A few months back, my partner and I made our way into the neonatal intensive care unit at our local hospital, leaving with a newborn who needed a loving home.
In any other situation, that statement might sound shocking, but the hospital was prepared for our arrival. Just four months into our journey as licensed foster parents, we received a call asking if we could provide care for an infant in need. Initially, I hesitated. Transitioning from full-time teaching to substitute work had me worried about abruptly becoming a stay-at-home mom — especially to a newborn with health concerns. After all, foster care placements usually involve older children, not healthy babies.
The social worker informed me that another family was also being considered, and if they declined, we would be next in line. I asked if the other mother was a stay-at-home parent, thinking that would be best for the baby. When I learned she was, I decided to let that family take precedence. Deep down, however, I didn’t truly want to say no; I was torn between practicality and the whirlwind of emotions swirling within me — excitement, fear, and a longing I had felt since childhood to become a mother.
Less than an hour later, the social worker called back; the other family had declined, and we were next. After a flurry of texts with my partner, I confirmed we were all in.
Soon after, the investigative worker reached out, explaining that one of us needed to stay overnight with the baby at the hospital. This was unexpected, and we had assumed we would simply pick her up. Arriving at the hospital after a final meal together as a couple, we were still reeling from the rapid turn of events. We even stopped at a store to grab a “going home” outfit for our new daughter. After all, that’s what mothers do, right?
To be honest, this wasn’t how I envisioned parenthood as a child, playing with my dolls and pretending to feed them. There were no baby showers or birthing classes. Walking onto a maternity floor as neither a visitor nor a patient felt surreal. Once in the NICU, we were introduced to a beautiful, tiny baby girl with thick hair who seemed so small I initially mistook her for a CPR doll.
After watching a CPR video for caregivers, I found my gaze wandering back to her crib, pondering the path ahead. A hospital staff member affixed bracelets to us, indicating this was our baby, with her birth mother’s name inscribed. “An alarm will sound if a baby gets too close to the exit doors,” the nurse explained. “The bracelets ensure that you have your baby.”
They kept referring to us as “Mom,” and instinctively, I corrected them, stating, “We’re her foster parents.” But as the night progressed, I let it slide; it felt easier that way.
Our foster daughter passed her car seat test, and we learned how to feed her before being sent to our hospital room. The night consisted of feedings and sleeplessness, with my partner and I adjusting to our roles as parents. I felt as though I had just given birth, while my partner slept in a recliner beside me, both of us tired yet exhilarated by our new reality.
The next morning, we left the hospital, our foster daughter proving to be a resilient little fighter. I took countless photos, wanting to preserve these moments for her. Growing up, I had very few pictures of myself under six, but now I was documenting someone else’s childhood.
As we strolled through the hospital, I noticed the celebratory banners outside other patients’ rooms. It felt incredibly unfair that there was no banner for our little girl. I wished I had brought something special to mark her arrival.
Driving home, we were typical nervous parents, the baby nestled in a car seat that I had purchased under the assumption we would receive an older child. The weeks that followed were filled with sleepless nights, feeding schedules, and numerous doctor visits. I found myself isolated, as my partner returned to work shortly after we brought our daughter home.
In the world of foster care, the experience is different. While new parents typically receive support, I was alone, overwhelmed with the usual worries of a first-time parent and the unique concerns of a foster situation, constantly wondering how long our time together would last.
When the first visit with the birth family was scheduled, I felt a wave of emotions. I had no idea why it hit me so hard, but I remember tearing up. These visit days are a reminder that, despite how much she feels like mine, she is not my child.
People often refer to us as angels for being foster parents, but I don’t see it that way. Instead, I feel more human and vulnerable than ever, navigating the complexities of caring for someone else’s child while developing a bond with her.
Many have expressed disbelief that they could foster due to fear of forming attachments, as if we possess some ability to love without becoming too attached. The truth is, we become deeply attached. That’s the essence of it, and it can feel like a painful reality.
Well-meaning friends and relatives often ask questions that can unintentionally sting. “I’m so happy for you,” they say. “She’s lucky,” they remark. “Do you get to keep her?” is perhaps the most hurtful. It’s as if they see children as possessions rather than individuals with complex lives.
I’ve asked my partner numerous times if our friends and family truly understand that this is foster care. They express happiness for us, yet they don’t grasp the gravity of the situation. They don’t recognize that this little girl is growing up without her family, a reality that weighs heavily on my heart.
As we began corresponding with her birth family, it brought peace to our journey. We exchanged photos and updates, working toward healing families if that was possible. I’ve even told relatives that we must speak about her birth family with respect; they are her family, and they always will be.
I often reflect on how, at one point, her mother was a newborn too. Each of us has been a baby, in need of love and care. If we could extend the same kindness and understanding to one another that we give to infants, the world would be a better place. For now, we are her parents. What tomorrow holds, only the stars can tell.
Summary
The journey of foster parenting can feel surreal and emotional, as one couple navigates the complexities of caring for a newborn foster child. They grapple with the unique challenges of attachment, societal perceptions, and the reality of foster care, all while cherishing the moments spent with their little girl, understanding that their time together may be temporary.