Love them – but do not love them too much.Īnd we wonder why there are so many horrific stories of foster parents in it for the money.ĭarcy ignored the unwritten rules. Hold them, snuggle them, love them – but don’t love them too much because while this child eats, breathes, sleeps under your roof, cries on your shoulder, and laughs at your jokes, this child is not your child and you are not to hope otherwise. Protect them, guard them, keep them safe – but be totally fine with the fact that this child visits a parent with a raging meth problem. We ask them to help these children heal, thrive, attach – but don’t attach too much because that child won’t stay. The unwritten rules are really, really tough. I watched a child get loved back to health.įoster parents are asked to do the impossible. It’s one of the most defining things I’ve had the privilege to see.
He gained weight, he became downright chubby, he blossomed into a smart, bobbling baby of hilarity. I watched Darcy feed this baby every hour, sing to him, swaddle him to her heart every time we met for coffee. Michael, one month old, had given up his will to live. A day or two later, the pediatrician diagnosed Michael with failure to thrive. If this was how Michael looked post-NICU, after three weeks of live-saving medical intervention, I wondered how ill he must have been at birth. “Are you sure he should have been discharged?” She reached down, pulled down the tiny preemie hat that was too big for his head, and stroked his hand with hers. The worry on my face was evident because Darcy paused mid-blanket folding and met my eyes. I intended to help organize, join in baby fever, help Darcy’s feisty kids in preparing for this little guy – you know, do all the things you do as a friend – but all I could do was look up at Darcy and see if she saw what I saw. I don’t know squat about babies, but I knew one thing: this baby is not well. He was bundled up in the carrier, smaller than the baby doll that had been there the day before. If I had been gutsy enough to pick him up (which I was not), he would have fit in my hands. I did a double take at the baby carrier because, at first, I didn’t realize he was in it. I stopped by and met Michael on his first day with Darcy’s family. This would be her 7 th foster child.ĭarcy was in baby mode, a blur of positive, organizing energy, chatting and creating space for this baby that had been dropped off to her home with just a few hours notice. When Michael was discharged from the NICU, the agency called my friend, Darcy, and asked her if she could open her home to another drug-exposed infant. Since the launch of Generation Justice, I have read hundreds of these stories, maybe thousands. He spent three weeks in the NICU, and was discharged weighing only 5 lbs. He was abandoned, withdrawing from drugs and in pain. Michael was born on the floor of a bus station.
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