Colorblind

My wife Cara and I decided before marriage that we wanted adoption to play a role in forming our family. What we didn’t realize at the time was that having a biological child wasn’t going to be as easy as we had hoped — we needed to get serious about adopting sooner than expected. A few years into our marriage, with nervousness and excitement, we started the process.

We decided to pursue an adoption privately, as opposed to going through an agency, since agency fees tend to add $15-25K to the already significant expense of adopting. Being students at the time and with finances a bit tight, we reached out to our network of family and friends to help spread the word about our interest in adopting.

After a few months marked by scams and relative silence, discouragement set in. It’s hard to put yourself out there completely, all the time, and hear nothing in return.

One day my wife received an email through one of our online adoption profiles saying there was a baby boy being born the next day and someone wanted to talk to us about it. We immediately thought, “Nah, too good to be true—definitely a scam.” But my wife called the number and we soon discovered it was a real lead! The expectant mother would be induced the following morning and wanted to meet us after delivery!

The next four days were a rollercoaster, as we went to the hospital, held the little boy and got to know the birth mother — not knowing for sure if he’d join our family. We prayed in our hearts that he would. Each day my wife would say, “Honey, I can’t go back to that hospital room and hold that precious babe — I know my heart will break if he isn’t the one we’ve been praying for.”

On the day the birth mother was to be discharged, we’d still received no confirmation of any decision. Eventually, someone from the adoption agency called and said, “We’re so sorry… it doesn’t look like she will place the baby with you. She goes home today.”

We were crushed. Absolutely crushed. It was one of the heaviest days we’ve experienced together.

Around 7 p.m. that evening, I received another call. It was the agency…

“There have been some developments; pack your bags and pillows — you might be sleeping at the hospital tonight and bringing a baby home in the morning.”

In a daze of disbelief and with hopeful, but guarded hearts, we drove back to the hospital once again. Two hours later, we left the hospital with our first son.

From zero to one hundred.

I was a father.

It was incredible.

In the ensuing months we began to realize how much we would need to know about raising a child that was adopted. And we immediately began to learn about some of the unique experiences in raising a child of a different race. Our son is African American. We are Caucasian.

You get looks.

Questions.

The questions are sometimes very awkward, as people fumble to make sense of your family.

I am proud to be my son’s father and love him so much. I commit to a lifetime of explaining to random, questioning strangers that he is my son — wholly, completely, as if blood. I know I am not African American, and do not claim to be. But I will do my best to ensure that he grows up knowing his full story, his identity and history — and knowing we are so proud that he is part of our family.

Fathers (and mothers) who are hoping to adopt: be aware that there will be moments when it may be hard to believe that things will work out. It can be hard to carry on without signs of hope. Also know that you don’t just receive a baby and live happily ever after; there are massive challenges that begin the day you bring the baby home and continue as you learn and better understand what adoption really means to you and your child.

But above all, remember this: each day that you choose to put yourself out there, to learn, to do right by your adopted child’s culture, and to honor your child’s birth family, brings you one day closer to the lifelong connection you will have with your beautiful child, for whom you have loved, prayed and worked so hard. Take it a step at a time, but keep moving forward.

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