Adoption Asshats Update

It's no secret that the hubs and I are in the process of trying to adopt a special needs child. We have jumped through several hurdles, all of which have resembled hoops of fire. Inevitably, I singed my eyebrows. (A major reason why I refuse to light the barbeque, but I digress...)

We have explained our reasons, defended our beliefs, and ignored all the naysayers. We have wrestled our doubts, questioned ourselves and examined our very souls, searching for an answer.

We have comforted our children, held their hands, smoothed their qualms.

We are ready.

The adoption asshats people don't agree.

Yesterday we had yet another meeting with our adoption case workers. We read through our formal assessments and giggled like the immature adults Boo and I are. When I read that he wrote "T is the joy of my life" I just about collapsed into fits of sniggering. When he read that I wrote "our main source of miscommunication is his tendency to believe I am a mind reader" he had to dig that burr out from between his ass cheeks. It was a quality marital bonding moment.

The assessment was glowing and it was truly a wonder to realize just how loved and appreciated we are by our family, our friends and our community. If you believed the hype these folks spewed to the adoption twits, you'd think we have secret super powers, ready to solve the world's problems.

I felt warm and fuzzy. Without any alcoholic beverages.

The social worker assigned to our case wrote that she approved of Boo and my application to adopt and she felt that we would be "wonderful parents to a special needs child." Sounds great, right?

Wrong.

Apparently, she believes my children aren't so wonderful. She questions their dedication to the adoption and labelled one of them ambivalent. After spending a grand total of 21 minutes with the child. And not calling to speak to any adult that actually knew the kiddie, like say the teacher or the pediatrician. Instead, she recommended our application be put on hold until she felt that the children were more excited and ready to become adoptive siblings.

So instead of moving forward with the child matching as planned, we are stuck in limbo, waiting for the adoption asshats to do what they should have done in the first place and speak to the professionals involved with our chitlens. If that does not convince them my children are ready to adopt then they will have to be formally assessed by a head shrinker.

(I need to start being nice to them just in case. I wouldn't want the shrink to find out I make them eat stale cheerios for supper and force them to drink out of the toilet bowl.)







I am frustrated and a tad annoyed. I knew in advance that they were questioning my children's readiness for the adoption and to be honest, I appreciate the protectiveness they are showing my children. But they don't know my kids and have shown no interest in actually having a valid conversation with either of them.

I was warned beforehand of the monumental mountain of bureacratic stupidity we would be facing. But I naively thought that somehow it wouldn't apply to us. (Yah, I'm still trying to remove that KICK ME sign someone taped between my shoulder blades.)

I should have known the meeting was going to go badly when I first walked into the building and encountered a good friend who works in the social work industry. She took one look at me and rushed to my husband and told him to keep a muzzle on me. It was a comforting moment.

In the end, the twits walked away smarting from the verbal smack down I administered. My husband was unable to wrestle me down and muzzle me; subsequently when we left the building he looked down at me appreciatively and told me he was awed by how scary I can be while speaking so quietly. (It is a gift.)

So I will continue in this holding pattern, and try to be content knowing that we WERE approved, just put on hold.

While they try to figure out if my children are going to be standing over the new kid's bed with a knife and an empty look in their eyes, in the middle of the night.

The Skinny

This adoption process is sucking the life right out of me. It's driving me to drink. Oh wait, the dog's farting causes me to drink. Never mind. My point is, this is fucking emotionally draining, and being the moron I am, I didn't expect this process to be so difficult.

The government employee who holds the fate of the free world in her hand or at least who is directly responsible for my future family size and how expensive my grocery bill will become turned out to be exactly what I feared. An old battle axe with no sense of humor. Lovely.

She was however, charmed by my husband. At that particular point I was glad somebody was because I certainly wasn't. He suddenly developed a case of verbal diarrhea and ran off at the mouth. He tends to do that when he's nervous. I tend to get annoyed by him when I'm nervous.

Oh yeah, we totally put up a united front. This woman kept shaking her head and writing down little notes while we tried to explain that we really loved each other, even if it didn't look like it. At one point I started to panic because Boo had just finished telling the woman what a fucking Nazi I was to live with so I over compensated (after snapping at him) by deciding to share that we still have great sex.

Because I know how important that is to parenting. And you could totally tell she was worried about that. Who cares if I provide a safe and loving environment for my children. As long as I'm a good lay.

Sheesh.

I may as well have got out my battery operated bunny and tossed it on the coffee table. She might have been impressed then.

After three and a half hours of soul sucking torture and interrogation, she focused her laser-like eyes on my children. I felt a moment of panic for them, wanting to protect them from this woman's intrusive questions. Thankfully, that moment passed and I figured they were on there own. They're big kids. And damn it, I needed a break.

Actually, there wasn't a damn thing I could do other than hope and pray my darling children didn't tell this woman that I beat them on a regular basis and that my idea of parenting is to duct tape the kids to the wall. Her interview with my kids was private. I tried listening at the door with a cup to my ear, but the buggers were whispering. I finally gave up and just sat in the kitchen, wringing my hands and wiping the beads of sweat that kept popping up on my brow.

When they finally emerged behind the closed door I knew I was screwed when the government lady wouldn't make eye contact with me. My kids whispered apologies to me and Boo as they raced to the living room to plug in the video games. They needed to decompress too.

Boo tried to undo any damage the kids may have done by flirting with the old battle axe, but by then it was too late. She was having none of his blond, blue-eyed charm. I think I saw a handwritten note on her notebook to call social services first thing in the morning. I figure that couldn't be good.

By this time, she had been in my home for four and a half hours and I'm starting to think I should set up a guest bed for her. She may as well move in. I'd even let her use the good sheets, not the thread bared, nappy ones I make the kids sleep on. It was right about then she made her escape.




Is it a bad sign when she won't look you in the eye and wishes you good luck? As she walked to her car, she shook her head the entire way. Like she was trying to clear the cobwebs or some damn thing.Boo and I just looked at each other and shook our heads. We knew we were screwed. But by this point we were such emotional basket cases that we could hardly function. We made the kids have cereal for supper (at least we fed them!) as we decompressed by watching violent movies on the couch. In front of our impressionable, young children. While drinking beer. I even offered them a swig of my brew. (I figured they earned it.)

That was round one. Today, at one o'clock, is round two. But this time, it's only me and the battle axe.

It's every woman for herself and if you think I'm going to let some grey-haired, balding, no sense of humor, underpaid, overworked government employee get in the way of my dreams of adopting some gibbled child, well then you are sadly mistaken. And apparently, you haven't read far enough into my archives to know better.

May the best woman win. (Theme music to Rocky plays in background.)

Let's see who's still standing by four o'clock this afternoon. I've got age on my side at the very least.

An Open Letter

To the People in charge of Redneck Mommy's Adoption,

As a member of Redneck Mommy's family, and let's face it, the glue that holds that woman together, I am taking it upon myself to see what I can do to speed up this adoption process.



I'm Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. I'm sure you've heard of me.




As you can see, my RM is slightly confused. In her desperation to adopt a child, she has transferred the love and affection she has for all of her children, new, used and invisible, and placed it on me. Do you have any idea the pressure this puts on a pooch such as myself? I'm getting a bald spot on the top of my head from all her kisses and let's not discuss how many times I've noticed large patches of my fur being removed with her incessant cuddling and stroking. She's wearing me out and that says a lot seeing as how I've got boundless energy.




Do you see what she did to me? Further proof that she has lost her mind. The next thing I know she's going to be putting her nephew's, The Worm, clothes on me and pushing me around in a buggy introducing me to all her friends as her newly adopted child. I know everybody is expecting a special child, but please, I'm too pretty to be confused for a HUMAN. Do you have any idea how hard it will be to get laid if the neighborhood bitches see me being paraded around in a bonnet?




So I urge you, please, speed up her adoption and give the woman a kid. Preferably one that doesn't walk or talk or make any sounds. That Worm of hers is more baby than I care for. But I love RM, (she knows all the right spots to scratch and she is susceptible to bribery) so I want her to get herself another little drooler. I'm not above begging here. My dignity depends on it. The other day I heard her muttering about finding a diaper to fit me! A fucking diaper!

Help dog out and save the sanity of all lives involved. I can vouch for her ability to love and parent. She keeps those rugrats of hers on a tight leash. (Hee,hee, while I can pretty much get away with murder...Not that I would, I'm a really gentle dog. These fangs are strictly for show.)

Sincerely,

Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever.