A Christian Couple Gave Me a Room. Then They Asked Me to Give Them My Baby.
By: Shannon Ashley
Tags: Society, Self, Life Lessons, Parenting, Women

As much as these folks meant well, and as generous as they were to have given me and my baby a temporary roof over our heads, too much of what they said and did was not kind at all. On more than one occasion, they chastised me for not asking them for more help. Supposedly, they wanted me to ask them to babysit.

Yet every time I asked them to watch my daughter — even just for 20 minutes so I could shower upstairs — they complained about how busy they were. Once again, they made it clear that this was a big favor. And a huge burden.

A couple of months after we moved into their suburban home, it was time to start my daughter on solid foods. I bought a $39 convertible high chair set that could later split off into a chair and table. It was an awkward conversation, trying to help my hosts understand why I needed to keep the high chair in the kitchen or dining room area.

They had an ant problem in the dining room and felt certain that it must be my fault. No matter how much I washed and cleaned the high chair, they were convinced I was doing something wrong. I wasn’t angry with them, but it was frustrating.

On the one hand, I understood that they were still young (in their late twenties), and they had no children of their own. I might have been that naive and inflexible too just a few years earlier.

“Do you think it’s wrong for babies to cry?” the wife asked me one day.

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“I just noticed that you always pick her up when she cries, so, I wondered if you think you shouldn’t let a baby cry.”

I thought about that for a moment.

“No, I don’t think it’s wrong for babies to cry,” I answered. “But at the same time, I don’t think it’s beneficial to let her cry just because I can.”

Then, I explained more of my parenting philosophy. That I was doing my best to build a secure bond with my daughter since I couldn’t guarantee what sort of bond she’d have with her dad. It didn’t make sense to let my daughter cry if I could figure out why she was crying and deal with it. Usually, she did better from simply being held, and I was never worried about holding her “too much.”

It was a very uncomfortable conversation. I wasn’t sure why I got the impression that I was being scrutinized for “holding my baby too often.”

Shortly after that, the husband also took me aside to have the first of many conversations about how I should raise my kid. I’m not positive about which of his talks came first. They were all so ridiculous that I couldn’t believe we were having the conversations at all.

Often, he urged me to put my daughter into a foster care-adjacent program that his mother ran. They thought I should give my baby to somebody else for safekeeping for at least a few weeks to focus on getting a job at a daycare.

I was adamant every time that it wasn’t a viable solution for me. I don’t have any interest in being away from my kid, I explained. I had no interest in leaving her with strangers. And I certainly had no desire to work at a daycare.

At that point, my daughter was eight or nine months old. I understood this was going to be a difficult life. I knew my situation was far from ideal. But I also saw it wasn’t impossible, and I believed that I would get back on my feet. Eventually.

In November 2014, I signed on with a social media marketing agency to write from home. I knew I’d get myself together. My hosts didn’t, I suppose. By all of the little lectures they gave me during my time in their home, they didn’t think too highly of me at all.

One day, as I sat at the kitchen table, spoon-feeding mashed peas to my daughter, the husband sat down next to me for one of those talks.

“Shannon, I hope you know how much we love Sophie. As much as our own daughter,” he began.

I tried to hide my revulsion at his words. If they loved my daughter so much, they had a funny way of showing it. They had a funny way of treating me.

Holding my tongue, I waited to see where he was going with his speech. The next part still feels jumbled in my head. Years later, his message haunts me.

“We hope that you would consider us to take care of her. Instead of giving her to strangers for adoption, we would be great parents. We love children and we love her.”

I felt sick at the implication.

“But I’m raising her,” I said. “I’m not putting her up for adoption.”

His response felt so cold. “If or when you change your mind. Would you consider giving her to us? She’d have two parents who love her. She’d have everything she needs.”

The attitude seemed so certain. So expectant. He was so damn certain that I was a failure of a mother. So certain that they would do a better job than me.