If I were given to betting, I would have bet six weeks.
As it was, she made it little more than half that time. I knew what was coming, or strongly suspected it; the phone calls had become increasingly frequent and desperate. She was off her meds, not sleeping (of course not sleeping; no one sleeps with a new baby in the house), not eating well, feeling abandoned–it was inevitable, or nearly so.
In a pregnant person, what I was doing during that period would have been called “nesting,” but as is often the case, there is no comparable word that can apply to a prospective foster or adoptive mother. Cleaning, stocking the pantry, cooking ahead, making phone calls, running errands…with each phone call from her, my alert level rose and my “to do” list lengthened.
She was completely exhausted and in way over her head. She made plans for some friends to care for the child while she rested for a few days; no one thought these friends were reliable, but once my babies’ mother makes up her mind, not even God himself could talk her out of her decision.
Her plans fell through. Her friends let her down. She was despondent that she was not going to get the rest she needed. She called, begging me to come get her and drive her to her friends’ house.
I said no. I would not deliver her child into the hands of these unreliable friends.
And then the real trouble started. I could hear the exhaustion and desperation in her voice every time we talked on the phone and there was little I could do to help. She wasn’t open to help. She wasn’t taking the help that was offered. The final call came in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. Would I please come get the baby, just temporarily? Please? Otherwise, only God knew where he would end up.
I went.
Within an hour I’d packed up the other children, gassed the car and begun the long drive to her house. There were tears, so many tears, when we arrived. She was shaking from stress and exhaustion as we signed papers and began the delicate process of transferring the care of an infant from one mother to another.
Who changes that final diaper? Who buckles him into his car seat? Who straps him into the car? Who makes sure the the blanket is arranged just so for the long trip home?
I tried to pin them down on how long, please tell me how long, I’d be caring for this baby, but of course, no one knew. There are few timelines in cases like this one; I guessed a month, maybe two.
Because it was meant to be temporary, I didn’t go into full survival mode as other mothers of infants might do. I just carried on. When I got home that night, I posted a HNT picture–I’d stockpiled them, you see, for just this possibility.
It was a nice one. It showed my bum.
Eventually it dawned on me that the placement was “temporary” only in the most Zen interpretation of that word. Everyone else claimed to have known it was permanent all along; they knew that child “belonged” with me from the start–or so they said. I don’t really believe them. Even now, so many months later, I can barely believe in my heart that he won’t be going home one of these days, eventually, when the time is right, even though I know in my head that he is here to stay.
Because, you see, his mother is now expected another child. Quell your sanctimonious dismay; we’ve been told by those in the know that this is extremely common, especially after a difficult placement.
Me, I cease to be shocked by anything my babies’ mother does anymore.
And before you ask, no, I will not under any circumstances take this new baby when it arrives, no matter what, no matter if God himself shows up on my doorstep and asks me to take it. Seriously.
I’ve got plenty of babies now, thank you very much, and if there is a point to this rambling story it is perhaps this: be careful of wishes. Be exceptionally cautious in crying out your heart’s desire to the universe, because sometimes, the universe gives you what you wanted.
And then, even more.
