chapter  4
bringing up daddy: a black feminist fatherhood
Pages 28

My wife Gloria and I were heartbroken. I was at a conference in Houston when she finally got through to me by cell phone to tell me the news that all potential adoptive parents dread. Folk privy to the adoption process are all too familiar with the possibility that at the last hour, a woman, who months earlier agreed to give her unborn child up for adoption, will take one look at her newborn baby and change her mind. My wife and I kept our impending adoption a secret from just about everyone including parents, close friends, and even our then-four-yearold daughter, for that very reason. So here I was alone, on the brink of tears, walking through an FAO Schwarz toy store in Houston, looking at the toys and stuffed animals I wasn’t going

to buy for our newborn daughter. I was also relieved. Camille Monet, as we had planned to name the newborn girl, was to be our second adopted child. My wife and I had talked for some time about adopting a second child, but the reality was that I wasn’t looking forward to having another baby in the house. The often-prohibitive cost of adoption conspired to keep Misha Gabrielle our only child, as I looked forward to giving her all of the love and support that comes with being an only child (as I was). My ambivalence about adopting a second child caused me to revisit my hesitancy to adopt four years earlier.