No Proofreads. No Edits.

It’s been under three weeks since I woke up as a dad of four. This comes six years after my wife had her tubes tied. We decided that since she was forced into her second c-section the doctor could give her the ‘ole 2 for 1. Deliver our baby girl and then cut these genes off to society.

Frankly, cutting or burning whatever it is one cuts or burns to stop a woman from having a baby is the only way to stop her genes. I am not exactly a nice shade of mocha myself but my wife has eight siblings and the 5 boys look like Erling Haaland while the 4 girls look like they are about to give birth to dragons. I tried hard to penetrate Hitler’s wet dream with my brown hair and slightly tanner complection but it was not enough to even make a dent. Two toe heads with a chin dimple that was a classic sign of their mother’s breed.

These two love their mama too. In addition to looking into your mother’s eyes and seeing yourself everyday it must be amazing to be so perfectly loved. My mother did a damn fine job herself so I can absolutely relate, but there is something that my wife gives these two kids that only a mother can. I would say it’s magic, but magic is fake and this is real.

We always knew we were going to add to this family. God told us. We told God. He told us back. I think that is what prayer is. Sometimes you do the telling, sometimes God does the telling, but the imporant thing to know is that it is always up to God anyway so you telling Him is somewhere between cute and laughable. Anyway, we’ve been telling and His silence was consent because our hearts did not change. What I would have appreciated, however, is a fucking heads up on the timeline.

The phone rang at noon on June 20, 2026. There was a need for a possible placement for two children. It was temporary-ish and was possible to take place later in the month. We agreed we were interested. 90 minutes later, the phone rang again and the timeline for placement was immeidate. 90 minutes later, I had four kids.

The 24 hours beforehand consisted of me skipping out of work to go watch the World Cup. I got so sunburn that the pain in my shoulders was the only thing taking my mind off the hangover. That Saturday morning I had a great workout with my friends and then hit the dog park. Not a care in the world- except for all the cares I had- parenthood, being a lawyer, taking a new bar exam, rennovating a house, running a firm, being a good husband, trying to stay healthy. Like I said, not a care at all.

As an aside, my goal here is to talk about me. I want my children, all four of them, to have their own story.

I cannot write “four of them” without pausing. (1) How the hell did I get here? and (2) How long will it last?… this is the part where God does the talking.

After the 90 minutes from the 90 minutes from the noon phone call, I met two children- age 5 and 18 months. I guess they were mine. The 5 year old girl called me daddy right away. I cried a lot that weekend. The uncertainty, the thankfulness. My whole body felt like it feels when you don’t know what to do with your hands. I felt full and restless and peacefully wired.

The 18 month old didn’t say anything. He was stoic. Borderline disassociated maybe. It was too much for anyone, of any age.

No one told us the children were black. We did not ask. We did not care except for the parts of us that cared so deeply. We are not ignorant to the importance of raising black children as black children. We are not ignorant that we are ill-equipped to do that without continous education, resouces, and questions. It meant and means everything to us to not fuck that part up.

Growing up in the church is hard. It forces you to recalibrate a lot of the “hard truths” that you learned were lies. There is this idea that Western culture is superior to that of other continents or countries and that it is a gift to integrate a diverse young child into a middle/upper class white family. I do not pretend to know anyone’s heart because, shit, we are integrating diverse young children into our middle/upper class white family. I do, however, know it can be pretty fucked up.

I texted my closest black friends. I would say the support was a majority positive. Of all the white people in their lives, I would like to think I am the one white guy they would trust with a precious black child. Of course, I think every white guy probably says that not knowing they are closer to being Phil Dunphy than Unlce Phil.

Regardless, there are six of us now. I think it would be helpful to jot stuff down. So this is that.

I’ll leave today with this, I do not know what to do next. It’s a day at a time. The days are really good and really hard. Until I get some direction I am just going to be changing diapers and moisturizing skin. There is not much I can control at this point… but I’ll be damned if my children are ashy.