Journey to Same-Sex Parenthood

by Eric Rosswood

  When Jason approached a year and a half in age, we began taking calls for placements again. We were now envisioning child number two—the final member of our little family. We were awaiting another impregnating phone call. I had imagined a little girl for our second child—a tiny moppet who looked up to and was protected by her big brother, mirroring my own experience with my “baby sister.”

  We got that call. She was a beautiful baby girl and looked just like Jason did when he was a newborn. However, it became evident that she wasn’t going to fit in our family puzzle. Life had other plans for her and even better plans for us.

  The baby girl’s birthmother was responding well to the recovery program . This was actually a thrilling development and even though it seemed disruptive to our own plan, it was an honor to be a part of that unification. We cheered as the young mother cleaned up her life in preparation for giving her daughter a safe and productive childhood. We supported that momentum and looked forward to a happy mother-and-daughter reunion.

  Meanwhile, another foster family who were good friends of ours recently had a ten-month-old boy placed with them. The boy had been discovered abandoned in a trailer. My partner often took Jason to their home on playdates and the little boy and my son became very close.

  The two seemed to speak a common language and played well together. My partner called me at work one day and said, “You have to come see this little boy and how he and Jason are. I told the other family to let us know if there was any problem with their placement, because we would love to take him in.” I was alright with this, but remained a little guarded as this had not been our original plan. However, plans change and life takes over.

  When I got home that evening, the playdate was still going on. I’ll never forget the moment I first saw Jesse: He was crawling around the corner headed toward the dishwasher as I was coming the other way. We locked eyes. It was one of the most profound moments of my life. The look between us said it all.

  Hi, Dad. I’m your son.

  Hi, Jesse. I’m going to be your dad.

  A week later, it happened. The foster mother called and asked if we were serious about our offer. It turns out that her family had to move into some tight temporary quarters. She was much better equipped to care for the baby that my partner and I were currently nursing than Jesse, the rough-and-tumble toddler. So we called the authorities and made the switch. Jason and Jesse, new best friends, were now on their way to potentially becoming brothers.

  Being the working dad, however, I was worried that I might not get to bond with Jesse as I had with Jason. My feelings for Jason were deep and thorough. I felt he had emerged and grown right out of my heart and nothing on earth could take that away.

  I was not going to carry Jesse on me for months. I saw him in the mornings before I left for work and in time for a kiss goodnight when I returned. He was exposed to my partner and other foster care providers more than he was seeing me. More to the point, reunification with his birthfather was also in full swing and there was a very good chance we might not be Jesse’s permanent home after all.

  The plan had progressed to weekend visits with the birthfather. We were supportive, but Jesse was coming home with an air of urgency, desperate to be back with us. One weekend, things went horribly awry.

  My partner called me in a panic. He had picked Jesse up from the birthfather’s house and saw that the boy had been badly bruised and possibly beaten. My partner drove him directly to the social worker. I got a follow-up call soon after that: Jesse had bruises where no two-year-old should have them. These bruises were from no normal rough and tumble. The reunification plan came to a screeching halt. Jesse was home, ours forever, but we now had a clearly traumatized little boy who was unable to tell us exactly what had happened.

  I slept in the same room with Jesse for the next two weeks. The little boy who normally slept soundly through the night woke screaming almost hourly. I held him, comforted him and cried with him. I enveloped him with every stretch of my soul, trying to erase and dissolve the pain and fear. “Daddy’s here, little one. Daddy’s here. No one is going to get to you again, I swear it.”

  Jesse quickly recovered and our family was made whole. We had been created. Our building blocks were not physical; they were much bigger than that. Our family was built with substances that were spiritual and psychic, elements that broke the bounds of emotion. Our family is realer than real and the experience of it coming into existence has surpassed any superficial experience I could have imagined or designed on my own.

  We have discussed their biological parents and the addiction that they have had to deal with. Jason and Jesse have seen pictures and understand their birthparents deal with diseases that make them incapable of caring for children. Our kids are both aware of their biological heritage and we answer questions in depth as they have them.

  Today, I look at two boys. They are two brothers, almost twins. They share and speak a language unto themselves. I am their dad as much as, if not more than, anyone is anyone’s dad on the planet. As I look at them, I recognize the two different parts of myself that brought them into being—neither of which was part of my personal biology.

  Jason is the child of my heart. Jesse is the child of my soul. It was in each where the translucent but iron link between us was forged. If that is not procreation, I don’t know what is.

  Thomas Whaley and Carl Leichthammer

  SHOREHAM, NEW YORK

  From the dawn of our relationship, which began in the winter of 2000, Carl and I both knew that we wanted children. Our initial conversations about the hopes of fatherhood were casual, often preceded with “One day…” We were young, spontaneous and just beginning our teaching careers, so it was not our main focus, but rather a dream. As time went by and our love and respect for each other grew stronger, we celebrated by having a commitment ceremony in October of 2002. We knew a family was going to follow eventually, but like any other newlyweds, we had no idea when. We decided to wait for the “right moment,” but honestly, is there ever one?

  Carl and I agreed that we wanted a house before adding children into the mix. Commitment, house and then children. The order seemed so 1950s traditional, but we enjoyed calling ourselves the “unconventional traditional couple,” so this order worked for us. Once we settled into our new home in 2005, we decided the time was right to make our dream of becoming parents a reality. We had no idea how exhausting and difficult the initial process was going to be.

  First we weighed all the available options. Surrogacy was enticing, but also extremely expensive, and neither of us felt that biology was important. Foster care scared us: We cringed at the idea of becoming emotionally attached to a child and then possibly having to hand him or her back to someone knocking on our front door.

  Adopting children from other countries was another one of our choices, but most countries at the time did not allow LGBT couples to adopt. We knew adopting in the United States was the right choice for us and eventually found the right adoption agency to work with. In the winter of 2006, we attended the agency’s “get acquainted” weekend and officially embarked on the process of starting our family.

  We were not ready for the emotional rollercoaster it turned out to be! Looking back, we now laugh, roll our eyes and often wonder how we survived the initial stages of the adoption. All couples, gay or straight, should receive a gold star just for this part of the process: fingerprints, background checks, job and social histories, past addresses, bank statements, home visits, lawyer fees, 800-numbers and creating a brochure and website. It all seemed tedious and endless, but the encouragement from our friends and family kept our eyes on the prize—a beautiful child to call our own and complete our family.

  After five months, New York State decided we were fit to adopt and ready to be picked. It was at this precise moment that we were gently reminded by our assigned agency counselor that it could take as long as five years to be chosen by a birthmother. So like many other couples “in waiting,”
we got a dog—a yellow lab puppy named Jake.

  Waiting was difficult at times. Carl and I made sure to communicate our feelings throughout the process, both with each other and with family and friends. During our waiting period, several of our close friends became pregnant and had babies. As much as we wanted to rejoice, we often found ourselves feeling jealous or depressed, which was an awful way to feel, especially since those feelings were new for both of us. Luckily, we were very close with our friends Keith and Peter, who had also begun the process of adopting, so the four of us could sit down and relate to one another, which made our rollercoaster of emotions easier to bear. Our adoption agency also had counselors on staff who called to check up on us. They were always available to talk.

  As time went by, many postcards from our adoption agency came to our home, each one briefly outlining a woman who requested our boastful brochure. They didn’t excite us as much as we wanted them to. But one summer day in 2007, a postcard came that made us curiously giddy. It called out to us: This birthmother was not a teenager, it was not her first child and she was a professional. As much as we didn’t want to stereotype, she seemed like someone who knew adoption was right for her. It was the first and only one we posted on our fridge.

  For months we stared at the postcard, waiting for our phone to ring. And one day it did. But it was not a call that we expected. It was the Department of Health and Human Services (DHHS) in Tacoma, Washington. They had a three-month-old baby boy in foster care and his birthparents’ rights were about to be terminated. They explained that if things worked out, it might be quite a while before he could come home.

  Two weeks later, we were on a plane to meet Andrew. We spent the holidays with him. We fell in love with him. And even though we had to leave without him, we got home and began preparing for Andrew’s pending arrival. We called our adoption agency and took ourselves off the waiting list until we were ready to adopt again. We took down the postcard and celebrated New Year’s Eve with an entirely different outlook on life. We were going to be dads.

  Just days after celebrating the New Year, our hopes of becoming Andrew’s fathers were shattered: “I’m so sorry. You cannot adopt Andrew. His mother has agreed to go into a treatment facility, so we cannot terminate her rights.” It was what we feared the most about adopting through foster care. The emotions we felt were catastrophic. It took two days and many boxes of tissues before we could call our adoption agency and ask them to put us back on the waiting list. We felt defeated. We took the postcard out of the drawer next to the fridge and put it back up. It helped us feel that hope again.

  On January 6th, 2008, we were back on the waiting list. The next day we got a call from the birthmother on the postcard. She had chosen us when we were at our lowest point!

  Our future son’s birthmother invited us to her sonogram one week after we first spoke. It was amazing! We drove deep into the heart of Pennsylvania and stayed overnight. The sonogram experience was more than we could have ever asked for and seeing the baby for the very first time left us speechless. We had never imagined having sonogram pictures to share with our friends and family. During our time together after the sonogram, we went shopping with the birthmother for some comfortable maternity clothes and got to meet her two sons.

  A few months later, we drove back to Pennsylvania to help deliver our son, Luke Thomas. He was perfect and his birthmother was our guardian angel. On April 14th, my birthday, we were allowed to bring Luke home with us. Knowing his birthmother had sixty days to change her mind was bothersome at times, but greatly overpowered by the love we both felt for our son. Calling each other Dad or Daddy was amazing. Even though we were aware of the sixty-day window, in our hearts we knew he was our son for life. And even though we were overwhelmed with lack of sleep, lawyers, paperwork and follow-up home visits, it didn’t seem to be bothersome anymore.

  The communication with Luke’s birthmother afterward was consistent—we spoke with her several times a week. We really got to know each other well during the pregnancy and ended up becoming friends. We even connected with her on social media and she has been watching Luke grow up through the pictures we post. It has been a great way for her to feel good about her decision, knowing he is well taken care of and living a happy life.

  Even though everything was going well, one thing still bothered us—Andrew. One day we got an urgent phone message: “Hello, Tom and Carl. This is DHHS. We have something very important and exciting to share with you. Please call us when you get a chance.” We found out that Andrew’s mother had dropped out of the rehabilitation program and that her parental rights had been terminated. Andrew was ours. On July 5th, Carl’s birthday, Andrew came home and completed our family.

  Our boys are now six years old. Andrew’s birthmother made some amazing, positive life changes in that time and we have since reestablished contact with her. Andrew even mailed her a card that he had made in school and we set up a phone conversation on Mother’s Day right after Luke spoke with his birthmother. Both boys now have that in common and can talk with each other about their feelings and excitement.

  Adoption paperwork, background checks, lawyers, home visits and sleepless nights have now been replaced with lacrosse, soccer and basketball practices, video games, homework, arguing over chores and taking care of our two dogs, Jake and Sam. We are a hectic house of six. Every step along the way has grounded us, humbled us. It made us stronger as a couple and now as a family.

  We began our journey with hopes of finding our babies, but our babies ended up finding us.

  Lisa Blake and Kerry Booth

  DERBY, UNITED KINGDOM

  Time seems to have flown and I can’t work out whether I feel a million years older with children in my life or as youthful and energetic as a puppy. At thirty-something, my partner and I decided to begin an application to become foster parents for social services. We chose the foster care route over one of us physically giving birth for a number of reasons: there were so many children out there needing good homes and we didn’t feel “the need” or that maternal yearning to give birth ourselves. Also, we were both too squeamish!

  Having a house with a little extra room, steady jobs and a solid relationship, Kerry and I felt that we were ready for something more and could offer a child the love and support, comfort and security desperately needed by so many. A number of our family and friends had commented that we “ought to do it” and that we’d “make great parents,” so one fresh New Year back in 2010, after much consideration, we finally did.

  For most couples in a heterosexual relationship, having children in their lives is often something that “just happens.” It’s socially and culturally accepted as the norm and therefore expected and encouraged. However, Kerry and I gave the prospect a lot of thought. We had both become very comfortable with each other and enjoyed our lifestyle of freedom and spontaneity. How might things change with a third or even fourth presence in our calm and peaceful home?

  Our family and circle of friends were supportive and encouraging and any of our work colleagues who may have been against it on religious grounds didn’t voice any ill wishes. Curiously, it was my mother—known to berate me with “I’ll never be a grandmother” remarks—who was the most disgruntled about it. However, since my lack of heterosexuality has disappointed and disgruntled my mother through most of my “out” life, I’m beginning to let it roll off my shoulders now.

  The application went in and our first visit from the assessing social worker was arranged. She was a lovely lady with a thousand questions. Over countless cups of tea (milk, no sugar), she recorded what seemed like our entire life history, including our childhood upbringing, family members, our relationship and medical background. It seemed like a lot to delve into, but Kerry and I understood it was important. Our homosexuality was discussed briefly, but in an honest and pragmatic way. The social worker had to know that we were prepared for anything.

  “How would you feel if a child asked if you were gay? How might yo
u respond if a child saw you holding hands or being affectionate?” she asked politely.

  These questions may seem intrusive at first and the temptation for many is to fire back another question: “Are these the questions you ask straight couples?” But the fact is that social workers need to get to know the people who are potentially being allowed to bring vulnerable children into their homes and lives. They have to get it right. Failure here is catastrophic for a child in any situation, heterosexual or homosexual. Assessing social workers may or may not ask straight people similar questions, but it’s true that many children may have preconceived ideas about what relationships and families are like.

  At the risk of us sounding like “the only gays in the county,” it was important for the social worker to hear us respond thoughtfully, honestly, positively and appropriately to the child’s age and be aware of any preconceived and possibly negative views he or she may have from previous life experiences. I felt our social worker supported us at every step and that our calm but positive opinions on equal rights and diversity worked well within the fostering network’s ethos.

  Several more interviews and many more cups of tea went by over the coming months, including standard interviews with our parents, other family members and close friends. We had health and safety checks on the house, garden and cars and even a “Cat Questionnaire” to determine any risk factors that may arise with our two little moggies!

  As summer drew to a close, September arrived and it was back to school for Kerry and I. We had three weekends of foster care training that month. Despite a few grumbles at the thought of “working weekends” and a mounting folder of material to read and respond to, we marched on, feeling more than ever that this is what we wanted to do. I remember the first day of training. There was a mixture of people there, all with welcoming smiles, nods and pleasantries. We helped ourselves to tea and sat down in two of the chairs set out in a large circle.