Why I celebrate April 9th

Every year on this day, I post either a short or a long story about how my first husband and I, together with two very good friends, drove from Camp Borden, where we lived, to Hamilton because we had the opportunity to see a child whom we might be able to adopt.  We went to the Children's Aid office, met a counsellor and were told we would meet a young boy they thought might be right for us.


He was a chubby 18 month-old, a runner because his balance wasn't totally in his control, and he was paying little attention to us because there were a couple of plastic trucks laid out by the counsellors.

After we had been playing with him for a half hour or so, the counsellor asked if we'd like to take him home!  Just like that, they'd found his favourite toy, a well-hugged cotton rabbit, and presented it to us, along with a small green garbage bag of clothes and shoes, and we were leaving with nothing but the counsellor's business card and a copy of an agreement we'd signed.

I can remember stopping at a public phone and calling my family, telling them when we'd be home, and spending the time on the way back trying to imagine how we'd be able to buy a crib and get it to the house and whether we had any food appropriate for a toddler.

I need not have worried.  When we got home, my parents and siblings and a bunch of friends were already there, with toys and books and clothes and hockey skates and about 10 different-sized balls.  Dinner was ready and I may well have eaten it.  It was quite an evening, followed by a night in which both of us new parents got up often to check on him while he had a great sleep.

Definitely a day to remember and to celebrate every year since.