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.