There is little that brings me as much joy as the sound of my toddler’s chunky legs on our parquet floors as he makes that sharp right at the foyer and heads toward his shoes. The mere mention of the word “outside” and this kid is ready to go.

Should we go to the park? Or maybe that fancy outdoor mall across town? We tricycled this morning, so this next outing needs to be a destination. But which one will be the least exhausting? And I don’t mean the copious amounts of energy needed to take a toddler anywhere. No, no … I’m talking about the exhaustion I already feel just thinking about dealing with another episode of “Black Dad, White Son.”

Report: Investigation at Federal Prisons Unveils Workers are Committing Some of the Crimes

This is the point where I tell you that my husband (who is white) and I are the proud foster-to-adopt parents of our 21-month-old son. He came home to us shortly before Christmas 2020, when he was 9 months old. I don’t know if it was Saint Nick, Father Christmas or that Italian couple who play Mama and Papa Claus in “Rudolph” who made it happen. But our Christmas bundle of joy had arrived and everything was perfect.

Well, somewhat perfect. Nearly perfect? Perfect adjacent? As an interracial couple, our one small caveat to us adopting was that our child be a mix of something. It just seemed like it would be a much easier undertaking for all of us. I concluded that having a racially ambiguous baby would stem questions in an already questionable circumstance. So when we were presented with the whitest baby on the face of the earth ― I’m talking straight-up white, no-chaser-of-ethnicity white, white-white, Allan Willis from “The Jeffersons” white ― I was honestly like, hmmm.

Source: I’m Black. My Son Is White. Here’s What We Deal With When We Leave The House.