I love to read birth stories from other parents, I love to see what they recall and what made each moment for them.
Here’s one from me.
Eight years ago, tomorrow, I came home from work and found three messages on my answering machine. Before I could even listen to the first one, the phone was ringing again.
We have a child that needs a place to stay, tonite. Short-term, just have to clear a relative before they can have custody.
Um, tell me a little more?
‘Baby boy, three months old, apparently healthy. Had to remove him this afternoon from his mom. His aunt will take him but we have to run a background check first.’
My wife and I look at each other. Three months? The bedroom we prepared for our (as yet to be placed) foster kids was set up for school age children. The toys and clothes and beds were all for bigger kids.
In a millisecond we had decided.
“Of course. When is he coming?”
‘We’re in the car, we have a stop to make but will be there in a couple hours.’
After six months of classes, reading, writing, interviews, we were getting our first foster child. A baby.
Oh. Shit.
His aunt, as it turns out, didn’t really want him that badly. His mom and dad had split, his dad remarried. The adoption was final just before his second birthday. Fast forward eight years. He’s now a straight A student in second grade. And an awesome kid, if I do say so myself.
