Under the blankets there are babies (2009)
Baby Amy with a baby
Every Thursday morning I walk out of my apartment and into the lives of 14 babies. These 14 small souls reside in a short-term shelter for babies in need, a description that basically means each of these babies is without a family or home and will only be staying for a limited amount of time. Some babies come directly from a home for pregnant women who intend to give their children up for adoption; they’re at the shelter until they can be matched with a family. Some babies have been abandoned – either safely, such as in the hospital (the birth mother walked out after giving birth with no instructions or warning), or unsafely, such as on a random doorstep.
Some babies arrive healthy, and some do not. The shelter attempts to find families for each of them, and quickly, because it’s only a shelter for babies six months (give or take a few months) and younger. Those who aren’t adopted are transferred to long-term shelters like children’s homes (a nice phrase for “orphanages”).
Some babies are adopted nationally, some internationally, some never. Some die.
My mind juggles these realities as I tie on my navy blue apron, wash my hands, and step into the nursery. I’m greeted by a sea of color: the walls are painted brightly, the children represent an array of colors matched only by their crazy donated baby clothes, and blankets appear to cover every surface. Yellow blankets, polka dot blankets, soft blankets, scratchy blankets, thin blankets, thick blankets – they drape every crib, every chair, every baby. The air smells like sleeping baby and formula, a scent that’s impossible to describe unless you’ve experienced it. Babies are being bathed, one by one, in two sinks along the wall. Bottles sit in a pistachio green bowl of hot water, waiting for me, or whoever is available, to match the bottle with the baby.
I like to go straight to the baby that is crying the loudest because she – or he – clearly needs someone the most. And for the next five hours, that’s all I do. I go to the one who needs me the most.
I started volunteering after a long interview, orientation, and training. I found this shelter online, and I apologize but I’m not going to name it. Blogs show up on Google searches and we’ve been warned about the repercussions of distributing information (such as names, photos, etc.) on the internet, as once an adoption was disrupted. I want all of these babies to find homes, so I won’t take the risk. [2021 Edit: I’m sharing photos now because so much time has passed, but I’m still going to refrain from naming the shelter.] I have four qualities that make me well-suited for a baby shelter:
the means,
the opportunity,
the time, and
a lack of fear of dirty diapers and baby vomit.
Chubby cheeks!
The shelter currently houses 14 babies, and while one can crawl (he had to be stopped from chewing the electrical wire of the humidifier today – oops), the rest are immobile save rolling haphazardly around. They need baths, they need food, they need fresh diapers, they need someone to rock them to sleep… this all seems to happen at the same time. My hat goes off to parents of multiples! The shelter employs a round-the-clock staff, but at any given time there are only three staff members there. The rest is trained volunteers, usually two or three per shift.
My first day was intimidating, to say the least. I’ve been around babies a lot – more than the average person, I think – but still, I felt lost. I held one screaming little girl – her face turning as pink as her sweater – as I frantically tried to find her bottle and desperately attempted to get her flailing arms and legs to calm down so I could cradle her (each moment her screams growing louder, her cries a little more desperate). Eventually another (more experienced) volunteer walked by, took the bottle from my hand, and plopped it into the baby’s open mouth while she was still in mid-air grasp, like a football caught absent-mindedly.
The volunteer shrugged and said, “so babies cry” and walked off in another direction. I understood then that to survive I’d need to stop worrying about doing things perfectly. Babies cry: the end.
The seven oldest babies are in a big nursery, and the seven smallest in another small room. Last week a two-day-old baby arrived, which bumped a two-and-a-half-month-old to the “big” nursery, even though physically the two-day-old was larger.
I noticed that most of the babies seem to have sensory deprivation to at least some degree.
Their eyes don’t follow your face, their hands don’t reach for toys, their face doesn’t turn to bright objects. No doubt from lack of the proper, quality attention and sensory stimulation babies require.
What’s worse is that sometimes they don’t fully cry.
Tears are running down their cheeks, snot is dripping from their nose, but they barely whimper.
It struck me as though they felt that no one would come, that maybe their homelessness had reached into their tiny heads and was hardening their need for love and attention.
Because, really, while volunteers stream in and out, rarely are there enough people to tend the need. Babies lay motionless on blankets, staring blankly at the ceiling. And if they don’t cry, they could stay there for what seems like hours, because there are always other babies who need a diaper change or a bottle or to be put down for a nap to occupy adults’ attention. The quiet ones can get lost. There’s that expression about the wheel that squeaks the loudest…
Perhaps it goes without saying but just to be clear: I love this. I love this so much I wish I could stay in South Africa forever just to love these babies who don’t have anyone else to love them.
The moment I’ve changed into fresh, baby-food-less clothes, I want to go back. To sit on the couch with two big eyes staring up at me with their little fingers wrapped around mine is to make me a happy person. I was asked three times today if I have children of my own, and while I don’t know what would make people ask, the answer is always: ‘no, and not for a long time.’ But in the meantime, I’ll hold these perfect babies.
This baby is now 12 years old. Whoa.
And each of the babies is perfect. At least to me. I try not to think about the situation of their lives and futures when I’m there (I would probably burst into tears if I did), but I can’t fathom why they’re not all adopted. Surely there are enough people in this world who love children and want one of their own that each of them could find a home. Today I learned that a two-month-old white baby girl was already adopted. I was told that the white babies in the shelter, though rare and the minority by far, are always adopted, and first. I’ve picked up on the fact that most black and colored (2021 Edit: ‘colored’ is the South African politically correct term for lighter-skinned people with, presumably, a mixed-race background) babies go overseas if they go anywhere.
When I started telling people about the shelter, I routinely heard the same first question: “what color are the babies?” Frankly, I wanted to retort, “does it matter?” Most of the time the question seems innocent, but I admit I can’t understand what even makes people ask. A baby is a baby - I can attest that a black baby cries when it’s hungry just like a white baby, just like a brown baby, just like a green baby, I'm sure, if they existed. All that matters is that they're babies in need.
Ah, but this is South Africa, and race is on everyone's mind - just like everywhere else, perhaps, but more openly here.
Today before I left, I was holding a one-month-old with especially expressive eyebrows. I laid her on the couch and swaddled her in a fluffy pink blanket with red and white bows sewn into the cotton. As I placed her in her bassinet (designated as such by her name written on a piece of masking tape), her brow furrowed and I swear had she been able to speak she would have uttered "and just where do you think you're going?" So I whispered in her ear, "I'll be back next week."
