What about the Ancestors?

I remember that day very clearly. An excited call from my partner, Leon, saying “We have got a child”. I went into panic mode. I had made my position very clear, both to him and into Social Welfare. I wasn’t going to have just any child thrown at me. I wanted to be sure that I could “bond” with the child first – not that I had the vaguest idea of what that might mean.

So I went to see this child, which they thought would be right for us. He was lying quietly in his cot at the far end of the room, sucking his finger. I looked at him. He looked at me. After a while, I put out my finger and he took hold of it. And at that moment – that instant – I knew that this child was mine. I knew that I was his father and he would be my son.

When we adopted our children, the legal wording of the adoption order was, for me at least, very important. It said that this child was now “as if born to you”. The ancestors of that child (and the state) for whatever reason, handed him over to me and my partner. Our children were not “abandoned”. They were consciously and lovingly handed over. Those children are now mine - “as if born to me”. These two black boys now have two white fathers.

And it happened quite naturally, fairly early on, when I was asked by one of them about the identity of an old white lady in my photograph album, that I explained that she was my mother. “Your grandmother”, I explained, “she died a long time ago”. And we moved on to the next set of pictures. “And that is your Aunt, and that is your cousin…” and so it went.

Both the children refer to Leon’s parents, who are much more to them than pictures in an album - as “Granny” and “Grandpa”. And Leon’s parents make no distinction between our children and the children which his brother has produced biologically. Our ancestors are now the children’s ancestors. They have no others.

Of course besides anything else, the question of culture has also come up fairly frequently. Just because of the fact that these children happen to be black and me white, do I need to start doing a course in gumboot dancing? Should I rush off and get myself circumcised? Should I have a regular supply of Mopani worms in the house to make them feel secure? This is as crazy as it is bizarre and it reveals, I am afraid, just how far we are away from a really non-racial society, where colour is the least significant thing about a person.

No, we are not there yet. And yes, I have no objection to “exposing” my children to cultures other than my own. I also have no illusions about the difficult path they will need to tread. They need to be secure, not in some fantasy culture from somewhere else, but in their own skin, for who they are. And force-feeding them Mopani worms will not make it easier for them. It may make it a whole lot worse.

Trans-racial parenting

Pic - Getty Images

I have written quite about this in this blog before - so I was interested to read a satirical article recently on the site "Parent 24" by Sipho Yanana, entitled "My white son", where the author (black) contemplates adopting a white child - and how that child would be brought up. The article itself is really good - but the comments, or some of them at least, are fairly indicative of the state of intellectual play about this issue.

However, an interesting aside. Our childminder came home today, after a weekend of Zionist church services (which involves, she tells us, singing, praying, dancing and tea drinking - tea without milk or sugar - which is described as the "Tea of life"). She got a lift with a fellow Zionist, who is apparently also working for two white gay men who have adopted children. Except, in this case, the children which have been adopted were imported from Europe, and are white.

I remember having pause for thought, many years back, while I was living in the UK, when I heard that social services there would not allow adoptions trans racially. I wondered, for a moment, whether this might be racist. But thinking about it, I came to realise that, it probably is not. We do not, after all, live in a perfect world. And the needs of the child, of course, need to be paramount. I discovered, when we were going through our own adoption process, that even here in South Africa, social welfare will try, as much as possible to pair like with like. So, for instance, if there is a black child, black parents will be preferred. If there is an Indian child, a coloured child - these would be matched, as far as possible with their racial equivalents.

Of course, it isn't always possible - and then the default position is to match a child with loving, willing and able parents, rather than let the child languish in a home. And I think also, though it was never said, that if a child can be placed in a heterosexual home, that would be preferred to a same-sexed arrangement.

And the reason would be this - that it is just easier! It is much easier not to stick out like a sore thumb in public. It is much easier not to have to explain why you are a different colour from your parents. It is much easier to be in a "normal" environment, than one which is uncommon. That is why it would be preferred.

What do I think about that? I think it is probably correct. Does that mean that we should put an end to trans-racial adoptions, or adoptions by homosexuals - not at all! But I don't think we should be so naive as to ignore the problems, both potential and real.

The link to the article is

http://www.parent24.com/Content/Getting_pregnant/adoption/2151/2ee5d683100f4ac6b86695187a065fdf/31-08-2009%2011-08/My_white_son_

A new child

Jacqui and her new son Amila

The moment - Jacqui's mother, Bernadette and brother Andrew holding Amila.

My friend Jacqui has just adopted a child. The waiting for this moment has been long and laboured. I wonder why this seems to be the norm? I wonder why, in a country wracked with HIV, poverty, unemployment, violence and often completely unthinking sexual behaviour, it seems to take the social services so incredibly long to sort out the match between obviously able parent and obviously needy child?

It was really no different in our case. Despite that fact that I kept on changing my mind about it, when all was said and done and decided, we still had to wait months and months for our first child. And the second spent months and months waiting for us apparently, because we could have taken him three months before he actually was given to us! Those three extra months, were fairly critical in his development. When 6 month old Joshua arrived, he was a bit like a zombi. He seemed to have no emotions. He just stared around him - never crying, or gurgling, or doing any of the other social things which babies of 6 months are supposed to do.

Luckily, the light did switch on - and Joshua today, is the most animated child imaginable. But there has been damage. His motor movements are not what they should be. His writing and drawing is extremely bad and he needs Occupational Therapy to see him right. All because of the level of under-stimulation which he received in those crucial early months.

Jacqui's little boy (named by his birth-mother, Amila) has been in foster care - and though this might mean that he has other problems, he certainly does not seem to be under-stimulated. He is bright, alert, aware and self-confident. A beautiful little boy.

As we sat there, in Jacqui's maginificent Hout Bay house, overlooking a wonderful valley, amongst her friends and family, I could not help think back on the welcome parties we had for both our boys, some 6 and 7 years ago now, and started to enumerate in my mind the absolute joy which these children have brought into our lives. As I have said before, in previous postings, I may not be the world's most natural parent, but our children have undoubtedly made me a better, a more fulfilled person. A more whole person. That is what children can do, it seems, if you let them.

I remember the first time their grandparents met our eldest child, Gabriel. What we were doing was not the expected. It was, perhaps, not what they had dreamed for their son. They came from Harding - a tiny town in KwaZulu-Natal. Their exposure to situations like this was limited. But if they did have difficulties, though, they had determined they would overcome them. And they have proved themselves to be the most supportive and most loving of grandparents through the years.

I watched as Jacqui's mother arrived, also from KwaZulu-Natal, to meet her grandson for the first time. I watched her eyes, as they first set eyes on her new grandchild, Amila. If there was uncertainty before, (and there must have been) there was none at that moment. Because immediately, the bond had happened. I spoke to Jacqui about this two nights ago. I said to her, wasn't it amazing how that thing happens? That thing which is hard-wired into our make-up as human beings. The way in which once you meet your child, you change as a human being. You cross from being an observer, to being a player. From being a relative, or a friend, or a helper, or a next-door-neighbour, to being a father or a mother. The switch is thrown. You will never be the same again. And then a grand-mother or grand-father. You have changed into something else. You can't ever go back.

On our children's birthdays, Leon and I write a letter to them in a book. We write about what is happening around us and what is happening in our lives. We write about our pains and our sorrows and our joys and our pleasures. We tell them about themselves - what we see in them; what we hope for; what they have done in the past year; what they have said, what they have achieved. We will give it to them, when they are 21, as a word-scape of our journey together. Because it has been, so far, a wonderful one.

Our children, Gabriel and Joshua, are both very different from each other. I have no doubt that they will journey on very different paths. But, for sure, the one thing which will bind them together is Leon and me, and our family and families. That is a constant they can rely on.

And so, Jacqui, I welcome you to this strange and bewildering state of being that is parenthood. I know, without any doubt that you will face both joy and anguish. You will know love (like you have never known it before) and moments of the deepest despair. And above all of that, you will experience the thrill of guiding another human being on this exciting path called life.

Gay-friendly fairy stories

Some years back, I went to fetch my son, Gabriel, from his school for a doctor’s appointment. Now let me explain – Gabriel is adopted. He is black. I am white. The school he went to then was almost completely black, barring most of the teachers.

So, I arrived. My younger son, Joshua the extrovert (at the same school, also black, also adopted and, I suspect closely related to Osama bin Laden) rushed up to greet me. Gabriel is much more reserved. He was not unpleased to see me, but concerned, I think, to look in control of the situation. He sauntered up to me, case in hand, and as we left, I heard one of the children shout “Joshua and Gabriel’s daddie is white!”

Now that, I suppose, is a fairly big issue, in an almost all black school. The good thing about them going there is that they consider us (my white partner and I) to be the strange ones. They, on the other hand, are very comfortable in their skin. On the question of my partner and I both being male, we had some nervousness initially, about the school, when one of the kids came home one day saying that they had been talking about families at school. We phoned the school first thing the next morning. We wanted to know whether there might be any difficulty with our situation. “Oh no!” Said the principal, “The class was talking about who had a daddy and who had a mommy and things like that. And Gabriel was pleased as punch, because he had two daddies and most people in his class had none!”

We have sometimes wondered how we should handle the matter, should it come up, with the kids. The other day it did. Joshua at dinner, one evening, suddenly started talking about his mommy. We all turned to him, wondering what he was going on about. On he went – his mommy this and his mommy that. His brother had been quietly considering him for some while. Suddenly he shouted at him “You don’t have a mommy! You have two daddies!” Joshua shut up and that, in a nutshell, was that!

I was interested to read, some time ago, about books which are now being introduced in UK schools, introducing children from as young as 4, to gay and lesbian issues – the so-called “No-outsiders” project, which ended in March 2009. Naturally, conservative religious groups and people are huffing and puffing. “It is tantamount to child abuse!” said one. “It is propaganda designed to warp children’s minds”, said another.

Now our connection with the project is, I admit, slight. But it was enough to make me read the article with some interest. My partner has been very concerned, from the beginning, that our children should grow up seeing themselves (and us) as normal - as indeed, we are! Our family is as “normal” and “ordinary” as you can get. The kids get up every morning, have their breakfast and go to school. When we get home from work, there is the usual stuff that happens in every home with children. Joshua "bin Laden" gets shouted at because he is breaking something; there is a fight over eating healthy things on their plates and bribes with ice-cream to follow if they do; there are demands for cooldrinks after the magic hour of 5pm, indeed there is extreme resistance to going to bed at 8.00pm - and so it goes and so it goes. Just because one of us doesn’t wear a dress as parents, doesn’t make the slightest difference to the sheer normality of the situation.

And there is the bed-time story. My partner scoured the internet and found several storybooks which we read to them, along with Cinderella and Jack-and-the-beanstalk and all the other usuals. One is called “And Tango makes three”, which is a sweet (apparently true) story about two male penguins in the New York zoo. The zookeeper notices that they don’t seem to like the girl penguins very much and instead seem to prefer each other. They set up a nest together. Together, they try to hatch an egg shaped rock unsuccessfully. The kindly zookeeper takes pity on them and puts a real egg in the nest which they made for themselves – which they successfully hatch this time and raise a healthy chick called Tango – because it takes two to tango.

Another is called “King and King”. An elderly Queen decides she has had enough with ruling and that her only son should take over. She arranged for all the likely Princesses in the land to process before him, so that he can choose a suitable Queen for himself. No-one seems to catch his fancy. Would-be Queen after would-be Queen comes and goes. The son and heir is bored to distraction. But one day, a young hopeful just happens to bring her brother with her for support, and it is love at first sight! They get married and everyone lives happily ever after. And everyone called them King and King!

The last one is called “The Sissy Duck” and it is about a male duckling who likes cooking, cleaning and art. Now, as I say, we read these to the children periodically, mixed in with all the other favourites. I can’t say that they leaped up and down with enthusiasm when we read these particular stories, but they each had their own favourites and prefered those to all others.

And the point of it all? Well, just that what we are doing, and the life we are living - feels terribly ordinary. Because that is what it is! And it is both a pity, and I would say ridiculous, that there isn’t a range of literature and other support mechanisms, which would help to support that ordinariness.

My partner recorded bits and pieces on the TV about the Ellen Generis marriage. We encouraged the children to watch - giving no comment. His point was that they need to see that who we are is not something odd or entirely unusual. There are other people in the world who are also engaged in the same kind of relationship that their parents are.

I had a discussion with the Gabriel, the oldest child, not so long ago. I asked him whether his friends at school ever ask him where his mother is? he said some did. I asked him what he answered them. he said "I tell them I don't know where she is". Isn't that brilliant?! Because he doesn't, and neither do we!

And that is why I think the UK Education department seems to have managed to get things right. I have no doubt we will get there in the long run, but it is a real pity that it seems to be taking so long. Because same-sex child rearing is hardly new – but it is going to become much more evident, now that marriage (or civil union) is legally permitted. That is just a very plain, simple, fact of life.

And the fears that people have of corrupting children through educating them to different lifestyles, is just plain irrational. What I fear, deeply and not irrationally, is the consequences of not educating children – because what happens then is bullying, hatred, teasing and hurt. All because they don’t know any better.

I am just waiting for the same-sex fairy story, which has children of a different race from their parents in it, to feel really covered!

Trans-racial parenting

My children are black. That is an accident of their physiology, as much as my relative paleness is of mine.

We have, in our employ, a childminder, who comes originally from Venda. Venda is famous for, amongst other things, Mopani worms. One day, I arrived home from work to find my eldest child chewing on a large, seemingly juicy Mopani worm, which he had demanded from her plate. My personal reaction was revulsion – but he seemed to be enjoying it, so no harm was done and I made no comment. I notice that today, 7 years later, Mopani worms do not seem to feature on his list of favourite foods. They could, because they are still infrequently present in our household, but they don’t.

When we were living in Johannesburg, our children attended a mostly black pre-primary school. The accent of the eldest child was that of a non-model “C” black South African. Very unlike mine, which, although not Queen’s English by a long shot, has been accused of being slightly “posh”. Our other son, who attended the same school, seemed to have an accent more like ours. When we moved to Cape Town, it took two weeks before the eldest child spoke in a broad and immediately recognisable “Cape flats” accent. The other maintained what he had before. Both children again went to the same school.

My point? Culture, and everything that goes with it, is learned behaviour. It is not somehow connected to one’s DNA. Their culture isn’t somehow connected to their colour. If my eldest child doesn’t eat Mopani worms, it is not because he hasn’t been exposed to them, but because the dominant culture in which we live, as a family, doesn’t expose him to them often enough for him to want them. If he is now speaking with a Cape flats accent, it is because that is the dominant accent he is exposed to at school and one which appears to help him fit in, whereas the other child doesn’t seem to have the same kind of needs.

When we adopted the children, the legal wording of the adoption order was, for me at least, very important. It said that this child was now “as if born to you”. The ancestors of that child, (and the state) for whatever reason, handed him over to me and my partner. They were not “abandoned”. They were consciously and lovingly handed over. Those children are now mine - “as if born to me”. They now have two white fathers.

Now, just because of the fact that these children happen to be black and me white, do I need to start a course in gumboot dancing? Should I rush off and get myself circumcised? Should I have a regular supply of Mopani worms in the house to make him feel secure? This is as crazy as it is bizarre and it reveals, I am afraid, just how far we are away from a really non-racial society, where colour is the least significant thing about a person.

No, we are not there yet. And yes, I have no objection to “exposing” my children to cultures other than my own, (which is the reason, by the way, that we were at a friend’s ancestor do!) But I also have no illusions about the difficult path they will need to tread. They need to be secure, not in some fantasy culture from somewhere else, but in their own skin, for who they are. And force-feeding them Mopani worms may not make it easier for them. It may make it a whole lot worse.

Are my black children white?

I was pleased to be invited to a colleague of mine’s family ‘do’. “Exactly what kind of a family ‘do’ was it going to be?” I asked. “Oh”, he said breezily, “we will be introducing my youngest son to the ancestors”. I looked seriously at him. “Are there going to be any animal slaughters on the front lawn?” I asked as lightly as I knew how. “Because if there are going to be, then I’m not coming”.

He assured me that the hapless goat had already been killed, and that all that was required was for us to gather round and perform some kind of ritual or other. I thought that would be good, and so, with the aid of my GPS, ventured for not the first time into Gugulethu – (or, as some locals refer to it “Sjoojoolehtois”). Without a GPS, I have to tell you, it would be an impossible exercise. There are no street signs. And the streets themselves are named “NY121” and “NY122” etc. Why NY? Oh, it was explained to me, that stands for “Native Yard”.

Anyway, my two children and I – my two very white children with black skins – arrived. The men were in the garage, being men - and the women were in the living room. I seemed to be an honorary woman, so that is where I stayed for the while. I had noticed on the way in, (as did my saucer-eyed children) that there was the head of the hapless, slaughtered goat, lying next to a small fire that was burning on the front lawn. I noticed too, by the by, that the ground of the front lawn was so waterlogged that the house seemed to be floating. Such is normal, I understand in the Native Yard area.

At some point, a grass mat was produced and mother and child sat on it, were smeared with something red (I didn’t ask!) and all of us, sitting in a circle around them, were asked to take with our right hand, two small beads from a bowl and hold them in our left hands. Then the bowl collected the two beads from everyone’s left hands. These were the same beads that were made into a necklace and placed around Junior’s neck. The string of the necklace was bits of rubbed together Achilles tendon of the hapless goat. I was told that he would wear it until it fell off.

Just prior to this, the hapless goat was brought into the lounge in which we were all sitting, boiled, cut up and in a very large enamel bowl. My children looked at me with very large imploring eyes and said, very definitely, that they were not hungry.

When, later, I asked one of the elders, with whom I was sitting (by virtue of my age, I suppose, and the greying colour of my hair), what the bead ritual had all meant, I was told that the right hand takes, and the left hand gives, and so we are all involved in what that child is, because we all add something to him – to his life, to his being.

That, it seems to me, is a pretty important – fairly dramatic sort of statement. I’m not completely sure how it works out in practise, because obviously, the proof of the pudding must be in the eating, but it is a serious enough, laudable enough sort of principal. And it sure isn’t the way my culture deals with children! There is no way in hell that I could call anyone else’s child mine – and there is very little that I could do influence the way that child grows up. I see this in my own family. It is almost as though other people’s children are some kind of sacred domain. I can’t (and don’t) say when I disapprove of their behaviour, nor would it be expected that I should take any kind of responsibility for them, if they got themselves into serious trouble. And if I did get involved, it would not be because I see the children as mine, but because I would have some sort of connection with the parents.

So, I asked – what did Tata Mkhulu (grandfather) think of my adopted children? Are they white or are they black? Should I be worrying about whether or not to slaughter a goat for them, or not? Predictably, he said that they were not genetically mine, and that culture relates to genes. I said nonsense, in the nicest possible way, of course. And that they are as much my children as if they were conceived by me. And, to cut a long discourse short, we agreed to disagree – because our cultures are so completely different.

It all took me back to when I was living in Lesotho, with the dominant culture so vastly different from my own. With me feeling like I was on Planet Zog, and the Basotho behaving like I was just someone who had, over a period of centuries perhaps, just lost my way.

So, should I be slaughtering goats for my kids? And making bead necklaces for them to wear? I think not. Mine and my partner’s are the only ancestors around – and you know what? That’s what these kids have landed up with. And in my culture, ancestors don’t interfere. And to my children’s great relief, the goats are made of plastic.

Gay parenting

This is an article I wrote some years ago. The picture is taken on the day we collected Joshua (me holding him, Left), from the Princess Alice Adoption Home in Johannesburg. Leon is holding Gabriel.

In any relationship, there is a lot of give and take which is necessary. And gay relationships are not immune from this rather bland observation. So, although I blanched, perspired, threw tantrums, simulated heart attacks and tried spontaneous throwing up at the mention of the word “baby”, I did actually listen. What could I do? I was involved with a man who wanted children. I use the plural judiciously, because, Leon could quite happily have 15 or 16 kids and be perfectly content. But we were not quite there yet. When your spouse says they want children, you have to listen. You have to think, at least momentarily, beyond your own freedom and desire for a quiet life, and listen to what he or she is saying. I suspect if you don’t, you might win the skirmish and lose the conflagration, because these might well be things which come back to haunt you down the line.

So, I listened. I tried to picture myself with a baby. I couldn’t. I tried to think of what it would be like to have someone calling me “daddy” and hated the idea. I wondered what holidays would be like. I wondered what shopping would be like. I wondered what sex would be like with a baby screaming in the next room. None of it conjured up even the faintest glimmer of excitement. It just looked too horrible to contemplate.

But… as I feared, these things start to gain a momentum of their own and before I could say “Bob’s your auntie”, I found myself sitting in front of a social worker from Johannesburg Child Welfare telling her why I wanted a child.

The process was a long one, not because Child Welfare was inefficient, nor because we were treated differently to anyone else (because we weren’t!) but rather because we kept on stopping the process to catch breath – or at least I did!

So we went through the psychometric tests, the relationship tests, the discussions about family support networks, the discussions about what religion we intended bring the child up in, etc etc. It was all extraordinary, but deeply frightening.

And the gay thing, I am pleased to say, played almost no role in the process at all. Yes they spoke about things like, did we have women friends? (yes we do – more women than men actually); how would we handle opposition?(by slapping the opponent’s face) you know – the normal kind of thing. It was ordinary. It was unselfconscious. It was a wonderfully liberating experience. And we knew that the straight couples in our group were having almost exactly the same kind of problems and issues that we were. We knew because they said so. Being a gay parent, we soon understood, was really just about the same as being any other kind of parent.

Our families, on both sides, just accepted the idea. I think there might well have been some issues for them, but (true to form) they decided that we needed to make our own decisions and they would support us in them. But undoubtedly, there were issues. Probably the race issue (because the child would almost inevitably be black) was more difficult for some of them to come to terms with than the gay parent issue. But, whatever their feelings, they decided to support us – which was quite a relief.

The social worker had her doubts about our innate child rearing abilities. (These were nothing, I can tell you, as compared with my doubts!) I had, all my life, maintained only the most restrained, nodding acquaintance with babies and their handlers. I had absolutely no idea of what might be expected. So, she strongly suggested – (nay insisted!) that we go to the Princess Alice Home of a weekend, and feed the babies.

To begin with it was a nightmare. The greatest difficulty, I found, was trying to look composed while sweat broke out on my brow and tremens took over my hand movements. Then there was the business of patting them on the back and burping them and then coping with the almost inevitable gush of regurgitated milk which you were supposed to calmly wipe off your sleeve (or shirt or pants…or face). We did this for several weekends. On our return home, I would reach for the valium. Leon would enter what looked to me like a sublime, but to me, incomprehensible realm of self-fulfillment. He got a sort of seraphic look on his face. A sublime glow would surround him. I contemplated, alternatively, suicide and murder.

Leon read all the books. I read none. They were dull in the extreme. They spoke of stuff I had never heard of. They sought to address issues I had never contemplated and besides, they had no story I could relate to. Suddenly, the magazine holder in the toilet area became filled with baby mags. Where once there were slightly riske boy mags, now there were pictures of pregnant women, dummies, playpen options and my all time favourite, strange looking machines to express breast milk.

Life, it was perfectly clear, was going to change fairly substantially. For a month or two, we prepared the baby’s room. We suddenly became weirdly organisatory and cleanliness conscious. It was almost like some kind of demonic possession. From being fairly casual about how the house looked, suddenly, weekends were filled with putting the cot there and cleaning this carpet and putting up these things to stop babies falling down stairs. Know-it-all been there done that straight friends would smile and say the word “nesting”.

Then one day, Leon phoned me as I was coming out of a meeting. “I think we have a baby,” he said, and my blood went cold. He said the name. He said he was four months old. I couldn’t remember the child. So I rushed to the home. Found the child attached to the name he had given me, lying in a cot in a corner of the large room, sucking the forefinger of his left hand and staring impassively at me.
For a long time we considered each other. After a while, I put my finger out. He looked at it, and the hand he wasn’t sucking on, reached out and took it. We stayed like that for perhaps ten minutes or so. And there it was. The bond was sealed between us. I was this child’s father.

I don’t know what it was, or how it happened. And when I think back on it now, it took a very long time for me and him to feel really comfortable with each other. But both of us did something magical that evening. He became my son. And I became his father. It was simple and it was possibly the most surprising and dramatic thing that has ever happened to me. It was, I’m sure, as profound an experience as giving birth.

And so eventually, the day arrived. The day we brought Gabriel home. We had the car seat, the bag with the wet wipes, the bottle at the ready with some really awful smelling stuff in it, which was supposed to be milk, (but which seemed to separate and then reintegrate when you shook the bottle). We had the carry cot, the sheet to keep him warm. We had to take clothes with us, because when you adopt from Child Welfare, it is good etiquette to let them keep the clothes he is in. We brought along about three thousand nappies, just in case.

So we collected him. And we were given this wonderful thing together with him– a photo album of Gabriel from day one, with pics of the people who took care of him, and of his cot and of the home. And on the whiteboard someone had written, “Gabriel is going home today!” That gave the both of us as warm fuzzy, belonging type of parent feeling. And everyone waved goodbye. And the departure was a little delayed because it took us about half an hour to work out how the car seat worked and how to strap the child in it. But finally, off we went.

When we got home, (after what must have been, for Gabriel, a fairly bewildering detour through a shopping Mall – his first) I studied this child for the first real time. I looked into his eyes and he looked back at me. A strange thought suddenly entered my head. “This is not a puppy,” I thought to myself. “This is definitely not a puppy”. Puppies, I had experience of. They look at you in a loving kind of gah gah way. There is not a great deal going on in their heads. They need you. They love you and, more importantly, they really want to please you.

But babies? Well, here was something entirely different. I looked into his eyes and what did I see? I saw processing going on. I saw him looking at me and there was a definite species recognition thing going on there. He was sizing me up! I can’t say I felt uplifted, or excited by this recognition. I suppose, if I am honest, the overwhelming feeling was abject fear!

And so it started – our life together. Leon decided that whatever happens, we must establish a routine. So, we slavishly followed a routine, taking as our cue, the routine established at the adoption home. And, whether it was because we got a really good child, or because Leon’s tough regime worked the trick, or perhaps a bit of both – I do not know, but very soon, Gabriel would be put down at 6.30 and he would wake at 6 the next morning. This is the way it has continued until now.

But of course, other things did not work out quite the way we had planned it. Gabriel very quickly bonded spectacularly with Leon and only very tangentially with me. This was even though I had taken off the 45 days leave the government gives to adoptive parents (yes, why only 45 days, when birthmothers are given three months?). But anyway, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference to Gabriel’s and my relationship. When Leon and I were with him together, I would be consciously and pointedly ignored. When I was with him on my own, he would make it perfectly clear that he was only barely tolerating me. When Leon was with him on the other hand, he would be ecstatic. The difference was not very hard to see!

I got depressed. I started to doubt whether or not I had done the right thing. I started to get unbelievably jealous. And angry. And… well yes, the word “childish” springs to mind. It really didn’t matter what people said about “Oh this is just a phase, it is perfectly normal, all kids do it, it’s just the same with heterosexual couples”. I wanted to kill someone. But then, one day, I looked at myself in the mirror and said “Oh for goodness sake, just grow up!” And things got better from then on. Yes, it is still true that Gabriel prefers Leon to me – so bladdy what? When Leon is not around (and even sometimes when he is), Gabriel is fine and we have gotten to the point when we all seem to understand very well each other’s needs.

On the other hand, as he grows and develops and as we grow and develop together with him, I am continually amazed at our capacity to give to each other. Leon and my relationship was pretty strong to begin with. After all, we (unlike most heterosexual couples) went through a zillion “relationship tests” to prove it. I can’t help but wonder what havoc a child could bring about in a relationship that was not so strong, because you certainly get stretched way beyond what you thought were your limits.

And as bottle gives way to cup and hands become more able to deal with a fork and spoon. As Tellytubbies and Barney become one’s stable diet, (so much so that you find yourself humming Tinky Winky Barney songs in the shower). As the slow suspicious primeval circling of the potty begins. And as every square centimetre of the house is turned meticulously and systematically into a playpen, one does, every now and again, try to remember what life was like when babies were things straight people had. And then, suddenly, he runs up to you and squeals with delight and grabs your knees in a fairly good imitation of a bearhug and guess what? You feel a feeling of contentment and wellbeing like you never have before – like nothing else can duplicate.

It is extraordinary just how much emotion babies are able to evoke in a person. A friend of mine once said that babies are designed to bring out emotions in you which you never knew you had! How completely right that is. Because Gabriel knows exactly how to press both our buttons simultaneously. The good buttons and the bad ones. It is a spectacular skill. It is a skill, undoubtedly, which he learned in the womb. I blame the womb entirely.

“Not meaning to be rude,” people often say to us, particularly people we have met for the first time, “but what is he going to call you both?” I have never really understood the meaning of this question. What is it that people are expecting us to say? That he will call one of us father and one of us mother?

The truth is, he is going to call us what he is going to call us. He can call us both Dad, if he likes. And actually he does. He also calls me “Ikor” which seems to be what he hears of Michael. And he calls Leon (much to his extreme irritation) “Ion”. These are things he is going to need to figure out for himself in the big bad world. We live in a world where the whole notion of “family” needs to be re-thought and re-defined. We can’t pretend that things are today as they always were. Nor can we pretend that the old model was necessarily the best. In a world of HIV/AIDS, in a world of ever increasing orphans, we need to reassess all our notions of what is proper and what is ideal and what is practicable.

At his playschool, one little girl asked Leon if he was Gabriel’s Daddie. He said, yes he is. “Well then why is Gabriel so brown?” she asked. Leon explained that Gabriel was adopted. That meant, he explained, that “his Mummie asked us to look after him for her, because she wasn’t able to”. The little girl was entirely satisfied with the explanation.

The other month, we found ourselves at a wedding in Soweto. Pictures of the bridal couple were being taken in a local park. Gabriel was running around like a child possessed. Two teenage girls, you know the type, careful dreadlocks, belly button piercing, pants pulled down so as to reveal the pubic line (or where it was before it was shaved) said (between chews on their oh-so-kewl gum) “Hi” to me. I tried my best to look ever so kewl back and also said “Hi”.

They considered the scene. “Is that man over there his father?” they asked, meaning Leon and Gabriel, whom I was struggling to contain. “Yes,” I said. “And so am I.” They paused. Considered what I had said for a couple of chews.
“How can he have two fathers?” they wanted to know.
“Well,” said I, “all sorts of people have two fathers. Children whose parents are divorced often have two fathers and two mothers.”
“Oh Yea!” they said. “Kewl!” “And are you also that man’s father?” they further enquired, meaning Leon.
“No”, I said. “We live together and we are both Gabriel’s father”.
The conversation moved on to who the bride was and where we came from and where they came from. And I rejoiced in the fact that we live in such a strange and curious place as this, where the conversation could, quite easily, just move on.

When the social worker was interviewing me and asking what I thought I could give to a child, I said this one thing. I said, I didn’t know how they did it, but my parents gave me a wonderful gift. The gift they gave me was to feel comfortable about myself, to be at home in the world. And so, no matter what has happened to me, no matter how bad it might be, I have always managed to tap this reservoir of my own self-worth and to depend on that, no matter what the circumstance. I said to the social worker, if I can give my child only that, it will be enough.

Because I do sometimes stop and think about all that Gabriel is going to have to cope with as he grows up. It is not inconsiderable. He is black and his parents aren’t. Most likely he will be straight and his parents aren’t. He has two dads and most children don’t. If he isn’t teased at school about the one thing, he will probably be teased about one of the others. And more than likely, he will cope, one way or another.

But I sometimes wish, just wish, that the innocence I see in him now, the unvarnished, untainted, pure joy in his face when either of us walks in the room after a long day at the office, could be the way it is now forever. I know it can’t be. The world, with its harsh judgements and its lack of love and its pitylessness will intervene. And Gabriel will just have to cope. That is his lot in life. That’s what I will tell him. We all get a package in life, to do with what we can. This is his package. What will he do with it?

And I just hope that his not inconsiderable charm, the charm he showers on everyone around him, will get him by and serve him well. Because the truth is, that the world is not only filled with heartless and unforgiving and unbending people. It is also filled with good people, kind people. And in the short time we have had Gabriel, these have been the majority for us. And why should he really bother about the others?

I know this about the whole exercise of parenting Gabriel. That when I die one day, whether it be soon or far off, it doesn’t really matter. I will know this one thing: that whatever else I may have done in my life, nothing could ever be as good as being one of his fathers. I will be able to hold up this thing and say, proudly, “I am his father. This is my son”. And somehow, the world looks considerably brighter with Gabriel in it.

And now I have something to blame my sister for. She was playing with Gabriel one day and said to me, “You know”, she said, “You live in a very nice area, where Gabriel can play in the veld and have a very nice time growing up”.
“Yes I said”, nervously.
“Well don’t you think he would have a whole lot of a better time of it if he had a brother to do it with?”

I blame her entirely. Because we now have another child. Joshua ("Bin Laden", I call him, because of his inordinate ability to destroy things and cause unbridled terror wherever he goes). And how he came about was that I vowed that I would listen to conventional wisdom for once, this time, late in my life though it might be. Conventional wisdom said that if you have two children, they play together. If you have one child, you are the playmate.

And that bit has proved to be true. They play sometimes well with each other. They sometimes want to kill each other, and competition over toys from day one has been fierce. But having two does take the pressure off on the odd occasion. The difference between their personalities, is another story altogether.

Gay fairystories

The other day I went to fetch my son, Gabriel, from his school for a doctor’s appointment. Now let me explain – Gabriel is adopted. He is black. I am white. The school he goes to is almost completely black, barring most of the teachers.

So, I arrived. My younger son, Joshua the extrovert (at the same school, also black, also adopted and, I suspect closely related to Osama bin Laden) rushed up to greet me. Gabriel is much more reserved. He was not unpleased to see me, but concerned, I think, to look in control of the situation. He sauntered up to me, case in hand, and as we left, I heard one of the children shout “Joshua and Gabriel’s daddie is white!”

Now that, I suppose, is a fairly big issue, in an almost all black school. The good thing about them going there is that they consider us (my white partner and I) to be the strange ones. They, on the other hand, are very comfortable in their skin. On the question of my partner and I both being male, we had some nervousness initially, about the school, when one of the kids came home one day saying that they had been talking about families at school. We phoned the school first thing the next morning. We wanted to know whether there might be any difficulty with our situation. “Oh no!” Said the principal, “The class was talking about who had a daddy and who had a mommy and things like that. And Gabriel was pleased as punch, because he had two daddies and most people in his class had none!”

We have sometime wondered how we should handle the matter, should it come up, with the kids. The other day it did. Joshua at dinner, one evening, suddenly started talking about his mommy. We all turned to him, wondering what he was going on about. On he went – his mommy this and his mommy that. His brother had been quietly considering him for some while. Suddenly he shouted at him “You don’t have a mommy! You have two daddies!” Joshua shut up and that, in a nutshell, was that!

I was interested to read, the other day, about books which are now being introduced in UK schools, introducing children from as young as 4, to gay and lesbian issues – the so-called “No-outsiders” project. Naturally, conservative religious groups and people are huffing and puffing. “It is tantamount to child abuse!” says one. “It is propaganda designed to warp children’s minds”, says another.

Now our connection with the project is, I admit, slight. But it was enough to make me read the article with some interest. My partner has been very concerned, from the beginning, that our children should grow up seeing themselves and us as normal - as indeed, we are! Our family is as “normal” and “ordinary” as you can get. The kids get up every morning, have their breakfast and go to school. When we get home from work, there is the usual stuff that happens in every home with children. Joshua bin Laden gets shouted at because he is breaking something; there is a fight over eating healthy things on their plates and bribes with ice-cream to follow if they do; there are demands for cooldrinks after the magic hour of 5pm, which means that they will wet their beds; there is the resistance to going to bed at 7.00pm and so it goes and so it goes. Just because one of us doesn’t wear a dress as parents, doesn’t make the slightest difference to the sheer normality of the situation.

And there is the bed-time story. My partner scoured the internet and found several storybooks which we read to them, along with Cinderella and Jack-and-the-beanstalk and all the other usuals. One is called “And Tango makes three”, which is a sweet (apparently true) story about two male penguins in the New York zoo. The zookeeper notices that they don’t seem to like the girl penguins very much and instead seem to prefer each other. They set up a nest together. Together, they try to hatch an egg shaped rock unsuccessfully. The kindly zookeeper takes pity on them and puts a real egg in the nest which they made for themselves – which they successfully hatch this time and raise a healthy chick called Tango – because it takes two to tango.

Another is called “King and King”. An elderly Queen decides she has had enough with ruling and that her only son should take over. She arranged for all the likely Princesses in the land to process before him, so that he can choose a suitable Queen for himself. No-one seems to catch his fancy. Would-be Queen after would-be Queen comes and goes. The son and heir is bored to distraction. But one day, a young hopeful just happens to bring her brother with her for support, and it is love at first sight! They get married and everyone lives happily ever after. And everyone called them King and King!

The last one is called “The Sissy Duck” and it is about a male duckling who likes cooking, cleaning and art. Now, as I say, we read these to the children periodically, mixed in with all the other favourites. I can’t say that they leap up and down with enthusiasm when we read these particular stories, but they each have their own favourites and prefer those to all others. And the point of it all? Well, just that what we are doing, and the life we are living feels terribly ordinary. Because that is what it is! And it is both a pity, and I would say ridiculous, that there isn’t a range of literature and other support mechanisms, which would help to support that ordinariness.

And that is why I think the UK Education department seems to have managed to get things right. I have no doubt we will get there in the long run, but it is a real pity that it seems to be taking so long. Because same-sex child rearing is hardly new – but it is going to become much more evident, now that marriage (or civil union) is legally permitted. That is just a very plain, simple, fact of life.

And the fears that people have of corrupting children through educating them to different lifestyles, is just plain irrational. What I fear, deeply and not irrationally, is the consequences of not educating children – because what happens then is bullying, hatred, teasing and hurt. All because they don’t know any better.
I am just waiting for the same-sex fairy story, which has children of a different race from their parents in it, to feel really covered!