Cathy Glass - A Baby’s Cry

I stayed where I was, kneeling on the floor, and stared at the open case, puzzled. A new case, possibly bought for the purpose of carrying Harrison’s clothes, full of carefully selected and lovingly packed first-year clothes and two cuddly toys: it didn’t make sense. Surely this wasn’t the work of an abusive or negligent mother who was deemed to be unfit to parent her child? It couldn’t be. Jill had said Harrison’s mother wasn’t drink or drug dependent, which really only left two alternatives for a newborn baby coming into foster care. Either Rihanna had mental health problems that stopped her from parenting, or she was a young teenage mother, pregnant by accident, who’d decided to give up her baby and continue her education (and life). Yet the expensive and stylish trolley case with its carefully and lovingly planned first-year clothes simply didn’t fit either of these images. And why clothes for twelve months? Perhaps Harrison’s mother had put her baby into foster care temporarily – for a year – and planned to return and parent him, although this was highly unlikely, as I knew the social services wouldn’t tolerate a mother using the care service for extended babysitting. Usually I’m told why a child is brought into foster care, but all I had now was a healthy baby and a case of brand-new baby clothes.

Then I spotted a white envelope tucked into the pocket at the back of the case. I reached in and took it out. There was nothing written on the outside of the envelope but as I opened the handwritten letter I saw it began: Dear Foster Carer.

It was from Harrison’s mother. I read on:

This is a very sad time for me, as I’m sure you know. I have cried every day since I first found out I was expecting and I am crying now as I write this letter. I have prayed for a solution that would allow me to keep my son, but there is none. In my heart I always knew that would be true and I have had to be very brave and plan for my son’s future, as much as I’m allowed to. Would you dress him in the clothes I have bought and put the soft toys in his cot, please? I would be very grateful if you would. Knowing Harrison is wearing the outfits I chose for him and has the cuddly toys close by when he sleeps will be a comfort to me. The social worker offered to send me some photographs of my baby but I have refused. It would be too painful for me to see them. I know I couldn’t cope. I hope I’ve bought enough clothes for Harrison’s first year; after that his adopted parents will decide what he is going to wear. You must be a very good kind woman.

God bless you.

Rihanna

I stopped reading and looked up, the letter in one hand and the open case in front of me; tears stung the back of my eyes. I could feel the love and concern that poor woman had for her child reaching out to me from the words of her letter and the lovingly packed clothes. I could also feel her sadness. But her letter raised more questions than it answered. Although I now understood why Rihanna had bought the clothes, and for the first year – Harrison would be adopted by the end of the year – I still had no understanding of why she couldn’t keep her son. She obviously wanted to, and she sounded kind and loving. She appeared articulate and educated, and something in the style of her words suggested a mature woman, not a teenager. Yet for whatever reason she had accepted that adoption was the only answer, and her finality was chilling, for she would know that once Harrison was adopted there would be no going back and Harrison would become someone else’s son for ever.

Slowly refolding the letter I returned it to the envelope and tucked it into my pocket. I then took the cuddly panda and teddy bear from the case and closed the lid. Standing, I carried the soft toys round the landing to my bedroom, where I placed them at the foot of Harrison’s cot. Harrison was sleeping peacefully, lightly swaddled and on his side as I’d left him. Tomorrow I would follow his mother’s wishes and dress him in the clothes she’d bought, and I would continue to do so every day until he left me to be adopted. When the social worker visited I would ask her to tell Harrison’s mother I was carrying out her wishes. It was the least I could do, and I hoped it would give Rihanna some comfort.

I fed and changed Harrison before I went to bed, and he woke at 2.00 a.m. for a feed. I heard his little whimper first, which allowed me enough time to go downstairs, make up his bottle and return before his cry really took hold. I sat on my bed, leaning against the pillows, as I fed him, as I used to when I’d fed Adrian and Paula. Once Harrison had finished his bottle I winded him and carried him round the landing to what would eventually be his bedroom, where I changed him before returning him to his cot in my room.

I lay in bed with the faint glow of the street lamp coming through the curtains and listened to Harrison’s little snuffles of contentment as he slowly drifted back to sleep, just as I had lain there listening to Adrian and Paula when they’d been babies. I felt a warm glow from knowing Harrison was safe, fed and comfortable – the same nurturing instinct that bonds a mother with her baby. There’s a lot of research that shows this bond (known as attachment) is not so much biological or genetic as a result of nurturing, after the baby is born. As I would be forming an attachment to Harrison so he would form an attachment to me, and he would transfer this attachment to his adopted parents when the time came. Babies who are not nurtured never form that first attachment and can develop emotional and physical difficulties in childhood and in adult life.

Harrison didn’t wake again until six o’clock, which was considerate, as I was already surfacing from sleep by then. I heard his little cry and I was out of bed, downstairs and returning with his bottle before he was crying with hunger. As I had done during the night, I fed him in my bed and then carried him round to his bedroom, where I changed his nappy. I dressed him in one of the sleepsuits from the case Rihanna had sent. ‘It’s from your mum,’ I said, picking him up and kissing his cheek. He wrinkled his little nose endearingly, so I kissed him again. He was a truly gorgeous baby, and also, so far, a very good baby. I returned him to his cot in my bedroom and he obligingly went straight back to sleep.

I showered and dressed so that when I woke Adrian and Paula at seven o’clock for school it was to a calm and well-ordered house. Paula wanted to see Harrison straightaway and tiptoed round to my bedroom in her nightdress. Adrian said he wanted his breakfast first but then couldn’t resist a quick peep at Harrison en route to the bathroom.

I guessed that as Harrison had been fed at six o’clock he was likely to need feeding again at about nine o’clock, when I would be driving home from taking Adrian and Paula to school, so to be safe I took a carton of ready-made milk and a sterilized bottle with us in a bag. However, despite being moved in and out of the car, Harrison didn’t wake until after I’d taken Adrian and Paula to school and had returned home. Once Harrison had finished his bottle and I’d changed his nappy he didn’t want to go back to sleep immediately, so I sat him in the bouncing cradle in the sitting room and took the opportunity to take some photographs of him. While I knew from his mother’s letter she didn’t want photographs of Harrison, the pictures I took would be an important record of Harrison’s first months both for him when he was older and for the adoptive parents, who obviously weren’t here to see him as a baby. These photographs, together with his Life Story book, which I would put together – detailing his development and significant events – would go with him when he left and would be a record of his past. Children who are brought up by their own parents have a living record of shared memories in their family, but once a foster child leaves the foster home he or she leaves behind the family’s collective history, which is why the photographs and Life Story book are so important.