Where babies come from: between Domino's and the dry cleaners
Ten Eleven years ago today, in a non-descript office in a non-descript mini-mall in Humble, Texas, a social worker placed a little baby in my arms. I stared down at him staring up at me. I recall my first thoughts were: "You've got so much hair!" followed by "You're so dark!" followed by "I can't believe they're giving me this baby!" I'm sure Henry was thinking the same things, as he looked astonished, frankly.
My big brother Steve and I had driven from Austin to Houston that morning to "Go Get Henry!" as Steve's map was titled. I had warned him about the religiosity of the Texas adoption agency and he was prepared for whatever came up. (Another couple I knew were invited to pray before they received their child.) We met with the director, who commented on how wonderful it was that my brother lived in Texas and was able to accompany me. My brother, who is an imposing character with a deep voice, proclaimed loudly: "It was meant to be!" Satisfied I was acceptable, she closed the deal. I handed over a check and they handed over Henry.
They let us leave, baby in arms (I was expecting alarms to sound) and we walked off into our life together.
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