Curbside delivery: 2 dads confront the heart-wrenching foster system as a baby arrives at their door

The following is an excerpt from “A Family, Maybe: Two Dads, Two Babies, and the Court Cases That Brought Us Together” by Lane Igoudin.

Chapter 1: Curbside Delivery

It was on a hot, early summer afternoon, just before the breezes would begin blowing inland from the ocean that Jonathan shot me an irritated sideways glance.

“Where is she? Didn’t she say ‘early in the morning?’ That was hours ago. What’s taking her so long?”

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A 6’3” athlete with the face of the Bridgerton lead, my partner Jon was lining up daisy-patterned onesies and burp cloths by the bassinet in the baby room. I’d heard him vacuuming this room earlier, and before that tidying up the crib and the toys in the green bedroom upstairs.

“Patience, dear,” I sighed, “give her a few more minutes. She should be on her way.”

Like Jon, I was trying to control my anxiety by being useful, yet I couldn’t help rushing to the window every time I heard a car drive by. Jackie Willis, our designated Los Angeles County social worker, was neither here nor responding to my calls.

Did the county change its mind? Did they release the baby to her mother, Jenna?

We’d been living with this uncertainty for months. Jenna was due around Memorial Day, but with office closures and Jackie out on medical leave, the baby could have gone to the wrong home. But that Memorial Day, I received a call —from Babushka, my Russian-speaking grandmother.

“Mazel tov!” she announced. “Your Jenna gave birth today.”

“How on earth do you know that?” I scoffed at her. “We’ve heard nothing.”

“I just know,” she said in her raspy, confident voice, “Tak shto ne volnuisya, sam uvidesh (Don’t worry, you’ll see it for yourself ).”

I relayed her announcement to Jon. He chuckled at my dear 84-year-old grandma, our closest ally in the family. I chuckled too, but deep down I felt even more anxious. What if she was right? I had no experience raising a newborn, nor did Jon. Zero. We’d been trained and certified, but that was all just textbook learning. Were we really about to become caretakers of a tiny, fragile life, 100 percent, 24/7? What were we getting ourselves into?

Three days later, a social worker called from the hospital with the news that the baby had been born on Memorial Day at noon, just as Babushka had said, but couldn’t be released yet. She had sepsis, a potentially fatal blood infection, likely from the Cesarean, and had to be put on medication.

Other arrangements had already been made by Jackie’s Department of Children and Family Services (DCFS). The newborn would not be released to her mother. Instead, she would be detained — that is, put in the court’s protective custody, and placed with us as an emergency foster home. The baby would remain with us as her long-term foster parents, while Jenna would be given an opportunity and resources to reunify with her child.

Sepsis made it easier for the county to carry out its plan. Jenna recovered quickly and was discharged home to continue, as we were told, with her drug rehab and counseling. Meanwhile, the baby was improving on antibiotics, while the court, on the DCFS request, formally detained her.

But Jenna came back to breastfeed, and the nurse leaked the secret. Devastated and desperate, Jenna refused to leave, pleading with the staff to let her take her baby home.

On June 6, the phone rang.

“I’m on my way to the hospital.” Jackie yelled over the freeway hum in the background.

“Jenna still there?”

“Oh, yes,” she sighed, “still there, camped out, refusing to leave. She knows I’m coming to get the baby.”

Poor Jenna. I couldn’t imagine how she would feel or what she would do once Jackie got there. My chest tightened. And it was becoming real for us too, after all these months, really real. Our life was going to split into before and after.

At 4:30 p.m., a black SUV pulled up to the curb in front of our house. Jackie?

Jon ran out the front door. I followed him out onto the porch into the blindingly bright afternoon.

Jackie didn’t hand the baby over, but waited for Jon to take her out of the car seat inside her vehicle — liability reasons, I assumed.

In Jon’s hands, the baby looked small, like a delicate, light brown doll, her face no bigger than Jon’s palm. All she had on was a pink onesie with the word BABY embroidered in white across the chest.

Despite my hesitations, a strong affection washed over me the moment I saw her — barely awake, helpless, innocent.

Jon just melted. Eyes on the baby, breathlessly, he carried her into the house.

Jackie looked a bit shaken; Jenna had confronted her in the parking lot, yelling, accusing Jackie of betrayal.

She handed me the cooler bag with several formula bottles and a three-inch binder with medical information and placement papers.

The baby and the bag. No baby blanket. Nothing else.

Then she glanced at her watch and said, “I’ve got to go, guys. Trying to beat the rush hour.”

I thanked her. Jackie got back into her SUV and left. It was done. I found Jon inside in the hallway, standing still with the baby in his arms, awestruck. Keeping his eyes on her, he passed the infant to me. Then he picked up his car keys from the dining room table and headed out. I knew he’d be back in a few minutes, and not alone.