Do you have any idea how many children there are? I don’t mean population statistics, I mean in your own neighborhood. Unless you’re a prospective or current parent, I bet you don’t—at least I didn’t.

The moment I crossed that invisible line between “maybe someday” and “this is on my calendar now,” children seemed to jump out everywhere. Little ones walk down the street in front of my house, holding their mothers’ hands; they ride in grocery carts with wide eyes and reaching fingers; they scream, laugh, and shout on playgrounds. Older kids congregate on corners, telling low-voiced stories; they pilot skateboards and bikes around the block; they trudge back and forth from school wearing backpacks. All of a sudden, kids live and breathe and move and grow everywhere I look.

Where were all of them before I decided to become a parent? Were they always there?

In 1996, I started poking around on the Internet, looking at adoption sites. I found the available information frustratingly incomplete. The sites I found talked about the process of adoption, its costs, eligibility requirements, and pitfalls. Some of them had heart-wrenching pictures of children waiting to be adopted. Some of them had journals written by couples who had gone through the process. None of them had what I was looking for.

Trouble is, I didn’t know what that was.

I phoned one of the agencies at random, and asked to speak to a social worker.

“I’m thinking of adopting,” I said. “I’m just thinking at this stage, and I could use some help clarifying my thoughts.”

“Well, why do you want to adopt a child?” she said.

Such a simple question, so blandly put. I thought I had a simple answer until the first time I tried to put my thoughts into words.

“Why does anyone want a child?” I replied, stalling for time. “All those reasons apply to me, too.”

The lady on the other side of the phone connection wasn’t buying it. “I asked why you want to adopt,” she said.

A thousand reasons. For at least twenty years I’d toyed with the idea, sometimes seriously, sometimes just as a passing fancy. I’d come close to making this kind of phone call dozens of times. Now that I was actually talking to someone about it, those thousand reasons all vanished. I felt foolishly unprepared for the conversation.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m getting older, and—”

“How old are you?”

“Forty-two.”

“Um-hmm.” I heard the sound of a pen scratching on paper. Oh, God, she was taking notes.

“I’m thinking that if I don’t do it before long, it will be too late. I’ll be too old to care for a child.”

“Um-hmm. How old is your wife?”

“I’m not married.”

“That’s not necessarily a problem. How long have you been living together?”

“We’re not. I mean I’m not. I’m single.”

“We only work with couples.”

“Does that mean you can’t even talk to me about this?”

“Really, there’s no point.”

I hung up and called the next agency on my list—one whose website said they worked with singles.

“Why do you want to adopt, Mr. Dwight?” said the social worker.

“I don’t want to adopt Mr. Dwight. I am Mr. Dwight.”

“Ha-ha,” she said dryly. “Are you looking for a boy or a girl?”

“I want two boys I can name Maurice and Lester.”

“Sorry?”

“So if someone asks, ‘Are either of those your kids?’ I can reply, ‘More or Les’.”

“Oh, that was another joke.” Her voice indicated she didn’t find it funny.

“More of an ice-breaker.”

“Are you nervous about this?”

“I think ‘terrified’ would be a better description.”

“Why would you be terrified?”

“The responsibility. I’ve been single for a long time—all my life. Everything would change if I had a kid. I mean everything. My entire lifestyle. At first I was thinking of all the things that would go right, how I’d be able to help some child. Now I’m thinking of everything that could go wrong.”

“It’s a bit early in the process to be that worried, but I’m glad to hear you’re thinking about all the consequences of adoption. Why do you want to adopt?”

I took a deep breath. “Because it’s obscene that I have so much, and there’s some kid somewhere with so little, a kid with whom I could share what I have.”

“You mean you’re well off?”

“I suppose I am, but that isn’t what I meant. I was thinking about all the life lessons I’ve learned, the hard-won knowledge, the skills. In a more basic sense, I can provide good nutrition, a warm and loving home, guidance, nurturing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That was supposed to impress you.”

“Well, maybe it does, but it didn’t answer my question. You told me why you think you’d be a good parent. You didn’t say why you wanted to be a parent.”

“Do you guys take courses in this stuff? How to Confuse People 101 or something?”

“No, we just have a natural talent for it.”

I began to like this lady.

“Okay,” I said, “I guess it comes down to this: I want a son. Someone on whom I can spend the love and affection I’ve been saving up all these years. Someone to carry on my name when I’m dead. Someone whose life I can take a hand in shaping. I’m looking for a chance, a moment, to devote all my energies and hopes in something more important than my next business contract or what I have for lunch. I’m tired of always being the uncle, even the favorite uncle. I’m tired of watching my friends and family raise kids. I want to taste the joys and heartaches directly instead of second-hand.”

After a pause, she said, “Preachers in your family?”

I laughed. “Two, plus my maternal grandfather was a preacher.”

“It shows.”

“Did I answer your question?”

“Heck, Mr. Dwight, it’s your question, so the answer has to satisfy you, not me. I just wanted to hear you say it. If you want a child so badly, why don’t you have one of your own?”

“No ovaries.”

“I can see how that would be a problem. Most men, however, find a woman to help with that part.”

Oh, boy. How to answer that one? I could tell her about the women I’d dated over the years, and why none of the relationships had worked out. I could tell her I didn’t mind the idea of being in love, but I didn’t want to be married. But could I explain why, even to myself?

Honesty, I told myself. Brutal honesty. If I can’t be honest with some stranger on the phone, how could I expect to be honest with my child, or with myself?

“This is about wanting to be a parent,” I said carefully, thinking it through as I spoke. “It’s not about being a husband. It would be horribly unfair to date someone, or marry someone, simply because I wanted progeny. Why can’t I be a parent without being someone’s spouse?”

“You can be. Lots of singles are adopting these days, for exactly the reasons you said.”

“So what are my chances of adopting?”

“Not terrible,” she said. I suppose she meant to be encouraging.

We went on to discuss domestic versus foreign adoption, basic requirements, costs, timeframes, and the overall process. She was very thorough and very businesslike; she took an hour answering my questions, even though I made it clear up-front that I was only gathering information right now.

Bottom line: It’s almost impossible for a single white male to adopt a healthy baby of his own race in the United States unless it's arranged privately with the birth mother. Preference in agencies goes to married couples, then single women, then (in some cases) gay couples, then single men. State agencies pretty much only have kids who are developmentally disabled, physically handicapped, abused or neglected, or abandoned. Private agencies have a wider selection, but mostly act as facilitators between biological parents and adopting parents.

Arrangements with a birth mother are possible, but so unlikely that it's probably not worth trying. One must find the woman, convince her to give the baby to you instead of a nicely married couple, and then hope she doesn't back out before giving up the child (or worse, change her mind five or ten years later and sue for custody).

International adoption through an agency typically only allows married couples or single women, but some countries and some agencies will consider a single man. The catch again is that a single guy is at the bottom of the pecking order, and probably can't get a baby. The chances for a two- to eight-year-old, however, are pretty good if one is patient.

“Thanks,” I said.

“One last thing,” she told me. “Whatever agency you end up using, check it out thoroughly. Check for complaints. Get references. And don’t start until you think you’re ready to proceed.”

“Thanks,” I repeated.

I wish I’d gotten her name, or even paid attention to which agency I’d called.

In September, 2003, I took another good look at my life, and found that I still wanted a son. More important, I found I still wanted to be a parent. My finances were good—as good as they’d ever been—but there was more gray in my hair than ever. Right now, I had the money, the time, the love, the desire, and the dedication. I wanted to give a child the secure and loving kind of home I had when I was a boy. I was especially pleased about the idea of helping a child who otherwise would be stuck in foster care or an orphanage.

I believe that most children, if given guidance, love, and nurture, turn out to be pretty decent human beings. Wanting children is a natural human feeling. I want someone to carry on my name, to learn the things I have to teach, and to be the son I've always wanted.

“It’s now,” I told myself, “or probably never.”

So, with a great deal of trepidation, I decided it would be now.

I started making a list of things that would change in my life after I had children. Several days and a dozen pages later, I decided it would be simpler and easier to make a list of things that wouldn’t change. The list is still blank. I can’t think of a single aspect of my life that won’t be affected.

But I’m going ahead anyway. It seems a small price to pay.