Ham (32 page)

“We can build a bed over the tub and the toilet is so convenient!”

He also suggested we utilize the garage, which was separate and on a different level from the rest of the house with no interior entrance, and was unheated and un-air-conditioned. I imagined the jarring, mechanical grind of the garage door opening for late-night feedings, with our child's crib set against a wall between a chain saw and a bike rack. Danny was grasping at straws, but at least he was imagining the prospect. I begged him not to tell anyone about his baby room ideas.

We hadn't even begun the process and Child Protective Services would already be at our door.

I was confident that, beneath his angst, Danny wanted to be a father. He'd said as much many times, so I knew this wasn't just a Sam thing. Though he'd been the spontaneous life-embracer when we'd first met, our roles seemed to reverse around anything that spelled big change or ongoing obligation. Bull running or cave diving sounded great, but buying a houseplant was paralyzing. It had been the same when we first moved in together on the road, then moved to New York, then got a dog, two dogs, moved to Los Angeles, bought a car, two cars, a house. He was a foot dragger. But once he was in, that was it. Forever. I once said to him, “I've had to pull you into everything in your life that you treasure most!”

Translation:
I know more about you than you do.
Not really a welcome opinion in a relationship . . . even if I was right.

But he was being justifiably cautious. Becoming a parent is scary stuff—Big—the single most important decision we would ever make. Most straight people grow up presuming they will have children, so not all of them look at the gravity of the decision. If there is a decision at all. Gay people really have to map it out. We don't get knocked up, try as we might.

On September 17, 2007, at 7:32 p.m., Danny told me he was ready. I said, “Are you sure? For real? This is what you want?” He said he was sure, for real, scared but sure.

And so it began.

•  •  •

The next morning at nine o'clock on the dot, I called David Radis, an adoption attorney, whose number I had already programmed into my phone to save the four seconds it would take to manually enter it. His name had come up repeatedly as
the
guy in town. Another actress friend, JoBeth Williams, had hired him nearly twenty years earlier when she adopted her two boys, and she said that David “matches souls.” I dug the idea of soul matching. It sounded metaphysical, spiritual, and organized, like socks, all at the same time.

We met with Radis the next day. His offices were in one of the very intimidating, monstrous buildings in Century City on Avenue of the Stars, which is as pretentious as it sounds. Thankfully, David Radis wasn't. He was warm and direct and looked just like Robert DeNiro, with the same uneven grin and arched eyebrow and even the distinguishing mole. With the vast DeNiro film catalog flashing through my mind, I somehow landed on
The Deer Hunter
and it made me like him even more. I sensed he would see us through this undertaking heroically, even as we felt we were playing Russian roulette just like in the movie.

We sat at a formal conference table and Radis performed a few card tricks to ease the tension. A little showbiz is always a good opener. He asked if we'd considered surrogacy and we explained that since the child couldn't biologically be both of ours, and there were so many kids in need of a loving home, we'd chosen to adopt. Danny admitted his concern about potentially not knowing the medical history of the birth parents. I reminded him that between our two families, our own pedigrees included various cancers, diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure, osteoporosis, diverticulitis, fibromyalgia, rheumatoid arthritis, chronic alcoholism, drug addiction, acid reflux, acne, and restless legs syndrome. Plus everyone in both our families was basically crazy.

Danny and I agreed that the genes of almost anyone else would give the kid a better shot.

Radis explained that it could take as long as two years to find a match but felt that we'd have a child much sooner because we'd been together for thirteen years and we had a good parental profile for the “book of our life” we would prepare.

I presumed he meant we were photogenic.

He asked if we had a gender preference. Danny
really
wanted a boy. Or rather, he was afraid that his athletic, high-energy, rough-and-tumble nature would fall flat on a girl unless she turned out to be a tennis pro or a lesbian or both. He is not the princess-and-tea-party type. I knew he'd be a great dad no matter the gender and I didn't want to limit our opportunities, so we agreed that if the birth mother knew it was a boy, great. If she knew it was a girl, we'd hold off. But if she didn't know the sex, we were up for that possibility.

There was an absurd amount of information to absorb and tasks to complete, which included interviews, physicals, fingerprint scans, criminal background checks, endless paperwork, agency meetings, house inspections, classes, written essays, and money flying out of our hands at every turn. We didn't mind. We were proving our qualifications to be parents and it was a constant psychological reminder of the mammoth role we were asking to take on. In the middle of it all, I felt that even biological parents should have to jump through the same hoops. There'd be a lot fewer lousy parents out there, and a lot fewer screwed-up kids.

On the other hand, my mother and father might not have passed the bar, and that would have been a shame. At least to me.

Our “book of our life” was a meticulously prepared pictorial scrapbook, created as a sort of audition for potential birth mothers. We assembled a retrospective that dated to our meeting and included photos of our house, our dogs, our world travels, our humor—and every word toiled over like a final thesis for a parental doctorate at the University of Hallmark.

Your baby will have two loving daddies.

We have been together for 13 years

of extraordinary love, adventure, and joy.

We share an enthusiastic zest for life.

It is time for us to pass on

all of this love to one special child.

All of it was true.

We announced to our family and closest friends that we were “in the process.” Everyone was thrilled beyond expectation, except for Danny's born-again brother and his wife, who said, “We feel sorry for the child to have gay parents.” We tried to feel sorry for
them
and particularly for their children. They asked if we would be “raising the child as a homosexual.”

“Most definitely,” we confirmed. “Just like our parents did. All gay people we know were raised as homosexuals by their straight parents.”

Seriously?

In my first year with Danny, my introduction to this particular brother was his refusal to attend Thanksgiving if we were coming. Danny's mom wisely said, “All my children are invited. If you choose not to come, that's your prerogative.” They didn't come.

I'd always been a take-the-high-road-and-love-will-always-win kind of guy, and we exhibited the kind of character most would deem “Christian,” continuing to turn the other cheek. The years brought a sense of slow progress and everyone began to attend family gatherings; however, a kind of contempt, carefully tucked behind a mass of scrambled Jesus and counterfeit grins, continued to be scattered like drops of acid.

Danny and I had grown up in a generation that had encouraged us to accept bigotry as beliefs and we blamed their insolence on everything but them: culture, ignorance, religious dogma. I even convinced myself that part of their behavior was due to an overabundance of dip.

Every single time we saw them, they only ate dip.

Taco dip, crab dip, spinach dip, BLT dip, buffalo-chicken dip, seven-layer dip, artichoke dip, Reuben dip, hoagie dip, shrimp dip, corn dip, and, for adults only—beer dip and margarita dip. Technically, all the food groups and accompanying beverages were represented, but I still believed lack of chewable food could have significant mental, dental, and spiritual repercussions.

However, this newest slur changed me. It changed us. Or rather, it woke us up. You can only turn the other cheek so many times before both sides are equally raw and bloody and require reconstructive surgery.

“Love the sinner, hate the sin,” was their credo.

“Love the hypocrite, hate the hypocrisy,” had been ours.

Though not yet fathers, our new motto was “You can fuck with me, but don't fuck with my child.”

For the sake of the family, we chose space and caution over confrontation, but finally, their very public plea to collect signatures for legislation against marriage equality was the last indignity. The pack of straw was backbreaking and the camel was dead. And we could no longer assemble the patience or empathy for a malevolence we'd previously excused as merely ignorant or dippy.

I'd never understood “gay pride.” How could I be proud of something I had no part in, like having brown hair or green eyes? Pride came from accomplishment, I'd thought. But now I got it. While we were sadly forced to acknowledge that love doesn't always triumph, we were unflinchingly proud to have emerged from the brainwashing of our adolescence, resolute in knowing that bigotry under the guise of beliefs was no longer unacceptable. Ever. From anyone. And
that
was an accomplishment.

Thankfully, the born-agains were the exception. Throughout the entire adoption affair, their sad comment was the only dollop of prejudice we encountered. Soon we were telling everyone: all of our friends, acquaintances, and, finally, strangers—usually people with strollers or pregnant women.

“We're having a baby too!”

“When?”

“We don't know.”

“Well then . . . congratulations.”

Everyone was happy for us.

Adoption does, however, invite some strange encounters.

“My friends adopted a boy,” someone we barely knew shared with us. “And then a year later they had a
real
boy.”

Danny and I stared in shock. Then, to break the silence, I said, “Did they name him Pinocchio?”

“What did they do with the fake one?” Danny added.

Only a month after our first meeting with the attorney, we got a call from a birth mother carrying twins who was deciding between us and another, older, straighter couple. Twins! I trembled at the thought. Optimistically, I reasoned that though the first years would be a living, breathing nightmare, they'd have each other to play with . . . and to gang up on us. We took a deep breath and proceeded. The birth mother sent a picture. She was tiny and round and blond. Adorable. She loved to sing. Fantastic.

The only slight drawback was that she couldn't leave Wisconsin because she was under house arrest with an ankle bracelet alarm and transmitter.

She'd been convicted for laundering money. Ever the liver-loving optimist, I found the bright side to her being a federal criminal: “It's white-collar crime! She's smart! This is great!”

I spoke with her almost daily for a few weeks and we scheduled the trip to meet her in person. When I called Radis to tell him of our plans, he informed me that she'd already chosen the other couple. Apparently, she hadn't wanted to give up the attention we were pouring on her: the calls, the care, the packages of prenatal vitamins and chocolates and belly cream. It was a mind-blowing, gut-crushing hurt. That hollow, absent aching place like when a death happens.

We told ourselves that our baby would come to us when our baby was ready.

Three months after the first meeting with Radis, we got another call from a potential birth mother. Danny was out of town, so I spoke to her by myself. She was due in six weeks. She also lived out of state but didn't have an arrest record and was free to travel unescorted by a G-man. She asked if we were sure we wanted a child and I told her, “Yes, more than anything in the world. This child will be the most important thing in our lives, above all else, forever.” She told me no one had said that before.

I FedExed the “book of our life” with a personal letter. Radis faxed over a photo she'd included in her profile. She was beautiful. Dazzling, in fact: high, round cheekbones, dark, expressive eyes and a crooked, dimpled smile that I hoped was inheritable. Danny and I had told ourselves that looks didn't matter. That anyone who chose us and was properly vetted would be the woman who “grew our child.” We hoped only for health and intelligence and a sense of humor—the vital elements that make for a good life. But the fact that she was beautiful was a plus and we admitted it. Pretty never hurts.

The next morning I was at my publicist's office talking about
me me me
and my phone rang. I had already put this woman's number in my iPhone and recognized it. I nervously ran into a private office and after a trepidatious “Hello,” I heard the words: “I choose you and Danny to be the parents of this baby.”

And so it really began.

•  •  •

The adoption agency and the adoption attorney told us about the legal aspects. They recommended rules and boundaries. They told a few horror stories and a few sob stories, but most of the stories had happy endings. Still, no one could possibly have prepared us for the most intense, emotional, trusting, mistrusting, thrilling, terrifying, volatile, roller-coaster relationship of our lives. Strangers one day, forever tied the next, we entered into an alliance more profound than we'd ever known. Would she betray us? Did she make the right choice for herself? Would she keep the child after all, or decide that an aunt or grandmother might do a better job?

She left everything familiar and traveled to Los Angeles in the care of two nervous daddy-wannabe outsiders and was put in a hotel. They say teeth are the window to overall health and I found myself sneaking glimpses at her incisors and molars as if she were a filly. The next day, we escorted her to a series of meetings with our attorney and social worker, who grilled and prodded to ferret out lies and inconsistencies and red flags, albeit with respect and etiquette. It was like waterboarding with fine linen and Pellegrino. They pried into her personal life about her sexual conduct, her drug history, her personal habits, her philosophies, her religion, her family. She answered each question with an easy honesty that belied her age.