Adoption Rant

Sunday morning my daughter came to me while I was ignoring my children catching up on my blog reading and promptly whipped down her pajama bottoms. As she was standing there with her ass cheeks hanging out for the world to look at me, I noticed the glimmer of her two little moons flashing from the corner of my eye.

I turned around to ask her what the heck she was doing only to discover that her lily white skin had an angry rash and some scabs marring her young butt.

"It itches Mom. What is it?" She asked, while looking at me with all the innocence and trust her blue eyes could convey.

"Um, seeing as how I forgot to attend the parenting course on rashes of an unknown etiology, I'm going to have to tell you I have no freaking idea, Frac. Does it hurt?" I was tempted to touch it, but let's face it. Those are her ASS cheeks in front of me. I have no idea if she washes those things when she's in the shower, plus that rash could be contagious and there is no way in God's green earth that I want to walk around with an itchy red ass.

"Not really, but it is driving me nuts. Can you fix it?" Um, no. My medical license isn't valid, um, anywhere.

So off to the pediatrician's we went yesterday. The good news, it's just eczema that has been terrorized by ten little fingers in the wee hours of the night. Some good ointment and some mitts on my kid at night and time should take care of the rest.

I love going to see the pediatrician. He is THE man. I'd marry him if his wife wouldn't rip my limbs off and beat me to death with them first. Going to see Lyle is like going to see my favorite relative. He's seen me first thing in the morning, he's seen me do the UGLY cry, he has seen me snort liquid out of my nose from laughter and through it all, he is not too embarrassed to acknowledge that he knows me.

Plus, he held my hand the night Bug died and helped me break the news to my husband. He's officially family.

After he poked around my daughter's hind quarters and doled out his doctorly advice, our conversation turned towards the adoption. I asked him if he has spoken to the adoption asshats as they had said they would make a decision regarding a certain child's readiness to become a sibling again once they contacted him.

This was two weeks ago. Lyle has not received a call as of yet. The steam is still pouring out of my ears. I keep replaying the promise this twit uttered about getting in touch with the teachers and doctor (like she should have the FIRST time around) over and over in my head.

Turns out said twit hasn't contacted the teachers either. What the FUCK?

While I certainly don't believe our adoption application is more important than the next couple's, I do believe in doing what you promise. This woman called LAST MONDAY to say she was on the ball and would make the calls as quickly as possible to ensure our holding pattern was not unending.

Like a dumbass, I believed her. This will teach me.

So I did what any normal, rational woman who is relying on a bunch of government dough heads to determine the fate of her family size and indirectly, the direction what her future may take, would do. I called and left a voice mail inquiring what the hell was going on.

My daughter was impressed I managed to sound scary without swearing. I informed her it is a talent one must work hard at cultivating.

Not surprisingly, they have yet to return my call. But that is okay. I have their home phone numbers. And I'm not above calling at all hours of the day. Especially during the dinner hour.







Somewhere out there, is a small child with extreme medical needs who needs a momma bear to call his or her own. Somewhere out there, a small child with extreme medical needs is either in temporary foster care or sitting in a facility while a couple of bureacrats dilly dally about doing their job.

And that pisses me off. It would be one thing if they hadn't approved us and just ruled we were unfit or not ready to involve another life in the twisted mess we call family. But they haven't done that. So hurry the hell up, quit fucking the dog and do your damn job.

Because there is a pissed off Redneck who is about to start breathing fire out of her nose and she's looking to aim it at the nearest adoption office.

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.

Hallmark Pain

With the excitement of Boo and my ten year anniversary barreling down upon us this week (hold all applause, I will be posting about that on THURSDAY), I have managed to overlook and forget about the upcoming Mother's day celebration that is creeping upon us.

I'm not a fan of Mother's day. Sure, I understand, even like the concept of mother's day, but for those of us without mothers, or suffering with mommy issues, the day can just be a painful reminder of what is missing in our own lives.


While Mother's day hasn't always been easy for me, since the death of my youngest it is positively BRUTAL. Nothing says happy mother's day quite like a granite marker in a quiet cemetery reminding you of the child you lost.

Mother's aren't supposed to lose their children. We are supposed to gestate them, birth them, love them, develop them, annoy them and then one day shove them out the door and hope all the love and strength and morality we have showered on them in their lives proves useful in turning out productive, happy, well-adjusted members of society.

Not once while I was dreaming of what it would be like to be parent did I think to imagine what it would be like to see the inside of the coroner's office, see the damage an autopsy can do to a child's virgin skin, choose my child's coffin. My vision of parenthood never encompassed the idea of a smallish wooden box being lowered on a cloudy cool day while loved ones wept quietly and tossed dirt into a gaping black hole.

Life often doesn't turn out the way we envision it.

(Understatement of the day.)

Ahem. Moving right along.

Yes, I've had a tough time with Mother's day. But with the adoption looming over our heads, I have had to sit back and analyse my role as a mother. Here on my blog, I like to poke at my children, jest about their foibles, examine their moments of idiocy, but I seldom write about the good deeds they perform, or brag about their accomplishments. And they have many. (After all, they take after their mother.)

It is easier to write publicly about when Fric annoyed Frac than it is to share the story of the two of them quietly bonding. This weekend, when Fric sliced open her hand in a dumbass moment (slicing an apple while watching a cartoon on the couch and playing with the dog) Frac wrung his little hands in compassionate worry for his sister. While she was being patched together...six stitches and several cuss words later...Frac called often just to check in on his sibling and to offer his support, unable to relax until he heard her tell him to quit pestering her, she would be alright.

There's nothing funny about that, yet the poignancy of the act left tears in my eyes, and made me ache for their brother and the loss they suffered even more.

My children are happy. They are well-adjusted. They have such a wide streak of responsibility instilled in them that even at their young ages of ten and nine they are already getting calls from other families to watch small children. (Don't worry, I haven't let them answer those calls just yet.) Fric and Frac are smart and wily. They are compassionate and humorous. Simply put, I couldn't be prouder of those two peas in a pod, and I bust with maternal pride more often than I cower with parental shame.

It is just not as easy, nor near as funny to blather on my blog about how super and special and smart and talented my children are. But you can bet your asses they are. And yes, I even believe they are better than your children. (How's them for fighting words?)

I haven't always been the best mother. I have yelled when I shouldn't have, ignored when listening would have been wiser, blogged when I should have been cheating on them with Monopoly. But I have always been a good mother. No, a great mother.

But nobody likes a braggart. Talk about boring. It's more fun (and honest) to point out my inadequacies as a parent. I don't always feed them a well-balanced diet, I swear like a sailor in desperate need of the services of a whore house, I walk around naked, scarring their formative minds permanently, drink beer while screaming at a hockey game on the telly and I have corrupted their delicate minds with my twisted sense of humor. Oh, and I couldn't bake a cookie to save my life.

But despite all of my flaws, I always get down on my knee to offer hugs and kisses. I tell them a hundred times a day that I love them, and I stop and listen when they tell me their secrets, their hopes and their fears and make sure they know they were heard.

Mother's day isn't just about pancakes and brunches. It's about all who I have become, what I have suffered, who I have loved. It can no longer be about my own mother, although I will take a moment to reflect on her and how much I love her, despite all the pain and miscommunications of the past. This mother's day will be about me and how I managed to salvage what was left of my family after tragedy struck us down and took one away.

I am a good momma bear. I just need to remember that this coming Mother's day, when the funny has left my funny bone and the pain looms around my heart. All I need to do is look at the blinding smiles of Fric and Frac, and remember my sweet boy with angel wings, and know it to be true.

This Mother's day, I will be thinking of all of you who don't have mothers, whether through death or circumstances, who will be just a tad lost like myself. I will celebrate motherhood in all of it's glory and pain and gory misery. As a woman and a mother I understand now, just how hard this job can really be. And let's face it, not everyone can be as wonderful at this mothering gig as me.

Wink, wink.

While I may not be with my mother, I won't be alone. I will be with my family, my children. I will have my lovely mother-in-law to torment as only I can. And this time, when the kids and I make our pilgrimage to the cemetery, I'm going to tell Bug I love him and miss him and yes, I DID do everything within my power as his mother to love him and heal him.

And then I'm going to chase my living children around the tomb stones. Let's see who really can run the fastest.

I can hear Bug laughing already.