Desperate Measures

I'm not a patient person by nature. I've never bought into the whole 'patience is a virtue' crap idea. I hate waiting for anything. The page to load while surfing the net. The commercials to end while watching the telly. The slow cashier at the grocery store who needs to call for a price check on cheese while I have to pee. Waiting sucks for an impatient chick such as myself.

So it is no surprise the whole adoption process has been a trial for me. It's been one long lesson in learning patience right from the beginning. Waiting to hear if we are granted FINAL approval is starting to drive me batshit crazy.

There is still no word.

Might as well just beat me with a large wooden club and pluck my eyes out with a spoon. At this rate it would be much less painful.

No one has any idea why signing off on an application that was already recommended for approval is taking so long.

Me, I like to think it's the government's way of torturing me.

So while I wait and try desperately not to worry that they are changing their minds and going to deny us a kid, I'm going a little baby crazy. Seems like everyone is either pregnant or packing a kiddy around these days. Except me.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.





Look! A size 5 diaper fits my dog baby!

Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, EVER. is almost as good as a human baby. After all, he gets me up in the middle of the night as much as an infant would.





So he's a little hairy and he drools. This could work.

Think of the money this would save me in tuition!





There isn't enough kibble in the world to put up with this crap.

I wouldn't even need to buy any clothes for him. I could just use my daughter's doll clothes!





That's it woman. Look for a small present in your slipper later tonight.

Never mind. He doesn't look that good in a dress and I couldn't get the little bugger into overalls. Who knew a lazy dog could run so fast while wearing a diaper?

I could always use the doll I got for my tenth birthday. I never did give her much love back then. Mostly because I had hoped to receive a red plether jacket like the one Michael Jackson rocked in his glory days. Instead, I found Esther when I ripped open my present.

Very disappointing. It's kinda hard to rock out to Thriller while packing a Cabbage Patch doll.





That's right Esther. I promise to love you forever.

Esther is sporting a decidedly unpleasant smell. I can't decide if it's mold or mouse pee. Still, with a little wine, this could work.





No. Not feeling it.

Scratch that idea. I never liked that doll. Something about the yellow yarn hair creeps me out. Can't have a baby that gives me the willies.

Still, my maternal instincts are on overdrive and I need to mother something. I tried catching my birds to cuddle with them, but the little fackers turned on me and tried to rip my fingers off. Ungrateful beasties. I NEED a child. I'm not picky. I'm not asking for a healthy baby. I don't care what the child looks like. After all, it has to be better looking than Nixon or Esther. I just need someone to love.





Coochie coochie coo.

Preferably before I get too old to keep up with a child and my mind gets more twisted.





Look! Isn't it precious?

That last picture probably isn't going to help speed up the adoption process, is it? What can I say? I'm desperate to be a mother again and I have way too much time on my hands. Time that could be well spent parenting a child in need.





Look how well a baby fits in these arms.

Instead of wandering around the neighbourhood looking for babies to hog hold, or dogs to terrorize or bottles to caress, I could be somebody's new mommy.

But in the mean time until I hear from my friendly neighbourhood adoption office, I will just continue with my lesson in learning a little patience.

While trying to find a way to get Nixon to drink from a bottle and ride in a stroller.

Wait and See

I never wanted kids. I never played with dolls and dreamed of having my own little minions to one day boss around and mold into personal slaves love and cherish. I never dreamed of white picket fences, home baked cookies, pigtails and cute little outfits.

I never gave parenting much thought at all. Up until the moment I murdered a rabbit peed on a stick and faced the reality of looming motherhood, I never figured I was cut from the maternal cloth so many of my friends seemed to be made from.

Until that moment, the moment the little stick showed it's plus sign, it never dawned on me what having children would, could bring to my life. I never understood the blessing of children. I just saw snotty noses, dirty diapers and stressed out moms. I didn't see that as a future I could embrace.

Some where between my own babies caterwauling, snotty noses and dirty diapers, I discovered the joys of parenthood. The sweet coos of a sleeping baby, the robust giggles of a toddler and the gap tooth grins of my kids charmed me into thinking I could do this. I could be a mom. And like it.

Then Bug was born and the rules were changed. There were no late nights nursing a sweet infant back to sleep. It was all about hospitalizations and doctors and medical procedures. It was about scary diagnoses, impossible hopes and fighting fears.

When other moms were rousing themselves for late night feedings and rocking their babes back to sleep, I was stumbling in the dark, stubbing my toes and trying to figure out which monitor was shrilling it's alarm in the wee hours, warning me of Bug's imminent doom.

While other moms dealt with sore nipples or dirty bottles, I was trying to lift my kid out of his specialized high chair or his crib without trying to yank out his gastric feeding tube.

As other moms struggled with solid foods or temper tantrums, I was juggling a medication schedule that would give any nurse a headache and trying to keep my other two kids from hiding the plastic syringes in the couch cushions.

While other moms worried their toddlers weren't playing nice with others or were being bullied on the playground by an obnoxious sand-thrower, I was trying to get other parents and children to simply see and acknowledge my child. Other moms worried about preschool, princesses and television programs. I struggled to fit the damn wheelchair in the back of my car, remember his speech equipment, his splints and wonder if I was going to be on time to pick up the other two children after a day at the hospital.

It was trial by fire and more than once I felt the burn.

Yet I would sell my soul to the devil himself to have one more minute to experience that flame.

In a blink, it was over. And there were two stunned little kids who didn't understand why their brother was no longer banging cupboards in the wee hours of the morn, no longer there to play choo-choo with them.

I'm was left with hard questions and no answers. Just tears, enough to fill an ocean.

As time passes, that ocean gets deeper. And yet, every morning the sun still rises, the clouds still part and the waves from our ocean of loss no longer threaten to topple us over. Instead, they mostly bathe us with the warm memories of a life that was filled with love and joy.

With the adoption looming, and the possibility of a new brother or sister to love, we are all reminded of the little boy absent from our home, yet never from our hearts or our minds. I've found myself explaining to family and friends, again, why we want to walk this path once more.

Why would we want to put our hearts on the line for a child who may never be normal, or healthy or even grow up. Why would we want to wrestle with hospitilizations, medications, therapies and social frustrations.

I nod my head and agree that it's easy not to be able to see past the frustrations and scariness of a disabled child. But, I remind them, it is impossible to forget the joy those children shine with and spread to all who come into contact with them.

Bug made sure of that.

And so will our next child.

That's what I tell people when they ask why we want to adopt such a needy child.

Just wait until you meet him or her. Then you will know.

Always Read the Fine Print

There is nothing funny about the psych assessment sitting on my kitchen table, mocking me with it's pages of judgements and recommendations.

I've tried to find the funny of it, buried deep between the parts where the report says that contrary to all my flaws I may actually be a good parent and the parts stating I may need professional help to ever be considered normal.

I've tried to find humour while reading that I am flippant and aggressive. (Ya, so? Wanna make something of it?)

I've tried to find a way to bring humour to a report which describes me as insensitive and overly frank with a streak of exhibitionism.

Like that's a bad thing? It's not like I go around flashing my boobs, people. (At least not while sober.)

Excuse me while I go find a bottle of red to boost my fragile ego.

This report has been the bane of my sanity before it's very existence. The mere thought that I had to be clinically assessed in a psychological manner because I had the nerve to take antidepressants when my child died suddenly was and still is, insulting.

The fact the psych dude read my blog and didn't like my sense of humour, my style of writing or my content, should never have entered his rendering of my assessment.

Yet, I suspect it did.

And I'm pissed. And not in an alcoholic way.

Overall, the psych assessment found my family and me to be suitable candidates for adoption. None of us are depressed, psychopathic, suicidal or homicidal.

(I hadn't read the report yet.)

The report wasn't all bad. Apparently I have the parenting skills of a super hero, much to the amazement of the psych dude. My children are well adjusted (despite my personality flaws) and delightful to be around. My husband could single handily save the world with his broad shoulders and most certainly saved me from a life of dancing around a pole, the report finds.

There are other glimmers of positive reinforcement in the report, just enough to keep me from jumping off a bridge or locking myself into a padded room.

But it is an unusual and oddly disturbing moment to have your life, your personality and your very essence ripped apart and dissected by complete strangers all so that you may have the opportunity to adopt a child. It would have been much easier to find a donor, fill a turkey baster and um, baste one's self to get a kid.

If only I had thought of that first. Damn.

I was hesitant to post about this report, as I'm a little sensitive to criticism right now. (Hmm. Wonder why.) My family and I have been under a microscope for over a year now and I'm feeling a little shy about more scrutiny. But when I made the decision to blog about the trials and tribulations of adopting, and ultimately went public with this quest of my family's, I promised myself I would post the good, the bad, and the ugly.

And boy, was this ugly.

Ultimately, regardless of how humbling this report has been to my ego, it has been a useful tool for me and my husband. It's bonded us closer and gave us an insight to our children that most parents don't get. It's made us love one another a little more tenderly, because we now know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that momma is ape-shit crazy and you never know when she's gonna come unglued.

Er, I mean, we all have our personal flaws printed in black and white and there is no need to point them out to one another anymore. We have an official document broadcasting them for all to read.

This report, in all it's painful glory did more than knock me down a peg or two and make me reach for my wine glass. It gave me a small gift in fine print, buried amongst all the harsh findings of what an incredible nut job I really am.

It told me how much my family really loves me, and how unbelievably amazing all of them really are. Flaws and all. Not that I needed a three thousand dollar psychological assessment to tell me that. I already knew.

But now I have proof.

******EDIT:******

I just want to clarify for everyone that we were RECOMMENDED for approval. We still have yet to be approved. This means the home assessment and our psych assessment and the recommendation will be forwarded to the adoption headquarters magic kingdom and some fairy prince or princess will read the recommendation and assessments and rubber stamp it yes or no. My adoption case workers assure us they are confident our application will be approved. I'm placing my sanity in their hands and trusting they wouldn't lie to me. After all, you don't lie to crazy people and I'm certifiable. The report said so.

And thanks for all the support. It's good to know someone likes me. Because I'm positive the psych dude didn't.