Note to readers old and new. Before Dave in the Shack I wrote a weekly blog at work, as the director of a youth service/child welfare agency, Youth Service Bureau of Illinois Valley (YSB). I wanted to explain to board members, donors, referral sources, staff, and the community what we did, why we did it, and how we felt in the process. Writing that blog became all I wanted to do.
I wrote this eleven years ago, two years before I retired. Besides Dave in the Shack, I have begun writing for the local newspaper. I'm limited to 550 words. Here's a short version of an old YSB blog post that appeared in the newspaper. Still relevant today. Thought I would share it with you.
Baby in the Sun – 2011
She’d be eleven years old now.
Jackie showed up in my doorway on her way out the back.
“You should come see this baby.”
“What baby?”
“We have a newborn in foster care.”
I followed Jackie out the door.
It was hot. There
were no clouds. Jami was standing by her
van holding an infant carrier.
“Look,” she said.
We looked at the baby without speaking.
The baby was wearing a lime green onesie. Her feet were bare. There were wisps of toenails on each miniature
toe. Her legs were tiny, short shins and
knees the size of thimbles.
She slept with her arms folded across her chest. When she
breathed her nostrils flared. Her skin
was paper thin and white. I thought I
could see through her eyelids. Each fold in her ear was perfectly formed. Her dark hair held a barrette with a lime
green bow.
She breathed in, held her breath, and then sighed, her mouth
moving. When we talked, we didn’t look
at each other but at the baby.
“She’s beautiful,” I said. “What’s her name?”
“Doesn’t have a name yet.”
“Why not?”
“The mother hasn’t chosen one.”
“How old?”
“Three days.”
“She seems so small. Premature?”
“Full term and healthy, just little.”
I didn’t want to learn the rest of the story. There is a dark side to babies in foster
care.
“Her mom?”
“Drugs in the baby’s system at the time of birth.”
“Where is she?”
“With a boyfriend in the shelter. They were evicted.”
The baby made a fist and touched it to her cheek. I saw a faint smile. I thought of my own beautiful daughter, now
28.
“Heroin?”
“Yes.”
It seems like its heroin so often now.
“Mom is afraid she can’t quit. Said she’s tried before.”
I looked at the baby’s toes.
They moved a little.
“But her mom will name her right?”
“We think so. She has
another day. If she doesn’t the hospital
picks a name.”
“Mom needs to name her.
It may be the only thing she ever gets from her mom.”
“I think she will. We’ll
help. She talks to us. She wants drug treatment now, but we’re
afraid she’ll change her mind.”
Finding an inpatient bed when you need it, when the addict
is ready to go, is a crapshoot.
Successful treatment and months and months of clean random drug tests is
the only way mom will regain custody of her baby.
“The father?”
“Not yet identified.”
“Family?”
“Not coming forward and mom isn’t helping. The baby went to the doctor and is going back
to our foster home. It’s tough. She didn’t sleep well last night. She has a tiny tummy and seems agitated.”
Help us I thought.
Help our social workers say the right things and help the judge make the
right decisions as this baby begins her life.
Help her mother and father find the strength to be parents. Help her foster parents love and care for her
but not break their hearts when or if her parents prove able to fill that role.
But most of all help this tiny human. May she know family, friends, and all the
good that exists in the world. Help us
all.
