I was getting my hair cut this morning and the girl in the chair next to me, who was probably 25, started talking to the entire salon about how she and her husband were going to “start classes” to adopt. My stomach dropped a little bit, because I knew what was coming next.
“We’re going to adopt through D*C*F*S.”
She proceeded to ramble on the entire time I was there, certain that everyone was as fascinated by her story as she clearly was. Who knows . . . maybe they were.
“We do twelve classes and then it takes about a month to get approved, and then usually a month or two to get a child.”
“You can choose what kind of child you want, but I’m not going to tell them what I want – I’m just going to take what they give me.”
“But twins would be fun. Or TRIPLETS!!!”
“My friend got a call from the social worker saying she had an hour to get to the hospital to pick up her baby. I hope that happens to me. I’ll be nervous every time the phone rings!”
I sat there pretending to read my book, not saying a word.
My first instinct was to tell her to run for her life. Of course I would never do that. I am quite certain (or at least hopeful) that our bad experience is the rare exception rather than the rule.
But I did wonder if I should tell her to take nothing for granted when it came to her home study – to stay on top of the situation and MAKE SURE that her social worker did her job – or that months and maybe even years would pass while she waited for approval.
In the end I kept my mouth shut. I decided to leave her with her excitement and her great hopes for the future. There was something about it that was very sweet, even in the midst of her loud obnoxious conversation.
But as I paid and left, I found myself feeling angry . . . angry that MY excitement and MY great hopes for the future were worn down and wasted by 18 months of laziness on the part of someone whose salary is paid by my tax dollars.
It’s just so ludicrous.
If D*C*F*S hadn’t found us to be appropriate parents, if we had failed to provide them with what they needed from us, if if if . . . I think it might have been a bit easier to take somehow. But we did everything there was to do. They never once had to ask us for anything in all those months. I’d already given them everything they needed. Our evil worker Mia once told us we were a social worker’s dream – solid marriage, no divorces, no other kids, good income, lovely home, no problems with the law, lots of family support. We should have flown right through.
But we didn’t.
We just didn’t.
And sometimes that makes me so angry.
