There is nothing funny about the psych assessment sitting on my kitchen table, mocking me with it’s pages of judgements and recommendations.

I’ve tried to find the funny of it, buried deep between the parts where the report says that contrary to all my flaws I may actually be a good parent and the parts stating I may need professional help to ever be considered normal.

I’ve tried to find humour while reading that I am flippant and aggressive. (Ya, so? Wanna make something of it?)

I’ve tried to find a way to bring humour to a report which describes me as insensitive and overly frank with a streak of exhibitionism.

Like that’s a bad thing? It’s not like I go around flashing my boobs, people. (At least not while sober.)

Excuse me while I go find a bottle of red to boost my fragile ego.

This report has been the bane of my sanity before it’s very existence. The mere thought that I had to be clinically assessed in a psychological manner because I had the nerve to take antidepressants when my child died suddenly was and still is, insulting.

The fact the psych dude read my blog and didn’t like my sense of humour, my style of writing or my content, should never have entered his rendering of my assessment.

Yet, I suspect it did.

And I’m pissed. And not in an alcoholic way.

Overall, the psych assessment found my family and me to be suitable candidates for adoption. None of us are depressed, psychopathic, suicidal or homicidal.

(I hadn’t read the report yet.)

The report wasn’t all bad. Apparently I have the parenting skills of a super hero, much to the amazement of the psych dude. My children are well adjusted (despite my personality flaws) and delightful to be around. My husband could single handily save the world with his broad shoulders and most certainly saved me from a life of dancing around a pole, the report finds.

There are other glimmers of positive reinforcement in the report, just enough to keep me from jumping off a bridge or locking myself into a padded room.

But it is an unusual and oddly disturbing moment to have your life, your personality and your very essence ripped apart and dissected by complete strangers all so that you may have the opportunity to adopt a child. It would have been much easier to find a donor, fill a turkey baster and um, baste one’s self to get a kid.

If only I had thought of that first. Damn.

I was hesitant to post about this report, as I’m a little sensitive to criticism right now. (Hmm. Wonder why.) My family and I have been under a microscope for over a year now and I’m feeling a little shy about more scrutiny. But when I made the decision to blog about the trials and tribulations of adopting, and ultimately went public with this quest of my family’s, I promised myself I would post the good, the bad, and the ugly.

And boy, was this ugly.

Ultimately, regardless of how humbling this report has been to my ego, it has been a useful tool for me and my husband. It’s bonded us closer and gave us an insight to our children that most parents don’t get. It’s made us love one another a little more tenderly, because we now know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that momma is ape-shit crazy and you never know when she’s gonna come unglued.

Er, I mean, we all have our personal flaws printed in black and white and there is no need to point them out to one another anymore. We have an official document broadcasting them for all to read.

This report, in all it’s painful glory did more than knock me down a peg or two and make me reach for my wine glass. It gave me a small gift in fine print, buried amongst all the harsh findings of what an incredible nut job I really am.

It told me how much my family really loves me, and how unbelievably amazing all of them really are. Flaws and all. Not that I needed a three thousand dollar psychological assessment to tell me that. I already knew.

But now I have proof.

******EDIT:******

And thanks for all the support. It’s good to know someone likes me. Because I’m positive the psych dude didn’t.