THE CALL

When the call came from The Agency, I wasn't that excited initially.  It was probably a call for a respite with a cat allergy (ahem, I have six) or a baby whose grandparent would miraculously come to the rescue at the last minute.  

I know that sounds really shitty.  I know it sounds like I WANT kids to be traumatized and taken away from their parents so I can get my baby fix.  This couldn't be further from the truth.  What is the truth is this:  foster parents, allegedly, are in "desperate need," and they weren't calling me!

My husband was getting his hair cut because it was longer than 1/4 of an inch and he was feeling like a dirty hippy.  My daughter and I were watching television or searching Facebook or something else pointless and soul-sucking and nonproductive.

The phone rang, and since it was after hours, it was from the On Call number.  

"Hi, Rebecca?  This is XXX from The Agency.  We need an immediate placement for a three-month-old little boy.  Are you still available?"

I choked that yes, yes, I was absolutely available.  He asked if I was home, and I said I was.  He confirmed my address.  

"Okay, we'll be there in five minutes."

FIVE MINUTES???

I hung up the phone and screamed to my daughter:  I think we have a baby.  Think.  It still wasn't real.

I called my husband and told him to GET HOME RIGHT NOW BECAUSE WE WERE GETTING A BABY!

I looked around the house and started vacuuming because with eight animals (yes, eight) the house always, always needs to be vacuumed.  

Then I called my husband immediately back.  "Stop at Price Chopper on your way home and buy a can of infant formula."

Turns out this is the most popular, by the way.

"Um, what kind?"

What kind?  Who knew!  I didn't know if this baby was allergic to milk or had a sensitive belly.  I breastfed my own daughter until she was over two.  I didn't know what kind of formula to buy.

"Ask the cashier whatever is most popular!"

As I hung up, the doorbell rang.  The dogs went crazy and I ushered them upstairs.  The on-call case planner came in with an infant carrier with a blanket draped over it.  He handed it to me, along with a big black binder.  I handed my daughter the binder and took the blanket off the carrier.  Inside was a chubby baby with curly brown locks and big brown eyes.  He wasn't wearing a jacket or sweater or anything warm, only a blanket sleeper.  He reeked of cigarette smoke.

"Inside the binder is a voucher for $200. Go to Walmart and buy him some diapers and formula and clothes.  Turn in the receipt on Tuesday."

I fumbled with the carrier straps so I could take the chubby bundle into my arms as the worker talked on.

"He has a three-year-old brother, so don't be surprised if you get a call on Tuesday to take him too.  They like to keep siblings together."

I shook my head.  "What's his name?"

He told me his name and that "basically, that's all we know."

Oh, okay.

Five minutes after he arrived with Baby O, he was on his way out the door.  

Right before he left he said, "Oh, and I don't know when the last time he ate.  There wasn't any food in the house when we got him."