In April, when we finalized J's adoption, our licensing worker asked what we wanted to do about our foster care licenses. I think our mouths hung open in mirrored surprise, as we hadn't even begun to consider *that* yet. We asked the worker to list us as Respite Only for the time being.
A few months passed. Into the summer we headed, and again our worker checked in. At that point, all three kids were home for much of summer break, and it felt too overwhelming to voluntarily add in another child. We asked to stay on the Respite Only list.
In August, we did end up providing a few days of respite care for our own worker's 8 week old foster baby. It was very fun to have a baby around, but also felt overwhelming, with J only having just turned 2 and being a bit of a loose cannon. We agreed, we weren't ready for foster babies. But I was also unwilling to simply close our license - my concern was that J was going to end up with a new little sibling coming into the system, and I wanted to make sure to provide a safe place for that baby.
We celebrated E's 9th birthday at the beginning of September with a family dinner. We didn't know that someone new was on his way.
A week later, T came home from work and sighed heavily as she asked, "Have you seen the post on the agency group tonight?" My stomach dropped.
"No..." I responded slowly, as I whipped out my phone to check the post.
Two newborn babies needed placements. Two newborn babies were headed from the hospital to the DCS offices that night.
I swallowed hard as I felt cold fingers grip my throat, encircle my lungs.
"We can't." I croaked. T looked at me with sympathy.
"It would be too much. We're not there yet." she responded quietly.
We put the kids to bed, and stretched out together on the couch to watch something. I kept glancing at the post. Watching the 'Viewed By' number grow higher and higher, with no responses on the post.
I kept thinking about those tiny, vulnerable, innocent newborn babies. Sleeping in cribs in an office, with some poor DCS worker who would rather be home with their own family. I thought about how instantly cherished our two newborns had been, and how these babies didn't have that. All babies should be cherished.
I touched T's arm. "But... what if we *could* do it?"
"Hmm?" she paused the show.
"A baby. I mean, it will be hard, but... isn't it more important that a baby have a safe, loving place to be than the fact that it will be hard for us? When we're placed so perfectly to be able to do it?"
Her eyes were telling me that she wanted to help the babies, too, but we were both intimidated. We continued to talk ourselves into doing it and then out of doing it again, over and over. It was becoming late. T sighed. She began telling me about reading something that really struck home with her in Glennon Doyle's book, Untamed. She read me the quote.
"Heartbreak delivers your purpose. If you are brave enough to accept that delivery and seek out the people doing that particular world-changing work, you find your people. There is no bond like the bond that is forged among people who are united in the same world-healing work.
Despair says, 'The heartbreak is too overwhelming. I am too sad and too small, and the world is too big. I cannot do it all, so I will do nothing.'
Courage says, 'I will not let the fact that I cannot do everything keep me from doing what I can.'
We all want purpose and connection.
Tell me what breaks your heart, and I'll point you toward both."
That was it. Glennon Doyle helped us see that our hearts and hands could do this work.
Ten pm. We dialed the number for the person doing placements for our agency. She answered, of course. We explained that we were ready to accept placement of one of the newborns.
Then something unfathomable happened.
She asked us to PICK A BABY.
"What? How do we pick a baby? They're both newborns. Just send one our way." we said.
But she insisted. She called the DCS unit for any more information they had. Privacy laws and respect prohibit me from sharing any details of their cases, but both babies were removed at birth for the same, all too common reason. None of the information she called back with was particularly noteworthy. We ended up choosing the younger infant, because we figured that maybe his symptoms were less severe. The DCS Placements Unit called us to confirm some of our license information and then said they were bringing the baby to us.
He arrived at 11pm, in all his beautifully perfect soft newborn glory.
Every time we've received a new foster child, the moment they are handed off into our care is surreal. Sign one document, here you go. Here's a trash bag of their stuff. Bye. It's especially poignant with a newborn coming home from the hospital.
I had vivid flashbacks to bringing home our two fresh newborns. The amount of anticipation and excitement and fanfare. Grandparents all around, everyone draped over couches and armchairs just to get a glimpse of these tiny new people. It was a drastic contrast to the way baby C came to us in the darkness of night, buckled into a cheap car seat with "DCS" hastily stenciled on its side, and a clear plastic hospital bag of items for him. The man dropping him off carefully unbuckled him from the seat and promptly handed him over to T. He needed to take the car seat back, of course. I signed the Notice to Provider, making him officially our foster placement, and the man gave a wave as he headed back out into the quiet dark, back to the office where yet another baby still waited.
We looked at each other. We've shared this look many times over the years. The "what have we done" but also "this is exciting and joyful" and also "I feel a bit panic-stricken". Words weren't required in the moment.
Now, this child is nearly 12 weeks old. A lovely, charming baby whom we all adore. Our days are full. Our hands are full. But our hearts are full, too.
Social worker visits. Appointments. Specialists. Meetings. Hearings. Parental visitation. Fighting the state's reimbursement system every month. Searching for cans of formula that are affected by a national shortage, unable to utilize our formula benefits. Even among all these things that require our time and efforts, I see and acknowledge our privilege. I now work from home. We make more than enough money and don't have to worry about the financial aspect of losing formula benefits or whether the state is going to reimburse us in a timely fashion.
Every day, I look at your charming, earnest little face and tell you how loved you are. I wish I had answers for you, sweet one. But until there are answers, I swear you'll have our love, and you'll be safe and cherished.
