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Gay Dads, Bringing Up BabyBY BARRI BRONSTON |
NEW ORLEANS -- With $70 in gift cards to spend, Chris and Dale Liuzza zip through a suburban Babies 'R' Us, filling their shopping cart with everything from onesies and socks to diapers and wipes. It is February 2004, and a great adventure is just beginning.
"I want to make sure we get the softest ones," Dale says, trying to decide between Pampers and Huggies. He places the diapers in the cart, and pauses with Chris to admire the infant snoozing in his baby carrier.
"He screamed for 15 straight minutes on the way over," Dale says of his 1-month-old son, Seth. "I know at some point he'll start fussing again. He'll give me signs as if to say, `I wanna get out of here."'
From the diaper aisle, the Liuzzas stroll past toys, high chairs, cribs and swings en route to the media department, where they browse through books, videos and CDs. Seth's peaceful slumber soon gives way to fidgeting and tears.
"There he goes, just like I said," Dale says, laughing. He lifts the carrier from the cart and gently swings it. The soothing motion coaxes Seth back to sleep, giving Dale and Chris time to finish their spree.
On the video shelves, Dale notices the words "Moms' #1 Choice" on the cover of a "Baby Einstein" DVD and shakes his head.
"That really bothers me," he says. "Why can't it just say, `Parents' No. 1 Choice'?"
Despite a maternal side -- he is gentle, affectionate and protective -- Dale, 23, is not a mother. Neither is Chris, 37, Dale's partner of six years. They are gay fathers, basking in the joy -- and embracing the responsibility -- of new parenthood.
The Liuzzas are part of the "gayby boom," a surge in the number of gay and lesbian couples who are choosing to become parents through adoption or reproductive technology.
Of the more than 600,000 gay couples living together in the United States, about 60,000 male couples and nearly 96,000 female couples have at least one child under 18 at home, according to the 2000 Census. The Human Rights Campaign, a gay rights group, believes the number of same-sex couples with kids is considerably higher.
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Chris Liuzza had what was by all accounts a safe, happy and healthy childhood. He grew up in the New Orleans suburb of Kenner with his parents, Nick and Mary Liuzza, and three siblings.
At Isidore Newman School, he was an avid sports fan. He dated girls throughout his teens. His family meant the world to him, but he was well into adulthood before he could share the secret he had kept since he was a child.
"My brother had already suspected, so my mom called me on the cell phone one day and just asked, `Are you gay?' I paused for a second. And I said, `Yeah.' She said, `You know you can tell me anything you want.' My dad was the same way. It was a non-issue."
Dale and his twin sister are the children of Donald and Pamela Crosby of Kenner. The suburb is the same, but there Dale's story parts from Chris's.
Even as a young child, he was different from many of his male peers. He preferred hanging out with girls, and gravitated to the arts as a means of self-expression. "I never really got into sports because I just wasn't good at it," Dale says. "I liked to dance a lot and act. Everyone called me Patrick Swayze because I could dance like him."
He often played school, impersonating his female teachers by wrapping long shirts around his waist and pretending they were skirts. "I called myself `Miss Melissa,"' he says.
Then came the teasing and the name-calling from classmates, which reached a low point in January 1998 when the junior at Archbishop Rummel High School "came out" to his family and friends.
"All of my friends turned on me," Dale says. "I had no senior year. It was so bad that I had to have lunch in the guidance counselor's room. My parents said I couldn't live in the house if I was going to be gay. I was never told that being gay was OK. I was told, `It's a sin. It's disgusting."'
To appease his parents and keep a roof over his head, he pretended to be straight. But the lying and sneaking around took its toll, and the week after high school graduation, he moved out.
Dale had met Chris in an online chat room in March 1998. They talked about their interests and families and eventually exchanged photographs. Their online chats led to phone calls, and soon they were making plans to meet in person. They had their first face-to-face meeting that June at a Mexican restaurant.
A year later, they were living together. Dale was 18; Chris was 31. The age of sexual consent in Louisiana is 17.
Although they knew marriage was not in their immediate future, they considered themselves partners for life. Dale legally changed his last name to Liuzza in October 2002 and converted to Reform Judaism, Chris' religion, in November 2003 -- less than two months before Seth's birth.
The couple wanted children, and considered adoption, but found the obstacles daunting. After investigating their options, they decided to have a biological child through surrogacy and egg donation.
Via the Internet, they found two women who agreed to serve as egg donor and surrogate. They met both women in person, then began amassing $90,000 in savings and family loans to pay the medical expenses and surrogate, egg donor and legal fees.
Dale and Chris each donated sperm to fertilize the eggs, and the resulting embryos -- three altogether -- were transferred into the surrogate, a 26-year-old woman with a husband and two children of her own.
She got pregnant on the first try.
"I wanted to help another couple achieve their dreams," says Angie Oliver, the surrogate, who asked that her Midwestern state not be identified. "But only our closest friends and family knew I was doing this for a gay couple. Living in a small town, I was concerned that my children and family would be treated unfairly if everyone knew. Gay couples are not accepted here easily, much less a gay couple having a child."
The Liuzzas found the ensuing nine months nerve-racking and worrisome. They sent Angie a taped recording of their voices and asked that she play it to their unborn baby. But it did little to comfort them.
"We didn't want to crowd her," Chris remembers. "She realized we were anxious and calling all the time. We wanted to know immediately how her appointments went. We'd be waiting and waiting to hear from her, and we'd be on pins and needles until she called."
They flew to Angie's town to find out the baby's sex, and upon learning it was a boy, began pondering names and color schemes. At home, friends threw them a baby shower. Dale's parents, who had come to terms with their son's sexuality and choice of a partner three years earlier, were there. They wore "I Am the Ma Maw" and "I Am the Pa Paw" T-shirts.
A few weeks later, on Jan. 3, the Liuzzas received word that Oliver was in labor. "We rushed out of here like mad men," Dale recalls, "and we got all the way there only to find out that it was false labor. We flew back to New Orleans, and five days later we got another call and flew back."
Seth Louis Liuzza was born Jan. 8, weighing a healthy 6 pounds, 13 ounces. Within five minutes of delivery, Chris and Dale held their son for the first time.
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On an evening in March, the Liuzzas take note of the gathering in their apartment living room: three lesbian couples, a gay dad and five children ranging in age from a few weeks to 8 years old.
"This is a pretty awesome turnout if you ask me," Dale says, before calling his first COLAGE meeting to order.
COLAGE -- Children of Lesbians and Gays Everywhere -- is one of several national support groups geared to the estimated 250,000 children of gay couples and millions of other children with one gay parent. Its 50 chapters across the country aim to give kids a safe place to share their experiences, feelings and concerns. A Web site (www.colage.org) invites kids to sign up for pen pals and participate in online chat.
Dale begins by reading from the COLAGE vision statement.
"We envision a world in which all families are valued, protected, reflected and embraced by society and all of its institutions," he says, "in which all children grow up loved and nurtured by kinship networks and communities that teach them about, connect them to, and honor their unique heritage. ... "
As the older children play in another room, parents discuss what they hope the group will do for their families.
"I want my children to see that they are not alone," one mother says. "My kids are having a hard time understanding the gay lifestyle because of what they hear from their grandparents."
"Our son has always known gay and lesbian families," says another mother, "but where he goes to school now, he has been told more than once (by classmates) that you can't have two mommies."
Before the meeting concludes, parents hear about a cruise for gay parents sponsored by celebrity lesbian mom Rosie O'Donnell, and they plan their first official event: a picnic at a local park.
Dale is pleased with the results. As a stay-at-home father, he has made COLAGE second only to his family among his priorities.
"The group is really for the children, so they don't feel different or isolated," Dale says. "The purpose of the group is to tell these kids, `You're just as special as any other kid."'
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Another scene in March. Dale and Chris are glowing as they enter the chapel at Temple Sinai, their synagogue. Seth is asleep in Dale's arms, and like a magnet, attracts the attention of all who have gathered for this important day.
The Liuzzas head to the front row, where they wait for Rabbi Edward Cohn and Cantor Joel Colman to begin Seth's baby-naming ceremony, a rite of passage in which a Jewish child is given a Hebrew name.
Cohn begins by speaking of the uniqueness of this particular ceremony. "I think everyone understands that this one is different," he says. "Though this is the first in the history of Congregation Temple Sinai, we pray that it won't be the last.
"It's love, and it's love in whatever brand you want it, but it's love."
Chris and Dale alternate reading from a prepared service. Each holds a lit candle, which they bring together to light a third, symbolic of their son.
"With thankful prayers we celebrate the birth of our child," says Dale, tears filling his eyes. "We have come through a time of anxiety and stress into strength and joy. May we be worthy of the blessing in the gift of this child."
"Because our child this day enters into the covenant of our fathers and mothers," Chris says, "we cherish the hope that his life will be enriched with Torah, marriage and good deeds."
With his hands on Seth's head, Cohn blesses him with the Hebrew name Shate Yisrael and says, "May this be a name which brings honor to our people, joy to his family and fulfillment to himself."
Cohn concludes the religious part of the celebration by performing a commitment ceremony for Chris and Dale. Among other things, he asks God to prosper in their life together and teach them to share life's joys and trials.
"May love and companionship abide within the home they establish. May they grow old together in health and in contentment, ever gratified to you for the union of their lives."
The commitment ceremony fulfills their desire to have their relationship celebrated in a religious setting. The Liuzzas dream of a day when they can be legally married, and to make a statement about how important the issue is to them, they follow up their Temple Sinai ceremony with a visit to the Louisiana State Office Building to apply for a marriage license.
Officials are cordial, even pausing to admire Seth, but the law's the law, and they tell the Liuzzas that unless gay marriage is legalized in Louisiana, they will not be able to obtain a license.
# # #
August. While Chris, a chemical engineer, is working, Dale often takes Seth to see his grandparents. Sometimes they just go for walks in the neighborhood or to a nearby park.
Observers' reactions have been mostly positive, the Liuzzas say. But there was a recent encounter when an elderly woman, noticing how well Dale was interacting with Seth at a supermarket, complimented him on his parenting skills. She proceeded to ask about his wife, and when he told her that Seth had two fathers, that there was no mother, she walked away.
"She couldn't look at me anymore," Dale says. "One second I'm the greatest parent in the world and she finds out that Seth has two daddies, and she wants nothing to do with me."
# # #
October. It's 8:30 p.m. on a Tuesday night, and Dale and Chris are watching the World Series while their son sleeps. Dale isn't really interested in baseball, but he's so exhausted that he plops on the couch.
"What a day," he says, recounting that Seth fell and hit his head while trying to climb up a built-in shelving unit. Dale had scooped him up in a panic, strapped him in his car seat and rushed to the pediatrician's office, where he was reassured. Seth would be just fine.
In an hour or so, Dale and Chris will gently rouse Seth from his sleep, check the bruise on his head and give him a bottle.
The Liuzzas are nowhere near ready for a second child, but they say another baby is definitely in their future. They already have commitments from Seth's egg donor and surrogate to help them expand their family.
"Never in a million years did I think being a parent was a viable option for me," Chris says while trying to tempt Seth with his 10 p.m. bottle.
As Seth grows up, the Liuzzas plan to share with him the story of his unique birth. And while the egg donor wishes to remain anonymous, they are all in favor of Seth someday meeting the woman who delivered him.
He may get the chance in January. The Liuzzas are planning a huge party for Seth's first birthday, and Angie Oliver is hoping to be there with her own family. "She adores him," Dale says.
When the Liuzzas look around at their network of family and friends, they trust that their son will grow up to be a well-adjusted, loving, good-hearted child.
And a smart one.
"Our next door neighbor is a palm reader," Dale says, "and she says he's going to be a scientist or a doctor.
"He could be a ballerina or a baseball player. We'll love him no matter what he does."
Nov. 22, 2004
(Barri Bronston is a staff writer for The Times-Picayune of New Orleans. She can be contacted at bbronston@timespicayune.com.)