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.