The sign of unexpected grace came in a call during a messy corporate meeting. It was a friend calling me about a child who had been abandoned with a 'comadrona' (midwife), who had taken in many children in her crowded shack. Could I give this one a home?

My heart jumped out.

Sebastian arrived days later, emaciated and dark-skinned, a mere four days old. As with all first-time fathers, I was astounded by the smallness, the sheer defenselessness of the infant. I had not known then that it would be the other way around.

 
This baby was a magnificent gift, and it was I who was the small, defenseless one, unprepared for the onslaught of unprecedented life change.

I seemed to have no reason to adopt. Single and in my 40s, fatherless and a breadwinner, I had just finished sending my siblings to school, then marrying off a couple of them. My mother lived with me, as did nephews and nieces. They needed notebooks and schoolbags, and they keep the home rowdy and happy.

Since my household seemed solid enough, my next logical objective should be building a nest egg, and peaking my career. Or twiddle my toes in middle-age comfort zone.

Grace I don’t deserve

What then do I make of Sebastian, an infant totally dependent on human kindness, unaware of that one decision that could grant him a home, or consign him to a short, forgotten life in a ratty orphanage, the streets or, heaven forbid, much worse? God was whispering an invitation to grace: a grace I do not deserve. I could respectfully refuse, or humbly accept.

Sebastian’s round black eyes studied me tentatively. “Is this gonna work, Daddy?” He seemed to ask. Then, for the first time, he fell asleep in my arms. A bolt of lightning in a baby’s breath: I am Sebastian’s father, no question.

Family support

Family support is a must. Adoption, as I soon learned, would always be a family decision. My brother initially fretted that my mother would be too old to help in child-rearing, but strangely, my mother had gotten perkier. She who had resisted any mention of adoption, now doted wholeheartedly and obsessively on the baby, as did my unmarried sister. Miracles do happen every day.

Consider costs seriously. Cost is unromantic but inevitable. “What was I thinking?,” I often lamented in the early days.

The checklist goes on: Choice of pediatrician, regular visits, vaccine shots, even the occasional cold or fever that can be a dramatic moment of nighttime rush to the emergency room.

Consider career costs, too, which could be immeasurably steep.

‘Yaya’ selection

The 'yaya' or nanny selection is a minor miracle worth Vatican approbation. I found myself investigating whether or not our yaya was related to Norman Bates, had no 'kuto' (lice), and responded to Sebastian’s crying with cooing or 'kurot' (pinch). My sister-in-law once had a nanny who seduced the driver, made off with her diamond necklace and had the gall to report her to the barangay captain after getting fired.

I was luckier with mine. She mispronounces the alphabet song, and plays way too much Barney when no one is looking, but she genuinely loves Sebastian. I haven’t looked into her scalp surreptitiously for that 'kuto'.

I am not the center of my physical universe anymore, and amazingly, it feels good. The house was re-screened, and all suspicious water-carrying things (house plants and vases) whisked away.

We childproofed the decor - no sharp corners, no breakable figurines and nothing that can be toppled easily by a crawler.

Even my sense of aesthetics changed. An intriguing pile of toys is installation art. A minimalist room is an unstimulating taboo. Primary colors are the new black, with partiality to red which all kids love.

Quantity, not quality

Quantity (not quality) time is priceless. At the risk of argument, I will hazard to say that the concept of quality time is a "pa-consuelo" myth to working parents. Constant presence is best, albeit ideal in this world.

As a single working father out all day, I always feared he would not know me enough.

Since Sebastian just turned 2, we manage to bond playing roughhouse a bit early mornings before work, because I come home late—a compromise that won’t last. I need more time to read to him, count with him, explore the neighborhood with him and see him off to school, all the way to, however far life will take us.

I realise I do need to plan our life together mindfully. Once, he ran crying, but into the arms of the "yaya" instead of mine. My heart fell. Days ago, he was assigning the Backyardigans characters to his cousins. Cousin Joshua was Pedro; he was Uniqua and so on. When I asked who I was, he said, “wala (no one).” I have to work harder.

Struggle continues

The balance between putting food on the table and being the stable presence of unconditional love, despite being a single parent—an adoptive one at that - the daily efforts would be staggering that only a leap of faith and healthy ignorance brought me this far. The struggle continues.

Treat the child like an adult. Everything would be the way Sebastian wanted it as long as it did not involve burning houses or scalping playmates. He decides on his game of the day. When we play, he is the leader, while I follow.

Before I knew it, Sebastian celebrated his first birthday.

Since he warmed up to small family dinners, we celebrated his birthday the way he wanted it—intimate, with relatives and cousins he knew, sit-down dinner-style, with him on a high chair holding the spoon, no "subo-subo" (feeding) like other kids. My Sebastian is a little man.

I then realised that all I have gone through the whole year was no different from any father. No one in the family questioned where he came from; not one cousin teased him impolitely a la teleserye (which incidentally he will never lay eyes on). He fingers his hair like I do, smiles toothily like I do. Indeed, fatherhood is never biology.

A brother

With gratitude in my heart, I rushed to church to pray. Thanking God profusely, I told God that Sebastian might need a brother once his cousins moved to their new house. Maybe, not so Pinoy now; a "chinito" (chinky-eyed) perhaps? Another boy would be good.

Hours after I left the church, the phone rang again. You guessed it - a male "chinito" (chinky-eyed) infant waiting for a home. Days later, Sid arrived - hyper, pinkish plump, as Korean as kimchi, and he is my son. God grants wishes, customised, in broadband speed these days.

Children teach their parents. Seeing Sebastian and Sid grow precociously made me question myself. What if, years from now, they ask, “Daddy, what can you teach us about life?”

How am I supposed to answer? Work has been my default mode for life’s meaning for so long.

Shall I say, “Son, work till you drop, report till you retire and be proud to have built some other pharaoh’s pyramid?”

Tough answer: Work life is second priority. Now I am happier with the acceptance that, with less time in the office, less competitive clawing, I may not get to the top, but what the heck for? I am already tops in the eyes of my sons.

Growing up without father

My growing up without a father was a disadvantage. There is no leader of the band from whom I can crib notes. Up to now, I could never ride a bike well or dribble a basketball. (I was able to drive courtesy of socialite, and two total car wrecks.)

I could customise my fatherhood template, right? My search for better answers led me from reading The Last Lecture to The Compass to Idiot’s Guide to Adoption. I attended self-awareness workshops. I observed my brother, my uncle and even families in the mall.

What made deep sense was something I stumbled upon that seemed initially unrelated to daddy business: Ignatian spirituality, like the ones Jesuits use. Inspired by my sons, I am learning to cultivate an interior life of discernment and magis. With Abraham nearly clubbing Isaac, and God, the Father sending Jesus to the cross, one wonders how one can best love as a father—an awesome, understudied relationship in our matriarchal society. One great thing I picked up from Ignatian lectures so far, is that love thrives in uncertainty. There is no certitude to loving.

That is the exciting journey I look forward to with my kids. When do I tell them how the angels brought them to me? Will they ever ask about their birth parents and how will we find them, if ever?

To future adoptive single parents who wonder how one can be a good at this? The answer is simple. When you choose to become one, then you must have been ready. Your sons will teach you how. There is no insurance to this wild mission of a lifetime except prayer, and no emotion more paramount than unconditional love.

For me, the meaning of the whole universe was summarised when Sebastian and Sid happily yelled: “Daddy!”

I assure you: Nothing else will matter.

A school once taught that children in heaven pre-select their destined parents before they were born. Holding on to that belief, I often break into tears. I truly hope my sons have chosen me. I would be honored and humbled.

When they read a yellowed clipping of this article decades from now, I would like them to know that - Sebastian and Sid, thank you for making me your Daddy.

I love you.