I thought placing our baby in foster care was the right decision. But giving him away was harder than bringing him home

As told to Shoshana Gross

T

he first time the nurse placed the red, helpless bundle of baby in my arms, I only saw his tongue protruding from his tiny mouth. And then I looked at his eyes — slightly slanted, dark blue, and blinking in the newness of light.

My fourth baby. A Friday night baby, emerging with the holiness of Shabbos. But he didn’t resemble any of his three older siblings. With the complete devastation of an emotional earthquake, I knew this wasn’t the baby I wanted.

In those dazed moments of horror, I thought of all the ultrasounds, the repeated assurances that my baby was healthy — and tears of betrayal rolled down my face.

“Isn’t he cute?” my husband said. He didn’t notice the tell-tale signs.

“Cute?” I hissed. “Take him away. I don’t want to hold him anymore!”

And then I was crying, crying so hard that the flimsy hospital mattress shook, ignoring the sympathetic looks from the nurses, ignoring my husband’s concerned face, completely consumed by the pain of this child who was so wrong.

Get this baby to the nursery and bring me a different one! I don’t know if I said it aloud, but it was my first coherent thought.

The nurses didn’t need to confirm what I already knew. The features were unmistakable even then: my baby had Down syndrome.

“We’ll be taking him for testing,” one of the nurses told us, all crisp professionalism.

And then they whisked him away.

The room was quiet and empty.

“Okay, it’s still Friday night,” my husband said gently. “We’re going to have the seudah now. I’ll make Kiddush.”

“I’m not interested in Kiddush,” I ground out. “Who cares about Kiddush? Who cares about anything?”