William's room.

On either side of the door to William's room, there are framed photographs of a young Brad Pitt (at his first Oscars, looking very Clark Gable) and Meg Tilly (beneath a sea of flowers). Is there any question this child is growing up in a gay household? To backtrack for the nonclairvoyant reader. Our foster child, William Mason Barclay, arrived in our home on July 22, seven days after his birth. In October we celebrated his 3-month birthday--which I understand isn't normally commemorated, but as in any new relationship, each possible milestone is marked and photographed.

   It's a little bit funny
   This feeling inside ...

Once you step into William's room, after you've recovered from the intense post-Queer Eye decor, you're drawn to the deep red drapes. A nontraditional choice (by Tommy Hilfiger), but we wear our nontraditional family status on our sleeve as a red badge of Courage. The alphabet carpet and the reclining sofa, brought to us by our friends at Ikea, are more expected. The dark oak glider chair and matching crib seem almost too mature for a baby--but we expect this one will grow up fast (At least we hope so, 'cuz we ain't gettin' any younger!)

   I'm not one of those who can
   Easily hide ...

Why am I telling you all this? What does the stuff in William's room have to do with anything? OK, I'll admit--it's a stalling tactic, a delay. I'm setting the scene to avoid the emotional gushing that I worry may be just too much. So it's easier to talk about his Gymini (a great little mat with hanging toys) or the diaper pail that seals in odors flawlessly. Or the mobile over his cradle that allows him to choose Beethoven, Mozart, or Bach to watch weird animals swirl around to.

   I hope you don't mind
   I hope you don't mind
   That I put down in words ...

It may be a year--it may be more--before the gift of William Mason Barclay legally becomes ours. Until then, we had hoped to re strain ourselves, to hold a part of our hearts in a lockbox of sorts, as Al Gore might have said once upon a time--before he was elected president and then screwed. It's tough to fall in love when the sword of Damocles hovers over--but we're powerless not to do exactly that.

This is the process we signed up for. In Los Angeles County, where thousands of children of color in particular are available to be cared for, we asked to be on the county's "gift list." Our gift arrived healthy and happy--although 4 1/2 pounds when we brought him home, he's now back up to normal fighting weight. He laughs frequently, spits up rarely, and is really cranky only when bedtime nears. I guess he doesn't want to miss a minute of this thing called life, and we concur.

   How wonderful life is
   When you're in the world ...

William got me up at 3:14 this morning. I didn't mind. I lifted all 12 pounds of him and settled him down with my left hand while pouring formula into his bottle with my right. He doesn't fuss much when he's in your arms, and if he does, a little bit of vibration or a quick change of scene usually distracts him enough to let you get what you need to do done.

He guzzles down four ounces without much of a pause. When he's done he lets you know by pushing the bottle forcefully away. Before I can even lift him to my shoulder for a burp, he offers a sour-milky--scented belch and smiles, his eyes still half shut. Just like mine are.

   I hope you don't mind
   I hope you don't mind
   That I put down in words
   How wonderful life is
   When you're in the world.

Usually my partner, Christopher, does this feeding, as I have to be at work in just a few hours, but the truth is, I don't mind at all. I'm the one who's actually being fed. I'm the one who is learning the real truth about unconditional love, day by day, in William's room.