If you’re a straight couple, and you had your first kid in your twenties or thirties, and he or she wants a brother or sister, and you’re down with that, you have a process you have to follow. I’m not saying it’s always easy to have sex when you’ve already got a kid, but if you can afford a babysitter, a hotel room, some chilled vodka and oysters, and a download of Sade’s “Ultimate Collection,” you can at least have a good time trying.
When you’re gay, nookie is always just for fun. Becoming parents is a legal, not a sexual, byproduct. According to some researchers, this is why it will be eventually proven that gays actually make better parents than straights ( Click Here ). It’s because we’re about determination, not accidents.
Now the kid you got by whatever means wants a brother or sister. You do a couple calculations, about where you will put your office if the third bedroom becomes an actual third bedroom. You pause to consider putting two kids through college, which is estimated at costing about a half a million bucks in the next 18 years. And then you say, let’s do it again, because every kid who is nurturing, cuddly, and likes to boss other kids around deserves a little sibling.
If you’re going the surrogacy route, that’s gonna cost you a couple hundred thousand dollars, same as it did the last time around. Your DNA is incredibly important to keep going, so it’s worth it, right, stud? If you go the private or foster adoption route, you gotta get recertified and do more interviews.
We want to adopt a kid brother or sister for Mikey, which means we need to renew our foster certification. Here are the documents we need to fill out:
Application: We filled out this application four years ago, and now it’s time to do it again. Yes, it’s possible our address has changed (though it hasn’t), but our social security numbers, birthdate, place of birth, gender, ethnicity, religion, marital status, have all remained the same. I have to say, I’m a little embarrassed that my vehicle hasn’t changed since 2008. Now I feel like going to the dealership to see if there’s anything I must possess in the new Mercedes E class.
Medical History (Child): This is to be filled out by Mikey’s physician. It basically says that the child they previously gave us whom we adopted is healthy enough to be big brotherly to a new child and is not now riddled with tuberculosis.
Medical History (Adult): This is to be filled out by our physicians. It will reveal that both Ian and I are 20 pounds heavier than we were four years ago. Damn it.
References: We have to list four people who think we’re okay, just in case we’ve lost all of our friends since 2008. And let’s face it, among new parents, that’s a possibility.
Livescan and CAI Manual Check-Up: Ian and I both have to turn in our fingerprints to the Department of Justice and the FBI to prove that we haven’t become child molesters since 2008, when we last did this.
Today we had our agency social worker over for our first interview. Our previous social worker at the agency literally decided to join the Peace Corps and move to Mongolia. I know you’re thinking what I thought: Damn, what a selfish bitch.
I kept such unselfish thoughts to myself when Ian and I entertained her replacement at our house this morning. I say “entertained,” but I gotta be honest, I don’t know how much fun it was for her. Sure, we gave her some green tea and a nibble on a scone, but for the most part, the morning was us talking about us. Ian and I bragged about our son, talked about our relationship before and after him, bragged about our son, talked about the traumas of our lives, bragged about our son, discussed what we hoped to find in a second child, bragged about our son, bragged about our son, talked about Obama coming out in favor of same sex marriages, and … bragged about our son. Since most people’s eyes glaze over about hour three of us bragging about our son, we considered this an excellent meeting, one we would have paid for if we had to.
Then we had to fill out a form that wasn’t among those we anticipated. On it, there were two columns to describe whether you or your partner had done or had things done to them, around the ever present subjects of drugs, alcohol, porn, violence, abuse, and general trauma. We were told not to compare answers.
Our social worker looked at our separate sheets and asked questions. I felt like we were on The Newlywed Game,but instead of asking, “If your love life was a deli sandwich, would it be the meat, bread, or condiment?”, we were being asked, “How many drinks do you have an hour?” and “Does anyone in your family have a mental illness? How cuckoo are they?”
In the end, our social worker stifled a yawn, “You guys are boring. Take that as compliment.”
And we do.