Note: I don’t usually reveal a foster child’s name on social media, but this is different. This little guy’s official name is Baby Boy. Leo was the temporary name we gave him during the months he lived in our home.
On October 21, 2021 a caseworker brought our family a ten-day-old boy—the smallest baby I had ever held. A few days later a new caseworker sat in our living room, along with a youth specialist, and guardian ad litem, all there to check in on us and start mapping out the next steps for our foster son.
“We anticipate this being a PC case, probably within the next couple months,” the caseworker said as she typed on her laptop.
There are so many acronyms in foster care; I really need a cheat sheet. “I’m sorry, but what does PC mean?”
“Permanent custody, meaning all parental rights would be terminated.” She looked up from her typing. “You’re a foster-to-adopt family, yes?”
My heart sank. “No.” I said it like an apology. This was the third time in a week a county worker had asked us this question. Didn’t someone look at our foster care profile? Nowhere in that giant stack of paperwork does it say we are an adoptive family. Don’t people check these things before bringing a newborn baby to a foster family? Particularly an “anticipated PC case?”
I didn’t want to ask the next questions but knew I needed to. “Do you want him to go to a different family? A family who is ready to adopt?”
The caseworker and guardian ad leim exchanged looks, and I could tell they were considering this option. My stomach turned to stone, heavy and stuck, and I reminded myself this wasn’t about me and my family and how smitten we were with this five pound darling. It would be better for him to get to an adoptive family right away before everyone fell head over heels.
It was ultimately decided he would stay with us, at least for the time being. This team of workers explained to me that they needed to wait. They needed to be sure it was a PC case, and they needed to exhaust every other option of kinship placement. They told me it isn’t always wise to bring adoptive families into the picture too early. These families get their hopes up; they get attached, and if adoption doesn't work out, it is heartbreaking.
So he stays. Our sweet Baby Boy. Our little Leo. We bring up all the baby things from the basement and dive back into the world of bottles and blankets and diaper bags. Leo tags along to soccer games and dance competitions. We snuggle him up on Halloween with a little orange pumpkin hat peeking out from the baby wrap that holds him to my chest. He celebrates Andrew’s 7th birthday with us, and he road trips to Chicago for Thanksgiving with us. He falls asleep in my arms with a My First Christmas Santa hat on as we open gifts on Christmas morning, and a few weeks later he and I quarantine together upstairs for 5 days with COVID.
As the caseworker predicted, the county gains permanent custody within a couple months, and it is now time to find an adoptive family. The question remains on the table. “So, are you going to adopt him?”
When we first became foster parents, we were often asked if we were hoping to adopt. Our standard answer sounded something like this: We didn't become foster parents as a way of growing our family. If the opportunity presents itself, we certainly aren't opposed to adopting, but right now we are here to fill the gap.
I had no idea how soon the opportunity would indeed present itself. Why weren’t we feeling like adoption was our role? We were just handed a healthy baby boy who has no other family but us. Aren’t there so many adoptive parents praying for a situation like this?
These questions constantly swirled around in my mind, playing out different scenarios and wondering if we were being selfish by not adopting Leo. I couldn’t shake the guilt that this delightful baby boy had ended up in our home when we aren’t his future. You don't make mistakes, right, Lord? You brought Leo here. But why? What are we not seeing? How is this going to work out?
Every prayer and every conversation brought Stephen and me back to the same conclusion. We believed there was a family who had been praying, maybe even for years, to adopt a baby. We believed there was a family who at this moment was wondering how and when it would be their turn to become parents. Leo will get to be the answer to all those prayers. Adoption is not our place in his story. We are here to fill the gap.
*****
The child welfare system moves slowly. Shocker, right? A couple months turned into nine months, and yet I was very aware our days with Leo were numbered; I knew the next steps would likely be thrown at us with little warning.
“You know you have to find the greatest family ever to adopt him, right?” I reminded the casework during every conversation.
“Yes, Joy. That’s the plan.”
“And I know this is asking a lot but if we could have a few days warning, just so we can have time to say good-bye.” I could barely speak such a bold request without crying. Advance warning is not a common phrase in foster care. Children come and go at a moment's notice, but the thought of tucking Leo into bed one night and not realizing it would be the last time was too much. So I pleaded. “Please don’t call me one morning and tell me he is leaving in a couple hours. Please give us at least a day.”
“I know this will be an intense transition for your family. I will do my best.”
*****
July was winding down, and the kids and I were squeezing in every last visit to our favorite parks. I stood behind the stroller as Leo napped, the big kids played, and I chatted with a friend. I glanced down at a text notification on my phone. It was from our foster care agency, and it had a name. Two names actually. A husband and wife who had been submitted for adoption placement. The text included their contact information saying that I could get in touch with them. This felt like news that should be delivered from a chariot-mounted herald, perhaps even with a trumpet and scroll, not via text as I stand in a park eating my children’s goldfish crackers. This was the moment we’d be waiting for. And the moment we’d been dreading.
We had ten beautiful days to say goodbye. During those days we kissed him a hundred extra times. We read extra books each night and sang extra songs. We took extra pictures and cried extra tears. Dear friends gifted us a session with a professional photographer so we will always have these beautiful reminders of our months with Leo. Leo’s new mom and I talked on the phone, exchanged dozens of texts, and even met for dinner. I had been the keeper of Leo’s story. The past nine months were held in my mind and my heart, and it was an honor for me to pass his stories onto his forever mom and dad.
*****
On July 30, our family piled into the minivan and made the twenty minute drive (only twenty minutes!) to bring Leo to his forever family. It was a surreal feeling—handing someone their son and watching years of prayer being answered right in front of you. I have cried a lot of tears since the day we brought Leo to his family, but those tears ought not be mistaken for sadness. Some tears are because I just miss him, and our home feels different without him. But mostly I cry because I am overwhelmed with thankfulness that we were chosen to be part of Leo’s story.
