|A Norman Rockwell moment (photo by Denny)|
"I mean, how straight should we make it?"
"Did you just hear yourself?"
"I meant...how much do we have to straighten up for this person."
"I'm not straightening up. I'm not doing anything. She can come here and write her stinking report." Biting lip, stairing around the room, thinking, thinking, thinking, "Do you think we should take the crib tents down?"
"They sell crib tents at Buy Buy Effin' Baby! She's going to judge us because we don't want our babies kamakazi diving out of their cribs?"
"Can I make a suggestion...." mom chimes in from couch. "Will you at least move the alcohol off your counter. I think that would be a good idea."
In our defense, it's not like the babies can reach the alcohol (in case the social worker happens to read my blog). But yes, we do have an ocean's worth of unopened Jack Daniels in a bottle that's still got the seal on it (again, in case the social worker happens to read my blog). It ended up in our house after the Perrotta/Ellis-Hendo Block Party last summer. It was a freakin' Noman Rockwell moment in our neighborhood, and all we have to show the social worker from it is an ocean's worth of Jack Daniel's that never got opened.
She won't see the bouncy castle we rented. Or the terrifying (that's me projecting) clown that was face painting.
"We'll move it to the basement." We both agreed.
So this is the day we've been waiting for. A rite of passage for all new parents. The one when a social worker comes to our house and deems us fit to raise our own kids.
I remember my brother Tommy telling me what it was like when he and his wife were deemed fit by....hey, wait a minute...they didn't have a social worker come to their house to judge them? Oh, right. Of course not! They have their civil rights. Silly, silly, silly me.
Now, before you post to my blog that you're sick of me and my sour grapes (that's aimed directly at all my Tea Party readers. C'mon, I know you're out there), I would like to remind you all of the following:
If a married couple uses a donor bank to create a family, just like Sarah and I did, they do not have to adopt that child. To be clear - the husband, or father, does not have to adopt his own child. Because that's what that child is. His. No social worker comes to visit their house on Super Bowl Sunday.
Let's go one step further because, at the very least, I've got my right to free speech...
If a heterosexual/unmarried couple uses a donor bank to create a family, just like Sarah and I did, the woman can list her male boyfriend as the father on the baby's birth certificate. And guess what? No social worker will come to their house, assuming they even live together. Not even on Super Bowl Sunday.
Now go enjoy your buffalo wings.
ps-Neighbor Sara who has been through this degrading experience herself and partner Sarah who lived it with me wanted me to add this fact to the blog. We actually had to PAY the social worker for the visit...write a check for the humiliation. So...that too.