When you have fought tooth and nail for the ability to bring home a bundle of love to call your own, you make darn sure your tie is straight, your hair is combed and there is no spinach in your teeth when you go to first meet your new child and the social worker responsible for gifting said child to you.

You mind your manners and smile prettily and pray to everything that is holy that you don’t accidentally slip up and drop a F-bomb or reveal any family skeletons that have been deeply buried for a reason.

You do everything in your power to appear polished and polite, charming and likeable.

And if you are really lucky, (or you have a husband who is capable of keeping a tight reign on the leash he’s wrapped around your neck,) you succeed.

Which results in your very own delivery from the stork.

You have one last hurdle to jump over, but you have come so far, been through so much that this tiny little bureaucratic loose thread seems insignificant now that there are plastic kids toys once again scattered through your house and the sounds of a small child making himself at home just down the hall from you.

You let your guard down, relaxed and at ease, so when the social worker with stork-like wings and the child’s foster care parents drop in to check on your child and examine your parenting skills first hand in your own natural habitat, you don’t blink or give it a second thought.

You’ve succeeded. You’ve swung at the adoption pinata and the most beautiful, charming child you could ever imagine dropped from the sky and into your lap. Your prize is a lifetime of love and you feel so blessed that one last visit from the guardians who cared for your child until you were able to claim his as your own is most welcome.

You want to show them this child was meant to be yours. You want to show them the boundless depths of your love for him and the world of possibilities and joy that wait for him under your roof.

But that’s when the moment arrives. The moment your veil of shiny parental prowess is pulled back and every dint and chink in your progenitorial armour is revealed for all to gaze upon in horror.

It didn’t even take one full hour for my perfect parenting facade to crack and disintegrate.

Not sixty damn minutes.

Oh crap!

All it took was me swooping my lovely brand-spanking new son into my arms and sweetly putting him down for an overdue nap. I kissed him and cuddled him and tucked him in tightly and with nary a thought I closed his bedroom door behind me while I beamed at the company watching my every mommy move.

I visited and laughed and served fresh made brownies and home made pastries while my darling Boo served coffee and charmed our guests, our child’s protectors, with the very vision of perfect parenting.

Until the THUD came.

A loud THUD.

The moment my perfect mommy illusion vanished with a puff of smoke.

I forgot to make sure the guard rails on the side of my precious bundle of love’s bed were firmly latched.

And off the boy rolled like a ball down a steep hill. Onto the floor.

Even worse, I didn’t even hear the poor boy hit the floor, his former foster daddy did.

Worse yet, former foster daddy raced in to the room to rescue this poor boy who is now eternally stuck with incompetent parents and lovingly tucked him back into his bed after ensuring the rail was safely latched, while I sat and hung my head in shame and Boo tarred and feathered me with a simple look.

Luckily for me, my boy, my sweet precious boy, is made of strong stock and actually laughed at his new adventure in a strange bed. The child, like his new mommy, likes to be bounced around.

(Different bouncing of course, but bouncing nonetheless.)

Also luckily, my husband is a quick-witted man with some experience cleaning up his wife’s blunders, and snake charmed the social worker so she didn’t feel the need to snatch our boy out of our hands and back into government custody.

The truth had escaped it’s locks and chains and my hopes to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes with my swell parenting were forever dashed.

Welcome to our family little man. It may be a bumpy road but I promise, you’ll always enjoy the ride.

I also vow to never forget to latch that damn rail ever again.

I make no promises about remembering to bring diapers and wipes every where we go though.

Your momma does like to walk on the wild side.