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.