this relationship over time. There was an obstacle—her—and there was a hurdle to get over, and I was determined to conquer this challenge.

In conquering the challenge, I learned a huge lesson in relating to people. Not everyone is a warm fuzzy person! Some people have tough exteriors borne of hard circumstances and others have natural bends towards introversion. Whatever the reason, people are people and will behave differently and that has nothing to do with their motivations, interests, and, hopefully, my relationship with them. This woman became a friend to me during my years of working in this environment, and she is still my best example of powering through what initially felt like a hard situation. I have fond memories of her now.

I confess that I don’t want for my daughter to go through hard times. I want to bubble wrap her, ensuring she has a soft heart towards the world and protecting her from the cruelty I’ve seen. I want to wrap my kindness around her to deflect the unkind words that come in her direction. I want to lay pillows at her feet to protect her from inevitable falls. I want to open her eyes to rainbows and flowers and sunsets without her having to witness the heavy winds and tornados and, yes, the floods. At some level I understand Helicopter Moms. The desire to protect and want the very best for our progeny is strong. With privilege, power, and influence, some of us will stop at nothing to push our children into the future that we think is best, along the route that we think is best, and you better believe we’re going to deflect those hard times we see coming a mile away.

But oh, that’s not the way to go. Not at all.

Even while I was typing about sunshine versus storms, I couldn’t help but notice that sunshine means little unless you’ve been through the longest winter on record and you lost track of warmth and light and were moved to a hopeless place in your heart. Isn’t spring all the more sweet after a hard winter? Each bud on the tree now sings praise to its Maker, and your heart is moved to do the same. Spring isn’t nearly as interesting without the hard crust of snow and layers of salt and the same winter boots pulled on day after day. It is this contrast of lovely versus unlovely that awakens us to the blessings we have.

Our pastor said something in a sermon months ago about hoping that his kids will suffer. Okay okay, it’s so out-of-context here that it’s not fair, and yet, suffering is absolutely part of this human experience. I can tell quite quickly whether a fellow adult has ever suffered based on their compassion and empathy for another suffering human. We don’t mature without have the hard edges rounded off, and oftentimes that rounding happens in the toughest of moments. Every scrape of a knee and fall from a tree leads to a child figuring out her boundaries. The mistakes made in adolescence lead to knowing one’s limits. The stupidity of early adulthood leads to important life lessons.

I can’t be a Helicopter Mom any more than I can sprout wings and fly south when the first snows begin to fly. While everything within me yearns to protect my growing child, I do not believe she is best served by being bubble wrapped and protected from the difficulties of this world. If I remove her from every hard situation—which I physically cannot do—how will she learn her limits? How will she rebound and be bolstered internally when the external world is hard to understand? How will she learn rely on God, who is always present and available to her?

Many kids I know have already been through a lot by the time they hit middle school. I think of those who’ve been adopted—whether in infancy or in later years—and I know they’ve experienced a level of trauma completely unknown by those of us who have been raised by our biological parents. I think of the children I’ve spent time with through the foster care system, and though others may never know of their struggles, I know of the addictions, the lack of parental consistency, the unsafe dwelling places, the abuse and the near-constant neglect may of them have faced by the time they started kindergarten. And kids who aren’t in foster or adoptive homes? Still, life can get hard. The death of a parent, divorce, remarriage, sexual molestation, cross-country moves, bullying at school and home, unkind teachers and coaches, and financial difficulties can all shake up a person from the outside, while from the inside there’s a variety of developmental delays, physical disabilities, and mental illnesses that plague children.

However, the human heart is amazingly resilient. I saw this in the eyes of my students during my student-teaching days and I see it now in my child and in her friends and in my friends’ children. Despite hard things, the human spirit wants to succeed, and it doesn’t want to succeed because a Helicopter Mom removed all difficulties. No! We overcome the difficulties. We make changes. We rebound with encouraging words and encouraging examples and we don’t take for granted the people around us that offer a “You struggle with that? ME TOO!”

So on days (weeks, months, years!) when I feel like protecting my kid, I’ll try to reflect on how much stronger she’s grown in every area that matters in these past 14 years of life. I see her grow in smarts, in empathy, in artistic skills, in relating to animals, and in her faith in a God she can’t see but Who exists and is true and good. I will try to look back at those adorable baby pictures and crazy toddler antics and reflect on the joy she’s brought me and so many others in her world. Perhaps the hardships of this life serve as grit to clean the dirt off of the windows of our souls. May it allow the lights within each of us to shine brighter and brighter as we grow.

I wake up on adoption days and feel the exact same joy as I do on wedding days. A new family is being created! It’s such a hopeful and profound commitment to *loving another* that I am overjoyed and sobered all at once. In January I had the privilege of photographing Amariah’s permanency as a forever member of the Cranford family. Matt and Elaine made true legally what was already true in their hearts. There’s simply nothing like witnessing those moments where a judge confirms that parents are going to give all right of an heir to this child. It’s incredible.

To watch Matt and Elaine’s family grow over the years has been the coolest. Congrats, friends, on your latest adoption day and thanks for letting me be a part of it. We love you, Amariah!

I’ve often thought that God made babies so darn cute so that their parents continue to take good care of them. I’ll never forget holding our first foster baby from 3-6:00am one night, her giant brown eyes following me in the dark, and my two competing thoughts were, “WHY AREN’T YOU ASLEEP?” and “Gosh darn it, you are SO CUTE.” The world tends to adore babies, and when you’re up in the night for three hours straight with a newborn, those compliments you receive on social media might be the only thing keeping you going. Well, that and coffee. But babies grow. The compliments fade. And eventually you have a kid with gawky teeth who is taking awkward school pictures that even retake day can’t fix. Everyone loves a baby, but not so much the elementary kid whose has teeth five times too large for his mouth. Mama, Grandma and your BFF still love that one.

I don’t get asked childrearing questions very often anymore and I think it’s because I have one child who is now 12. Oh, and maybe it’s because I do a lot of my living alongside someone who blogs about parenting. She’s a professional question-answerer so that makes sense. A lot of my parenting experience, however, is hidden and no one can see it. I did the math recently and realized that if God had answered many of my desires for children with “yes’s” rather than “no’s” Jeremy and I would have six children. One privately adopted, one biological, and the final four adopted from foster care. For sure we still have those six in our hearts, with only the first one being the child God has given us to raise for good.

Our plans, as hopeful as they were, didn’t turn into our reality. I’m still coming to terms with this truth. I allow little daggers to enter my heart, to pierce those old desires and entice me to “what if’s” and “if only’s.” I let the memes and defensive lines from large families hurt my soul. I wanted to be one of those large families. I read about people who have more children because they value sibling relationships greatly, and I struggle to not to be filled with regret. As capable as I am, providing a sibling for Livia was not something I could arrange. I hear jokes about only children, about how spoiled they are, and allow these asides to fill me with irritation. I didn’t plan on one, I want to shout. I had hoped for more.

There was Livia. And a baby miscarried. And a very temporary foster daughter. Two foster sons gone home by a judge’s changed orders. And a beloved foster baby reunified with his beautiful family. Six total.

But that’s only the six that reside most deeply in our hearts. There were more.

There was the baby boy we got incredibly close to adopting, only to have his parents choose the other couple. There was the teenager we prayed over, raised in absolutely horrific conditions who, in the end, required much more than we could give. There was the toddler we spent the day with a small town nearby, the one we bought a stuffed animal for and fed Runza fries to, the one given to another family within 24 hours of coming to live with us permanently. There was the three year old girl who needed a family, the one who the state placed elsewhere with no reason whatsoever given to us. And in between those cases there were calls upon calls with hours upon hours of waiting for information, prayers of all kinds being raised up for wisdom and perfect timing.

So when I read a meme supporting large families or see beautiful pictures of siblings loving one another, I think of our story and have to draw a conclusion. Here is the one I’ve settled on:

God has created my family. And he is pleased to give me one child.

One daughter. One twelve year old now in middle school. No siblings older than her, and no siblings younger. But this is our one, and she is enough. I felt God asking me that question, the question of, “What will satisfy you?”
“Will another child make you content?”
“Why is one not enough?”
“When will you be satisfied?”

In my tears and sadness I had to admit that one is enough. ONE IS ENOUGH. Though I’ve been a mother to many and will carry them forever in my heart, one is what he’s given to me to care for daily and that. is. enough.

We all have different stories and no two stories are the same. No one’s story can be read entirely via a Facebook status or a picture on Instagram. We all have hurts and we all have joys, and to compare our stories will never bring us satisfaction. At the end of the day I cling to God’s promises and the knowledge I have of his character. He is good, he provides for ALL my needs, he is never asleep on the job, and I will only find my hope and joy in him. Not in babies, as cute as they are, and not in big kids in all their awkward glory. No job can complete my spirit, no spouse is perfect like God, no amount of travel or fine dining or hobbies or education can ever fill up my heart. It’s a real challenge to keep my eyes on the Lord and trust him, but that’s the goal, that’s MY goal, and He is where my soul will always be refreshed.

**Note: Each image above represents one of the other children God has given Jeremy and me, for short periods of time. I carried a baby in my womb to the Grand Canyon upon our visit to Arizona. I remember getting carsick as we drove mountain paths and more than once I chose vegetables over french fries even though that was not my norm. I now feel incredibly grateful for such an eventful short pregnancy as I recall the little life I carried at that time.

The black and white image shows Livia with her first foster sister. What a joy she was even as I was stretched by sleeplessness! The second photo shows Jeremy and one of the little boys we had the privilege to love for five weeks. We anticipated a much longer journey with them, and I believe this image was captured the night before they went home. It was a stunning departure. The final image shows Livia and me on a train ride with our last foster baby. This little guy had lots of people in his life who adored him and we got to walk through that experience with his family, which was a privilege all its own. I still count his reunification as a huge joy.

“Every child deserves a champion, an adult who insists that they become the best they can possibly be.” – Rita Pierson

Every time I read of a drug bust or domestic dispute and there are children in the home, I know that a foster family is getting a call—often at a really inconvenient hour—to provide shelter, comfort and stability for a child. Sometimes a home is needed for a few days, and sometimes it’s for months, or for life. These kids are minors and have no voice here on social media, so yes, I am reminding the world that they exist. By no fault of their own they will find themselves in life-altering situations.

If you believe all children deserve a loving home, would you consider foster care? Think about it. Ask questions about it. Pray about it. And then act. ‪#‎fosterlove‬ ‪#‎champions‬

Shelli Graves was never bothered by my stress. Whatever my question or problem, she’d respond by either swooping into action or commiserating with me. That’s a beautiful thing, to have a friend who isn’t blown over by your emotions. And that’s the kind of friend she was to me. I still feel like she’s a phone call or text away, like I should be able to pick up my phone and get in touch with her within an hour. I miss her.

One of the last times I sat down and stared at a blank page on my computer screen was when I filled out the story of my last foster child for Shelli. So to sit here and talk about her in the past tense is a strange thing entirely. What I keep feeling is that Shelli = LIFE. For someone who had every reason to complain or decide to sit on the sidelines, Shelli was a mover and shaker. Shelli lived. As discouraging as her health issues had been lately, she still loved living.

I’ve known Shelli since I was a teenager. Sometime in our years at Covenant Presbyterian (where Grace Chapel is now on 40th & Sheridan) we became friends. Shelli became a friend of our family and that’s how I have long known her. Time passed and I got married and eventually adopted a child. I remember being on the phone with Shelli and our friend Brenda when my daughter hit age three and I could no longer figure out what I was supposed to do with the little strong-willed pistol. From their many years of working with children, these women gave me incredibly helpful parenting advice. They expanded the tools in my toolbox, if you will, and perhaps I have them to thank for preserving the life of my child—now a 5th grader who is doing well in spite of being three once.

I’d say that I knew, kind of, who Shelli was but I didn’t know her full scope of Shelli-ness until my husband and I began attending foster parent training classes with Christian Heritage. We got to see the REAL SHELLI. Shelli in action. Shelli where God used Shelli the most in Lincoln, Nebraska. It’s no exaggeration when I say that the death of Shelli Graves is an incredible loss for the children of Nebraska. It’s true; this woman was an advocate for them. She was a fighter. A connecter. She knew everyone and what she didn’t know she’d find out for you. She understood these children’s needs and—this is where we came in—understood the families who had chosen to love them. Shelli was an amazing support for foster parents. In her capable hands, I knew we could work through whatever challenges faced us in foster care. She was compassionate, wise, resourceful and forward-thinking. As I reflect on her character, I think God made Shelli just a little tougher than the rest of us so she could do this relentless work of advocating for foster children and foster families.

Shelli and I had coffee a few months ago. (This is a refrain many people could say, I bet.) Though our foster parent license expired with the state last fall, Shelli valued us. She coached us through four foster children—and the one permanent one we had already!—and she had a long view on serving the kingdom of God in foster care. She still felt like I had worth to Christian Heritage and wanted me to serve on the focus committee, that in turn would serve the foster families of the agency. Perhaps that is what Shelli was about more than anything: she could see worth and value in people. She didn’t discard others based on their abilities or perceived worldly value, she saw our God-given worth and was ultimately a great point of encouragement for me as well as for others.

I was diagnosed with RA about ten years ago, and though Shelli dealt with problems greater than mine, we still had a sweetness in shared body problems. Over our last Starbucks coffee and tea, we shared our misery at joints that hurt, wounds that wouldn’t heal well, stupid weight gain from health issues and all the vanity a normal woman has when her appearance is messed with. And yet, I left our time together feeling relief and even joy at our shared experiences. To talk with someone who really gets it, with someone who can both be honest and yet somehow still hopeful, makes all the difference in the world. Shelli’s kindness to me was expressed time and time again in these years that we’ve known one another, and she cannot be replaced.

All of us who knew Shelli will have a unique Shelli-shaped hole in our worlds now. Though I cannot text or call or see her for coffee again soon, I take comfort in knowing she’s with our Savior now and that soon enough I will join her in Glory. We’ll get those new bodies, perfect and whole and capable of climbing mountains and running races, together. Our hope is in Christ. Praise Him.

I had this trajectory in mind for my life, one where I’d gradually get wiser and more mature and more self-sufficient over time. I assumed that I’d age and develop all these great traits and that I’d need people less. Because, you know, I would have so much to offer people—and somehow that seemed to go hand-in-hand with being a pillar of self-sufficiency.

What I’ve discovered is that, yes, it’s true that maturity can come with more life experiences. And if one pays attention to those life experiences, there certainly can be wisdom gained. But it is absolutely not true that wisdom and maturity go hand in hand with independence. In fact, the opposite is true. In the Christian life, age and maturity leads to greater humility and dependence—first on Christ and second on people.

I first noticed my incredible need for others when we stepped into the world of foster care. We were thrust so far outside our comfort zones that I knew the only way we’d survive would be with the help of those around us. More than the hand-me-down clothing and more than the toys dropped on our front doorstep, we needed prayer. The spiritual truth of our fostering reality was that we were incredibly weak as we served children. In fact, I don’t know that we’ve ever felt weaker. Suddenly juggling the needs of foster children—and the many unknowns—we were also managing all the normal job, household and parenting duties as before. The need for others to pray, asking God for sustenance, felt huge to me. Somehow I knew deep down that I would need to ask for a lot, and thus I immediately set up a support circle who would pray when I asked them to.

A remarkable thing happens when people pray, and I can’t really explain it entirely because it still seems so mysterious to me. God listens. He engages, he dialogues, he answers. And in turn I’m drawn to see his hand of mercy in a new way. But when a need for prayer is opened up to an entire group of people, guess who else sees God’s gracious care? All those people. Together we’re drawn closer due to our communal neediness.

It feels really vulnerable to be the one asking for prayer. Sometimes I feel like a big burden when I ask those closest to me to pray for me. When everyone prayed for our foster kids, it felt easier on my pride because it wasn’t for me! How nice, right? If you know anything about my physical woes, then you know that I’ve had to ask for prayer time and time and time again. And if a large season of time goes by where I’m not asking, it’s because I’m not telling you something. That’s how many physical needs I’ve got going on—I need a lot of prayer. Each time I email a group of friends, it takes a huge dose of humility to press the send button. Deep breath in of need, deep breath out of pride. And in that need, God shows up. He shows up in the words of friends preaching the gospel to me yet again. He shows up in the acts of mercy shown to me by loved ones. He shows up in ways of healing that I’d never choose or imagine.

The trajectory of life isn’t one where I am full of so much strength and goodness that I never have needs. Rather, the trajectory includes my humility, which forces my knee to bow to God’s greatness and requires me to acknowledge the great depth of need I have in all realms. In this I get to see that God is good, all the time; all the time, God is good. And what a beautiful thing it is to see that goodness! I am sustained by his mercy.

After Baby Boy came to our house last summer, I began to embrace the idea that this was our last baby. As he grew out of items like the infant bathtub or changing table pad, I passed them off. I gave away the infant carseat. My house appreciated the decluttering, but so did my mind. Making a decision to not have any more babies was simple to make as we had a baby living with us. With a full heart and full arms, I was satisfied.

As it turns out, deciding when your family is complete is a thought process every set of parents has to go through. Whether it’s considered at age 37 or 47, it’s part of living really. Jeremy and I hold loosely to our plans but we make them nonetheless. We’re aware that God is the Author of our story, so if he calls us to be parents to a new baby in a few years, well then, that’s what we’ll do. I have a long-running joke (nightmare) that I’m going to have a Tami Taylor baby, which means we’ll magically procreate a little punkin when Livia turns 16. Don’t laugh; I can totally see that happening, can’t you??!

In the depths of parenting a very busy early walker, I fantasized about having time to myself. Small children can be SO busy—ours certainly was—and time alone was so very limited. Taking a shower felt fairly epic and not at all mundane, and having lunch with a friend became a test of wills and patience as little hands grabbed at our food and threw his own Cheerios on the floor. I kept meaning to make a list of things I’d enjoy doing once he was gone. Though I never did, I’m still amazed at how easy it is to prepare dinner for three instead of three plus a baby. My evenings are now much more relaxed with no visitation workers dropping by twice every night, no baby needing bedtime prep, and would you look at all that free time in which I can shower! Amazing really. We took dessert to a friend’s house a few weeks ago and sat with them until long after the sun set while my big kid entertained herself. Life without a baby has felt remarkably free of time constraints!

In the days after the Baby’s reunification, our friend Sarah and her daughter Rosie came to visit town. Rosie is half a year older than Baby Boy but her very presence reminds me the sweetness of having a little person around. As I prep dinner she squeezes her body between me and the countertop. She says “hold you” and puts her arms up so I can grab her. She sits nicely on my hip and is a gentle hugger. She’s excited to see me (“Bucka!”) and her laughter is infectious. Jeremy and I hear her voice and smile at each other—that’s how cute she is.

The reasons for not having any more babies holds firm. I still have old lady elbows that aren’t going to miraculously heal themselves. We’re now 37 and 44, for anyone who’s keeping track, and that’s on the older side to start over with an infant. And perhaps the biggest reason of all, our daughter turns 11 this week. While she’s a fantastic big sister, the age gap of 10-11 years is nothing to sneeze at. The last nine months we’ve often operated as two families… The daytime grouping of mom + baby while Liv was at school and the evening pairing of mom + big kid while Baby was at visits.

As I work through the emotions of reunification—happy, sad, up and down, back and forth—I am realizing that I’m also grieving this life milestone of having the last baby. It’s a weird one, I can’t say otherwise! But even as I see the end of our family-building years as it pertains to babies (big kids are another matter entirely) I know there are always children for me to love. I’m still a foster mom and goodness knows this world is full of children who need a bit more loving. I have nieces and nephews and I have millions of children at church to enjoy. Literally millions. (Redeemerites love them babies!) I want to be a woman who nurtures children well throughout the rest of my years and I’m reminded that I don’t have to be their mother to do that.

I was going to type “The Baby” and then injected “Last.” Wow, that sounds kind of intense! But really, I think this will be the last small nugget we foster around here. There are loads of reasons why, but you have to take me to lunch to hear them all.

So I’m going to show you some pictures, okay? Because this baby boy is SO DANG CUTE. Boy, blog, have you missed out. Ready?

Here’s a shot of him climbing into an extra carseat in our living room. Isn’t he funny? Can you tell he’s proud of himself for conquering it?

Here’s another. He’s towering over the dog, who has his ears back as he wonders if the Baby will squash him. Baby is a solid 10 pounds heavier than Shiloh, and as you can see in this shot all those pounds are in his tummy.

Oh and this one! He’s chugging a sippy cup of milk. In a minute he’s going to throw it down the hallway. Cute. And strong. Never forget, this boy likes to throw things!

Oh and this one kills me. See him all cuddled up in Jeremy’s arms? The boys. They do love each other. The Baby hasn’t always liked to cuddle, but now he does. Every single time Jeremy walks in the room the Baby expects a daddy snuggle. Man, what that does to a woman’s heart!

Did you enjoy my foster baby photo album? I hope so. I’m sorry if this was confusing to you! Foster babies—though real flesh and blood—are pretty much invisible online. You can imagine how fun that is for a photographer mom, right?