As Boo and my first real vacation creeps up before us, I’ve been in a mad scramble to put our personal affairs in order before we leave. This includes paying the bills (like tossing a pebble at a mountain, I tell you), hiding all of my toys so our house sitter doesn’t discover her big sister is a bona fide pervert, and getting our wills done.

While we are fleeing the country and abandoning our children on the doorstep of Boo’s sister, we want to be responsible about it. We do have our priorities. They may be slightly screwed, but we have them.

This is not our first will. We scrimped and saved our sheckles when Bug was first born to make sure all the legalities were covered in case something ever happened to us and he was left uncared for.

But our circumstances have obviously changed. Bug’s no longer a consideration and suddenly, thanks to my husband busting his butt and picking the nits off a bunch of monkey asses up in the Great White North, we are actually solvent. We have assets. More assets than my great grandmother’s deep freezer and the third generation lawn tractor my husband inherited and refuses to let die. (After all, his daddy cut lawn with that tractor, back in the day. You just can’t replace something like that. Even with one with a muffler, brakes and an actual seat.)

We hemmed and hawed for a while and put off the appointment while we argued over which relative deserves the luxury of raising our misbehaving, wildly imaginative and smart-talking offspring creative and charming children. Would it be my brother Stretch, who has no children of his own or Boo’s brother, the Great White Hunter who has more children than I have shoes?

Do we consider our sisters and their families or do we just yank the kids out of the family entirely and saddle them on our closest friends? It was a difficult decision with many aspects to try and consider. We wanted to make the best decision for our children and their interests. While it would have been easier to close our eyes, spin three times and hurl a dart at the family portrait and give the kiddies to whoever’s face was stuck by a dart, we actually tried to be rational about a very emotional decision.

It was a hard decision to make, because the reality is, no one is able to parent your children as well as you. That’s why their YOUR children. The thought of leaving my kids and not seeing them grow up was a difficult and scary reality to consider. But the thought of leaving them at the court’s or our family’s mercy was an even scarier prospect for my freakishly controlling self to consider. Better to play the puppet master while I still can, I figure.

In the end, I believe we did the best thing for our children. Maybe it wasn’t as fun as my idea of selling them to the local circus, but it was the right thing to do. (Ever notice how the right thing to do is always the most boring option?)

Fric and Frac overheard me talking to a family member about our will and wills in general and started to ask questions. Whether it is due to age or family history, I was surprised to find them rather matter of fact about death and slightly nonchalant about it.

In fact, they were down right mercenary about it.

“Mom, if you and Dad die, where will we live?” Fric asked after I was off the phone.

“There are standing orders that if your father and I kick it you will be bundled up and packed up North. Santa pays good coin for strapping young children to slave away at the toy factory. Apparently the elves have unionized and are killing his bottom line. Cheaper to go with orphans in the long run.”

“Cool. I like Santa.” Frac responded while totally engrossed in a video game. Fric merely rolled her eyes and sat quietly for a minute. I could see the wheels in her brain churning.

“What happens to the house when you die?” She inquired.

“Well that depends on what the executor and your guardians think will be best for you and Frac. If you’re young, it will probably be sold. If you’re older, maybe you guys will just live in it. I don’t know.”

“So, if you die, we’ll be rich?” Funny, I could see a gleam in her eye.

“Um sure. You’ll have all the kibble in the world to dine on. As for actual money, well, depends if they ever make Monopoly money legal.”

“What about your jewellery?” She is starting to freak me out now. I’m having visions of waking up to find her standing over my bed with a shovel.

“What about it?” I retort.

“Who gets it when you die?” she asked, while eyeing the kitchen knife set.

“It’s kinda rude to ask that Fric,” her brother chastised her while never lifting his eyes from the video game screen.

“Ya Fric. The contents of a will are secret until the day we die. That way I don’t have to listen to you argue and bitch if you don’t like what we decided. It’s the same idea as voting. It’s a secret until the big reveal.”

She looked a little sad and a little worried and suddenly I fretted that I was leaving the country, flying off to dance topless on some sandy beach while drinking mimosas and she’d be at home, distraught that her mother didn’t love her enough to leave my cubic zirconia earrings and plastic pearls to her.

“Don’t worry Fric. You’ll get most of my jewellery,” I told her as I kissed the top of her head.

She sighed and looked troubled as she said, “You won’t be mad if I didn’t want it would you, Mom? Cuz my skin is kinda sensitive and I can’t wear cheap metals. Maybe you could give it to Frac.”

Boy. Didn’t see that one coming. It’s not like all of my jewellery is cheap. Well okay. It’s all cheap. But not all of it is fake. So much for trying to be sensitive and caring to my child.

“But, if you want, Mom, you could leave me all your money. I promise I’ll share some of it with Frac.” I just bet she would.

I could feel the love roll right off of her, I tell ya. I hope I die a short painless death, because if she’s in charge of me when it comes to my nursing home days, I do believe I may be screwed.

This is why Boo and I decided there is only one true way to ensure our eternal peace. We’re leaving all of our assets to someone who will appreciate them, in all their shiny, varnished, made-in-China glory.

Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog, Ever, is gonna be the king of his own castle.

I’m sure he’ll look really pretty with all that fake bling around his neck.

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.

I had a big post planned for today. Why? Because I got the psych report back from the adoption peoples and I read it. I learned just how truly deficient I am as a functioning member of society.

I had planned on poking fun at the findings, arguing some of the finer points and generally finding some absurdity buried in the fine print. Because that’s what I do. How I cope. Even if the psych man doesn’t think it’s appropriate.

Or classy.

Ahem.

But then something happened last night. Something that stopped my plans for some good ole fashioned blog therapy in their tracks.

There was an invasion. An invasion of little people who sat at my table, ate my food, destroyed my tidy house, drooled over my floors and walls and generally made themselves at home.

But these little people weren’t alone.

No.

They had visitors themselves. Little invisible germs. And these little people spread their germs around my home and onto me with the glee of Santa Clause dropping off presents in the wee hours of the morn while hoping for of some cookie crack.

I woke up this morning wishing I for a different body. A healthy body. Wishing I could give back the germs so thoughtfully bestowed upon me by the little peoples in my life.

So after sleeping half the day away and thanking the good Lord Himself for not having to take care of any small people or husbands while I fight my battle with the common cold or bronchitis or strep throat or whatever germ has nestled itself into my body, I am finally upright and am now going to drag my ass to the doctor and the pharmacy and see about buying some artillery to end this infestation as quickly as possibly.

If that doesn’t work, I’ll stop off at the liquor store and just drown the little suckers.