Everyday dads

Staff photos by Kathy Anderson With $70 in gift cards to spend, Chris and Dale Liuzza zip through Babies 'R' Us in Metairie, filling their shopping cart with everything from onesies and socks to diapers and wipes.

"I want to make sure we get the softest ones," Dale says as he examines boxes of diapers, trying to decide between Pampers and Huggies.

Dale places the diapers in the cart, and pauses with Chris to admire the baby 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. Just as Dale had predicted, 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 just enough 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 in dismay.

"That really bothers me," Dale says. "Why can't it just say, 'Parents' No. 1 Choice'?"

. . . . . . .

Despite the maternal side of his personality -- he is gentle, affectionate and protective -- Dale, 23, is not a mother.

Neither is Chris, 37, his 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 living 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.

. . . . . . .

Chris Liuzza had what was by all accounts a safe, happy and healthy childhood. Born June 10, 1967, at Southern Baptist Hospital, he grew up in the Driftwood subdivision of Kenner with his parents, Nick and Mary Liuzza, and three siblings.

A student at Isidore Newman School, he was an avid sports fan who dated girls throughout his teen years. 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."

If it was a non-issue, it's because the Liuzzas had always taught their children tolerance and respect. They knew their son's sexuality was not his choice. He was born that way, and they wanted him to be happy with who he was.

"I told him it didn't matter," Mary Liuzza said. "I said, 'I love you no matter what. You are my son.' . . . We have always encouraged our children to be who they really are and the best they could be. We love them all just as they are."

Dale Crosby had a dramatically different childhood. He and his fraternal twin sister Dione were born Dec. 3, 1980, at Ochsner Foundation Hospital, the children of Donald and Pamela Crosby of Kenner.

Even as a young child, Dale 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 said. "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 said.

"Dale was the life of the show," said Dione, a pharmacy student at the University of Louisiana at Monroe. "He was always entertaining us."

Then came the teasing and the name-calling from classmates, which reached a low point in January 1998 when Dale, then a junior at Archbishop Rummel High School, "came out" to his family and friends. Instead of embracing his differences, most reacted with horror.

"All of my friends turned on me," he said. "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, Dale pretended to be straight. But the lying and sneaking around took its toll, and the week after high school graduation, he moved out.

From Chris' parents, Dale has found the acceptance that he craved. The Liuzzas have embraced him as family, and Seth receives as much doting as their five other grandchildren.

"We see him five out of seven days a week," Mary Liuzza said. "He's one of the happiest babies I've ever seen."

. . . . . . .

Dale and Chris Liuzza take note of the people gathered in the living room of their Uptown apartment: 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.

Local groups vary from chapter to chapter. Some offer regular events and support groups; others act primarily as a source of information and resources in their communities.

The New Orleans chapter aims to do both, and since its inception less than a year ago, it has seen a steady growth in participation.

The Liuzzas started the local group before Seth was born, putting a notice in the local PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Gays and Lesbians) newsletter to gauge interest. But this meeting is their first.

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, "(and) 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 the importance of the group and what they hope it 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 Audubon Park.

Dale is pleased with the results of the first meeting. As a stay-at-home father, he has made COLAGE second only to his family as his top priority.

"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.' "

. . . . . . .

Dale Crosby legally changed his name to Dale Liuzza in 2002, three years after moving in with Chris. In 2003 he converted to Reform Judaism, Chris' religion, which supports gay rights and relationships. And he and Chris began talking about having children.

They considered adoption, but found the obstacles daunting. After investigating their options, they decided to have a biological child through surrogacy and egg donation.

They turned to the Internet and found exactly what they were looking for -- two women who agreed to serve as egg donor and surrogate for the Liuzzas' child. "They both said they wanted to do it for a gay couple," Chris said.

After meeting the women in person, they began amassing $90,000 in savings and family loans to pay the legal fees, medical expenses and surrogate and egg donor fees.

Dale and Chris each donated sperm to fertilize the eggs, and the resulting embryos, three altogether, were then 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," said Angie Oliver, the surrogate who asked that her home 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."

. . . . . . .

With several hundred miles separating the Liuzzas from Oliver, the ensuing nine months were nerve-racking and worrisome. They sent a taped recording of their voices to Angie 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 said. "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 her Midwestern 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 and, except for a few disapproving relatives, nearly all of their friends and family members attended. Dale's parents, who had come to terms with their son's sexuality and choice of a partner three years earlier, 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 said, "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 on Jan. 8, weighing a healthy 6 pounds, 13 ounces. Within five minutes of delivery, Chris and Dale were holding their son for the first time, marveling at the miracle that had begun nine months ago in a medical lab.

"I could not believe the moment," Chris said. "After two years of planning and countless sleepless and worried nights, our son was finally born and in my hands."

"It was a moment of complete disbelief," Dale added. "We couldn't wait to bring him home."

Before that could happen, the Liuzzas and Oliver had to sign various legal documents, including one that would prevent Oliver or her family from making any claims to parenthood of Seth.

The Liuzzas were more focused on the elation of first-time parenthood than the legal technicalities of the adoption. They had grown fond of Oliver and her family, just as the Olivers had grown fond of the Liuzzas. As they bundled up Seth for the trip back home, they promised to keep the Olivers updated on his progress through phone calls, photos and e-mails.

Except for an occasional wail, Seth slept through most of the flight to New Orleans. With experience baby-sitting their 5-month-old nephew, the Liuzzas felt they were well-prepared for their new roles as Daddy (Chris) and Dee Dee (Dale). But after 15 days of waking up every two to three hours to feed him, exhaustion had started taking its toll.

"You get so overwhelmed with the sudden changes in being a parent," Dale said. "Everything revolves around him -- when he eats, when he sleeps, when he gets a bath."

"At first we were hoping for twins," said Chris. "But now we're relieved it was just one."

With each day bringing something new, the Liuzzas record every milestone in Seth's baby album -- his first smile, his first trip, his first restaurant. Custom-designed for a two-father family, the baby album includes pages about the egg donor and surrogate and sits atop their coffee table along with such parenting guides as "The Queer Parent's Primer" and "What to Expect the First Year." Seth's library is filled with classics, but the Liuzzas are just as likely to read "One Dad, Two Dads, Brown Dad, Blue Dad" and "Daddy, Papa and Me" to their son as they are "Goodnight Moon" and "Elmo Loves You."

Indeed, the growing number of same-sex parents has sparked a cottage industry of sorts, giving parents easy access to services, information and products geared especially to them.

Gay Parenting magazine, for example, provides resources on gay-friendly private schools, camps and vacations. And parents can choose from dozens of children's books about growing up with gay parents, including "Daddy's Roommate," "Heather Has Two Mommies," and "Jenny Lives with Eric and Martin."

Reading such a diversity of books to Seth will help teach one quality that Dale and Chris feel passionately about: tolerance.

"I want Seth to grow up loving everybody and respecting everyone's differences," Dale said. "I want him to know that every family, including his own, should be celebrated and respected."

. . . . . . .

Despite another sleepless night, Dale and Chris are glowing as they enter the chapel at Temple Sinai on St. Charles Avenue. Seth, nearly 3 months old, 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 of the chapel, where they sit on the front row and 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 said. "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, now standing with Cohn and Colman, 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 now 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 followed up their Temple Sinai ceremony with a visit to the Louisiana State Office Building to apply for a marriage license.

Officials were cordial, even pausing to admire Seth, but the law's the law, and they told the Liuzzas that unless gay marriage is legalized in Louisiana, they will not be able to obtain a license.

"I expected that," Dale said as they left. "But it still sucks."

. . . . . . .

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 Audubon Park.

The reaction from observers has 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 an Uptown supermarket, complimented him on his parenting skills. She then proceeded to ask him 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 said. "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."

Mary Liuzza, one of Seth's grandmothers, has a different perspective.

"As long as the child is being raised with love, that's the important thing," she said. "And this child is being raised with love. He's loving. He's secure. He's a blessing."

. . . . . . .

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 from his day with Seth that he plops on the couch and watches along with his partner.

"What a day," says Dale, recounting an incident in which Seth fell and hit his head while trying to climb up a built-in shelving unit.

Dale had scooped up Seth in a panic, strapped him in his car seat and rushed to the pediatrician's office, where he got the reassurance he needed. 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," says Chris 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 said.

Oliver is not alone in her love for Seth. 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." . . . . . . .