I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, but I’m trying to adopt a child.

Heh.

Besides having been dragged through the mud personally and been made to face my own personal demons as well as those of my husbands and children, this process has been decidedly delightful.

If you believe that, well, I also want you to know I have a 21-inch waist and only weigh 95 pounds. I have to fight off requests from Vogue and Cosmo to model for them all the time.

Really.

The decision to adopt was an easy one. We wanted a sibling for our Bug who was like him. Someone he could relate to on his own level, someone who understood the challenges he faced on a daily basis. Someone who would make him feel normal. We loved Bug so much we knew we would love another disabled child just as much.

Then the world turned upside down, the skies darkened and the unthinkable happened. Bug died. Suddenly and with out warning. Which brought our decision to adopt to a screeching halt.

We became a tad busy grieving. You know, the ugly cries, the constant wonderings of “What if’s” and trying to learn how to cope and love and live with two very sad and confused siblings who didn’t understand the concept of gone. Forever.

The adoption was stricken from our minds. How do you think about having another child when all you can think about is the fact you couldn’t keep one of your children alive through sheer force of will and love?

After all, we did everything right. I mean, I fed him and watered him and would try and remember to change his arse before his diaper simply fell off from the sheer weight of refuse nesting inside it’s warm plastic walls.

Eventually the question of adoption was brought back up. The biological clock that resides within me refuses to stop shrilling. No matter how loudly my tired uterus, broken pelvic bones and damaged (literally) heart tells it to shut the fack up, that clock keeps reminding me I want more kids.

I. MUST. BREED.

But since breeding the old fashioned way is an impossibility for this now barren and useless uterus, I’ve had to make do with alternate arrangements.

Which brought adoption back on to the table.

Two years later and I can see the sunshine again. (Well not right now thanks to the raging blizzard outside of my windows…how I love Mother Nature and Freaking CANADA…but still, I know the sun out is there.)

Life has leveled off into a comfortable existence between an aching heart and the joyous existence of raising two lovely little demon spawn to call my own.

I’m having so much fun horn wrangling my demons I simply can’t wait to try my hand at this motherhood gig all over again. I mean, is there anything more enjoyable than mounds of dirty laundry, unending school recitals and constantly being reminded just how very uncool you are now that you are known as a parent?

That was rhetorical. Let me live in my delusions.

But now that the rough part of the adoption ride is over (ha! I fooled them all!), my caseworker keeps telling me that the fun is just beginning. It gets easier from here. Kids will be dropping in my lap and I will have the pick of the litter.

Except the litter is awfully small. Turns out the type of child we want to adopt are as elusive as a purple unicorn that poops out golden eggs.

My caseworker was wrong. This is not the fun part. Not unless you consider riding a rollercoaster while hung over and being forced to eat runny eggs simultaneously fun. Me, not so much.

It’s not a lot of fun hearing there may be a child who matches you only to find out the child’s case worker thinks you are a nut job or your family should not be allowed near monkeys let alone children or your husband doesn’t think the kid will be the right fit.

I keep forgetting he has a say in this as well. So far, I haven’t much liked what he has said. I’m still a little disappointed he turned down a seven-month-old baby girl who may or may not have a neurological problem. She wasn’t handicapped enough for him. At this point, I’d adopt a two-headed kitten to call my own.

(We call the right head Sam and the left head Jack. Don’t they have pretty eyes?)

This may be why my husband and my caseworker are trying to ignore my maternal instincts and force me to think logically. Buggers.

We’ve been unofficially matched with a handful of kids but for a variety of reasons they didn’t work out. There is no fault to be laid, they just weren’t the kids for our family. My head understands this, but my broken heart and screaming uterus are still trying to understand why I have an empty bed in my house and no one to slap diapers on other than my dog.

Even my kids keep at an arms distance lest I get some mad twinkle in my eye and start muttering about “let’s play dress up. You be the baby and I’ll get the diapers.”

I keep repeating to myself like some yoga mantra that if it is meant to be, it will be. It’s in God’s hands. If a child never presents itself to our family we will survive. My maternal instincts will just have to learn how to shut the hell up. After all, I still have two wonderful children and a little angel to call my own. Some people aren’t so lucky.

Just when I was actually learning how to be patient with the child matching process and accept what will be, the clouds parted, the sun shone down and the phone rang.

Once again, we are on a rollercoaster journey of trying to decide if a child will fit our home. There are two little children who are in dire need of a forever family and would we consider either of them? My immediate response before my husband reached out, clapped his hand over my mouth and effectively muzzled me was “SURE! We’ll take BOTH. And can I have fries with that?”

Boo is such a spoilsport. Apparently, I’m only allowed to choose one. One has very severe mental handicaps and is able bodied while the other is smart, witty and trapped in rather pathetic shell for a body. Hmm. One is older while the other is younger. Both are very cute. Both need mommies.

When we started this process my family and friends would tell me that I would simply KNOW which child is meant to be.

What a crock of shat. Apparently they have forgotten whom they were speaking to. A woman who can’t decide between green grapes and red grapes so she buys both. A woman who couldn’t choose her daughter’s name so she just gave up and let her husband and mother decide for her. I bought the first car I test-drove because it had a bitchy looking front grill and really, isn’t one car the same as the next?

I’m not a great decision maker. I wrestle with doubt and my insecurities and I tend not to make rational logical decisions. Yet I’ve got the biggest decision of my and my family’s life ahead of me, ultimately in my lap.

Who do I choose?

The hubs, he has opinions. I try to listen to them. The fact he hasn’t scrubbed either child from the decision making process speaks loudly enough. He likes them both. If only we could take both. But that is not an option. The kids, they have opinions. But mainly over who is going to get to be the favorite sibling. So helpful.

For the past few weeks, I have been praying and thinking and basically obsessing over these children. I am confident either child will be happy in our home and we will grow to love this child as fearsome and deeply as we love all our children. Dead and alive.

But this isn’t fun. I’m morphing into a wrinkled, gray haired old woman, worrying that once we finally decide on a child something will go wrong and we won’t be able to take this child home. There are no guarantees. Not in adoption.

In true Redneck fashion, I never thought this far in advance. Much like when I was unmarried and pregnant with my first child I concentrated on the pregnancy and the delivery. I never gave much actual thought to raising a baby. When the nurse wheeled Fric in, bundled in her little bassinet and walked away I remember thinking “OH SHIT! What am I supposed to do now?”

I have for so long been consumed with surviving the adoption process and getting approved I never allowed myself to think of the time when we would start the child matching part. It seemed so hopelessly far off and almost impossible.

Almost as impossible as having to decide on a child.

Boo says for me to take comfort in the fact that once we decide, much like our other spawn, we can’t give them back. We’re stuck with them for life.

He has such a way with words.

I just wish he’d let me decide using the tried and true method of tossing a coin. Two out of three and we’ve got a match.

(This would be one of those posts I sincerely hope my caseworker isn’t reading but if she is, I’m totally JUST JOKING. Seriously. I’d never make a life choice by such trivial means. Really.)

Heh.

So this is where the adoption stands. The possibility of a child being placed in our home swirls around us and excites us. The possibility of falling in love with a child only to have it not work out sticks at our souls and prevents us from getting our heads too far up in the clouds. Or up our arse.

I’ve got big weighty decisions to make in the imminent future. Preferably with out the aids of any mommy juice or loose coins lying about.

But if I can get my hands on a magic mirror or crystal ball, all bets are off.

*It’s another of my tragically long posts, but it’s worth it at the end. I promise.*

For a smart girl, I sure have my fair share of dumb moments. Worse yet, they sneak up on me and I’m actually surprised by how dumb something I just did really was.

Take for example, dumb moment #2704 this past week. In my haste to get to the hospital after Cowboy Bean’s accident, I completely forgot about my children and the fact that they would be bouncing off a school bus sometime around 4:30, expecting fresh baked cookies and a warm embrace from their loving mother.

All right. So I’m exaggerating. While fresh baked cookies may cause their heads to explode, they would be expecting to see my increasingly wide arse sitting on the couch, riveted by the drama taking place on Young and The Restless and for me shushing them to be quiet as I tried to hear what my man Jack had to say.

Somehow, with a gaping eye wound, a cute doctor and a worried best friend, I forgot I had given birth to needy little humans who require nourishment and parental supervision.

With just seconds minutes to spare before the kids were released into the wild and herded onto their yellow bus, I managed to remember to make childcare arrangements, phone the school, intercept their release and redirect them in a direction where there would actually be an adult to feed and protect them.

(Gotta love having a sister-in law who lives across the street from the school.)

I felt pretty good about myself, actually. Look at me, handling a medical emergency, supporting my friends in a time of need and remembering to be a good mommy all at the same time. I freaking rock. In my head, the government was laying roses at my feet as they placed a sparkly rhinestone encrusted tiara on my head while tossing needy children into my arms.

Whose your momma now, I thought to myself. You know, because a girl can never get too cocky.

Fast forward several hours and the Cowboy Bean was in surgery to have his eye stitched back together and I figured it would be a good time to phone my kids and reestablish contact. You know, remind them who’s boss. Just in case they were thinking of trading me in for the prettier, kinder version that is their aunt.

I had honestly assumed because I am a dumbass like that they would have heard what had happened to their Cowboy Uncle and I wouldn’t be springing this trauma on them out of the blue.

I had completely forgotten that my increasingly mature children are in fact, children, and still bear the scars of burying a brother and may harbour some residual fear when it comes to hospitals.

Hours of stress from trying to avoid looking at a gaping eyeball oozing blood and pus and tears and from stupidly guzzling several pots of hospital coffee all combined to rob me of any parental common sense I had. It was like a zombie beat me with the stupid stick and gained control of my brain.

After informing my sister in law of Cowboy Bean’s situation, I asked her if I could speak to either Fric or Frac. She reached out and grabbed the nearest kiddo, who just happened to be my beautiful son, Frac.

“Hey buddy! How was school,” I asked Frac. He prattled on about how many girls he chased around the schoolyard and other important ten-year-old gossip, before remembering that I wasn’t home.

“Where are you Mom?” So innocent my son is. So stupid his mother is. I never even thought to edit the situation. I just blurted it out like the dumbass I am.

“Oh? Nobody told you?” I asked, surprised as I tried to jam my foot in my mouth. (Of course no one told them. Other adults don’t want to deal with the emotional baggage of damaged preteens. That or they have the common sense filter God was handing out to everyone as I sat in a corner and picked my nose.)

“Well, Cowboy Bean had a bad accident at work-” That was as far as I got before Frac had a grade A, full-fledged, snotty nosed melt down. You would have thought someone had told him a few years ago that his brother died on the way to the hospital in the middle of the night or something.

Oh. Right. Someone did. That would have been me. So, um, the question begs, HOW COULD I HAVE FORGOT THAT SMALL DETAIL?

Eventually, after much cajoling and consoling, I explained to my son that unlike his baby brother, his favorite uncle was in no danger of dying. It took a few tries before I successfully convinced him that the man who routinely tosses him around like a rag doll wouldn’t be saying hello to Bug in person anytime soon before Frac finally calmed down.

For all of two seconds. Then he asked what had happened to his uncle and this is where that zombie came back and beat me with the stupid stick again because you know, once, apparently, IS not enough for me to learn my lesson.

“Well, Frac, you know what a chisel is, right?”

“Ya, it’s that sharp metal tool Dad uses to whittle wood with,” Frac answered.

“Good boy,” his dumbass mother prattled on, “well, a chisel came flying out of nowhere when your Uncle was at work and it came to a stop in his eye. Sliced that sucker right in half. Squished it like a grape-”

Commence grade A, full fledged, snotty nosed melt down #2.

The government was taking back my tiara and snatching back the roses and babies in my imagination as I realized the mental image I had just colorfully painted for my TEN-year old son.

It’s simply amazing how stupid I can be sometimes. I’d almost be proud if I wasn’t so damn embarrassed.

After a sprouting a few more grey hairs and new wrinkles, I managed to calm Frac down and convince his uncle would be fine. This time I took particular care not to gross the kid out or share how his eyeball looked as it gaped wide open.

I told Frac how much we all loved him and how I would be home soon, and reminded him to say his prayers and brush his teeth at bedtime and generally tried to act like the mother I should be instead of the twit I was.

Just when I thought I was home free, he put his sister on the line. You would have thought I learned from Frac’s reaction to self-edit what I spewed to my daughter.

You’d have thought wrong.

A prepubescent eleven-year-old girl wails longer and louder than her ten-year-old brother. Just in case you were wondering.

Late that night, after learning the Cowboy’s eye had been saved and now it was just a wait and see game to see if he retains any sort of vision in his eye, I opened the door to my empty house, where only the animals awaited me and I thanked God for my health and the health and safety of my family and I poured myself a large glass of wine.

As I gulped slowly savored the burgundy and listened to my phone messages, I reflected on how scarred my children are and how my family, my children in particular, are more aware than most adults around them, that life really can change in a blink of an eye.

Illustrated by the fact that as I tried to erase the mental image of chisels and gaping eye wounds and the wounded cries of my heart broken children, a sweet voice on the telephone congratulated Boo and I for FINALLY BEING APPROVED FOR ADOPTION AND MOVING INTO THE CHILD MATCHING STAGE.

Life really does change in the blink of an eye. Sometimes it throws a chisel at you and other times it tosses a child.

*Thanks for all your prayers and well wishes. I’ll let you know what happens with Cowboy’s vision. And of course, I will let you know when they match us with a child. Keep your fingers crossed it will be sooner rather than later. That is, unless of course, the government reads this and decides I’m too stupid to parent a potato let alone a needy child.*

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.

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.

Think of the money this would save me in tuition!

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.