Welcome to the Sh*tstorm: Meet the Fam

Welcome to the Sh*tstorm: Meet the Fam

Hey there. We’re the chaos coordinators behind _Three Boys and a Sh_tstorm*, and if you’ve ever parented a household overflowing with neurodivergence, trauma, sass, and ADHD-fueled mayhem—welcome. You’ve found your people.

Let’s rewind to how this all started.

We began this journey with two boys—now 16 and 11—conceived the hard way, literally and emotionally. Our version of “the birds and the bees” came with syringes, temperature charts, and enough invasive procedures to make a gynecologist blush. We had eight miscarriages along the way. Every loss etched itself into our story, chipping away at our ideas of control, faith, and timing—until all that was left was this raw hopelessness of ever growing our family.

Our oldest always wanted a sister. Not in a casual, “yeah, that’d be fun” way—but in a full-on, heart-set, sister-or-bust kind of way. So when we went in for one of those fancy 3D ultrasounds—the kind you get when the pregnancy has already been a high-stakes rollercoaster with too many losses and too many prayers—it was supposed to be a moment of joy. But the moment the tech announced it was another boy, our oldest son collapsed into full-blown grief. We had to remove him from the room. He was devastated.

We always envisioned having a daughter. But after years of infertility and heartbreak, it became clear she wasn’t going to come “the natural way.” Adoption was already in our hearts.

We tried. Oh, we tried. We pursued adoption with the same stubborn love we’ve brought to every part of this journey—and let’s just say, that story deserves its own blog post and maybe a bottle of bourbon. We went through multiple attempts, lost more money than a couple of kidneys cost on the black market, and walked away with paperwork, heartache, and not much else.

So we became foster parents—and soon after, we were placed with a sibling set: a boy and a girl.

For five years, we fostered those children. Five years of showing up, holding space, getting attached, staying silent, and waiting for the court system to decide whether biology trumped stability. It was brutal. But eventually, we adopted our daughter and youngest son, now 7 and 5.

That decision reshaped our world. Not just more kids, but more noise, more therapy sessions, and enough behavioral charts to build a bonfire. ADHD? We don’t just have it—we are it. All six of us. Every last one. We’ve lost keys in the washing machine, forgotten appointments while staring at our calendars, and half-finished a hundred projects we were very excited about... for five minutes. It’s a full-sensory lifestyle.

Let’s talk about our adopted youngest: the 5-year-old. He came to us straight from the NICU, born addicted to multiple substances and already fighting a battle he never chose. We were there when he trembled through withdrawals and wailed through the night. From day one, we’ve been his solid ground in a world that kept shifting under his feet. And in many ways, he’s our softest soul. He's always ready with a hug, has a laugh that can melt hearts, and somehow radiates peace despite being raised in a storm. Our oldest son, who once grieved the idea of having another boy, can’t imagine life without his brothers. What started as distance turned into a bond so tight it could rival superglue. The three of them are inseparable now—the best kind of chaos.

Our adopted daughter, now 7, is another story. One we’re still learning how to tell.

She remembers.

She was two years old, and old enough to know she was removed from her biological parents—old enough to understand something life-altering was happening, but not old enough to make sense of it. That kind of loss settles deep. It doesn’t just visit—it takes up permanent residence.

We often tell her she has two mommies: a tummy mommy and an adoptive mommy. And we mean it when we say she is deeply loved. But love doesn’t erase trauma. It doesn’t undo what’s already been written on her nervous system.

From the beginning, it was clear she was different. At first, it was brushed off as “she’s just a girl” or “that’s foster care trauma.” But over time, a list began to form. Diagnoses started to stack. ADHD. Oppositional Defiant Disorder (ODD). Disruptive Mood Dysregulation Disorder (DMDD). Bipolar Disorder. Traits of Autism Spectrum Disorder. Some labels have come and gone. Others have stayed. Some we’re still untangling.

But no label fully contains her.

She is capable—so capable—but that capability often hides behind manipulation, defiance, and chaos. She’s bright, witty, strategic, and many times, explosive. She resists help with the same intensity she demands it. She can scream for hours, then turn around and offer affection. She portrays an aura of helplessness, but internally operates under full-control of the world around here. She’s a child in pain, acting from pain, causing pain. And we are the ones closest to her fire.

We’ve cried in silence behind closed doors. We’ve patched holes in walls. We’ve sat through meetings where professionals told us how to fix a child they didn’t live with. We’ve been accused of being too strict and too soft in the same breath. We’ve doubted ourselves daily and still gotten up every morning to try again.

This is not the Instagram version of parenting.

This is love in the trenches.

Our family is a patchwork of grief and grit, trauma and tenacity. It’s held together with coffee, therapy, sarcastic text threads, and a stubborn kind of devotion that won’t let go, even when the wheels come off.

So if you’re looking for picture-perfect parenting tips or a five-step plan to keep your kids from coloring on the dog—keep scrolling, you won't find it here.

But if you're raising tiny humans with big needs, burnt out by your own child's betrayal, surviving on caffeine and dark humor, and still showing up with love in your bones, even when your tank is empty—pull up a chair.

You’re one of us now.