Second Comings

Oliver or Olivier? Delphine or Delphina? In the long run, does it truly matter? Well, yes, I do want every single person he/she ever meets to fall in love with him/her. Isn’t that what every parent wants. Global acceptance. Ok, not really. Where would I be today if I had been loved by everyone I ever met? Who knows, but I do know that its impossible to achieve such a goal. Plus, I just don’t want to agree with everyone. I love being different. Yes, I am talking about being gay. It has forced me to be far more aware in life. It has forced me to be strong. Being gay is one of the best things that ever happened to me. So what’s my point? My point is that we are about to embark upon a journey even more different than anything we have ever done before, and likely will ever do in the rest of our lives. We are going to adopt a black child. Two white males and their adopted two and half year old daughter are welcoming a fourth person into our family. A very small, beautiful person (though it hasn’t been born yet). And we couldn’t be more excited, nervous and generally happy.
But the funny part has nothing to do with the fact the baby will be black. I was far more concerned with the fact that Calliope has been such an angel, such a blessing. Her adoption was flawless, her birthparents are just an extension of our family these days, she never cried much, she is gorgeous, smart and just all around perfect. How can you share your love for such a beautiful creature with another? For the longest time, I was so worried about whether or not I would love a second child as much as I love Calliope.
But then this potential adoption in New Orleans showed up. And one day as I was sitting on the sofa daydreaming about babies and Calliope was sitting about ten feet away eating lunch, it happened. I was completely wrapped up in thoughts of newborns, their smell, holding them, rocking them back and forth or just that amazing experience of having them nap naked on your chest. And there was love, and lots of it. And Calliope was right there. I didn’t love her any less, but she is not a baby anymore. There is no sadness that Calliope isn’t a baby. Every day she is something new and older, something more. And there is no comparison. The new baby will be just that, new. It was a true revelation for me. In that moment, I knew that Calliope would still always be “perfect” and have a perfect spot in my heart. Our new family member will have its own spot in there too. I am relieved. I was honestly worried about the balance of love and how it would all work out. It seems silly in hindsight, but at the time, it was very real to me.
Speaking of perfect, look at this picture of Calliope giving Dad a “look”. Freaking amazing.