Two sons of my dear sister, Adeline, have recently become grandfathers. The photos show adorable babies. One of them has a blog about her daily routines and I enjoy reading the comments her proud parents write.
As I surf the internet, I come across blogs written in languages from every corner of the world and I’m constantly amazed at the number of blogs about babies. One doesn’t have to understand the language because the photos speak for them selves. The photos are a delight and the children capture ones heart with their smiles.
Having grown up as the oldest of 8 children, I have been around babies and small children all my life. My sister Adeline and I helped Mom change a wet diaper on occasion, and we older ones helped look after the younger ones.
While my son was still a baby, I met a woman who had a California state license allowing her to care for new born babies in her home. They were Chinese babies from San Francisco. I had never heard or dreamed of such an arrangement. I was told that the mortality rate of Chinese babies was very high and that many new borns were in foster homes in order to get a healthy start.
Not long after my husband and I moved into Stanford Village, I had applied and received a California state license to care for children and I supplemented our GI bill money by watching children while parents were either in classes at Stanford or at work. I usually had one or two children for only an hour or so and on occasion, a faculty member would ask me to baby sit for an evening. My husband and I discussed the possibility of my taking a new born to care for and we decided that if I got the opportunity, he was agreeable.
I made an appointment with a Chinese Dr. in San Francisco and told her my plans. She was delighted and I signed a paper saying I would not make an attempt to adopt but only give foster care. She told me to go back home to Stanford Village, (on the San Francisco peninsula), and when a new born was available she would phone me. We had no idea how long I would have to wait.
A day and half later, I got a phone call around 2 o’clock in the afternoon to come pick up a baby at the hospital in China Town. I told them I would be there as soon as possible. My husband was in class on campus and he had our car so I was momentarily at a loss, but I ran to the apartment of another Stanford couple and asked if they might help. As luck would have it, the husband had just gotten home from a class and they said they would drive me into San Francisco for the baby. The availability of a new born, so quickly after my visit with the Chinese Dr., was so unexpected I was totally unprepared. Fran, the wife, quickly helped me collect a few things and even gave me a wonderful small crib that was perfect for a new born.
We three went up the hospital elevator to the floor where the nursery was. A nurse met us at the elevator and took us to a small enclosure and said she would be right back. We did not see a viewing glass with babies in view, nor did we see a hallway with doors leading to rooms. We thought we might be taken to someone’s room, but as we were discussing it, a nurse came with a baby wrapped in blankets and handed it to me. It was a baby girl, six days old and her name was Lily. She was beautiful with jet black hair and satin skin. We learned from a neighbor studying Chinese at Stanford that ‘mei mei’ meant ‘little sister’ so we called her Mei Mei. She was with us for a year.
There were two other occasions when I had an opportunity to have a new born to care for. One of them was during an evening in Paris, when my husband, my 3 year old son and I were spending a week in Paris at a favorite small hotel. It must have been between 10 and 11 in the evening because the hotel was quiet and most tenants asleep. Even street traffic had come to a halt and only a taxi now and then passed by. We had spent the day with friends and had just returned to the hotel and were getting ready for bed, when there was a knock on the door. It took a moment to throw on a robe but when my husband opened the door, there wasn’t anyone there. Suddenly we saw a bundle on the floor and realized it was a crying baby. It had a rag for a diaper that was soaking wet. We used my husband’s handkerchief for a diaper and discovered the baby was a boy, probably only 1or 2 days old. I used a towel for a blanket while my husband went to find a concierge. No one could be found and the baby was crying up a storm. We were completely at a loss about what to do. My husband finally found the concierge who refused to take the baby and begged us to not call the police. He said he would take the baby in the morning and he gave us some sugar and milk and a spoon. We were able to quiet the baby and prayed for daylight when we did give the baby to the Concierge. Later that morning, a young man from England came to talk to us. He was the father of the baby but said he did not want to marry the French girl who was the mother. He begged us to keep the baby and raise it. He countered all our refusals and said both he and the girl would sign legal papers giving us the right to take a French born baby to live with us. The prospect for the baby seemed bleak, but we refused. I often wondered at the callous attitude the Englishman had toward his baby and what happened to it.
The other opportunity was during a dinner party at a friend’s house in Los Angeles on one of my many trips home from Mexico. It was a gathering of working women, no two careers alike. One of the women, a social worker, said she had to find a place for a new born baby girl. As she asked each of us if we were interested, I said if the circumstances were different, I would have considered it but at that particular time I would not be able to. She told me that the state would supply funds for raising the child and that being a widow was not a drawback. She begged me to think seriously about it, but I had to refuse.
I’ve often thought about having not one, but two chances to care for a new born.
