By Emily Dagostino '02 | Autumn 2012 | Notre Dame Magazine
Approximately 150 cells floating in a sac of fluid and burrowed into my uterus are multiplying at an astounding rate toward viable life. Assuming I carry this pregnancy to term, it will be the first time I give birth. It won’t, however, be my first child.
I became a parent last year. Since then I’ve changed the diapers of a developmentally delayed 8-year-old. I’ve watched at midnight as another child was strapped to a stretcher outside of my home then driven off in the back of an ambulance. I’ve played impromptu hostess to three police officers during one crisis or another, as well as to dozens of social workers, lawyers and volunteers. I’ve gone to court twice, registered two kids for school and seen one transferred midway through the year. At too many meetings with too many administrators that dragged on too long, I’ve advocated on behalf of children with special and varied needs, often to no avail. I’ve repeatedly calmed down tantrum-prone kids who were intermittently irate and fluxing between extremes of laughter and tears.