To Sing Frogs Chapter 2c

Amy at about the time of the meeting with the social worker.

“Hey, wake-up! You obviously missed it when you met him. Jack has Down syndrome.” (The filter doesn’t always work.) “He’s one of the best things that ever happened to us. It still doesn’t change the fact that it takes a lot more parenting with him. We’re not about to spread ourselves too thin. We have responsibilities to our other children too.”

“Then you’ll need to do foster care.”

Amy saw things falling apart. She quickly changed her tone and attempted a bubbly response in an effort to take the tension down a notch. It wasn’t going to work. My wife was helplessly tossed about on waves created by two very different people with much stronger personalities than her own. I interrupted Amy again while staring down the social worker. “No dice.”

“What?”

“Look. Amy spent way too much time in foster care for us to think it’s the same as a forever family. She had a miserable experience. That isn’t a road we’re willing to travel.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Then what do you recommend?”

“Special needs or foster care.”

“Are you thick?” The drain on tax funds straightened her papers by banging the stack on the uncompleted table like a punch-press slams out license plates. She told me I needed to be more flexible. I clenched my fists, though out of her sight. “Listen, there are kids out there who need permanent homes and who match what we’re looking for. That has nothing to do with whether we agree to be slaves to the state or not. There are kids who need homes and we want more children of our own. Why are you trying to turn this into something it’s not?”

Amy was sitting quietly, now, staring down at her tightly clasped hands and white knuckles. She knew there was nothing left to do but witness the carnage.

The woman looked over her massive Berlin Wall-like glasses and told me if I wasn’t willing to work within the established procedures, we would never adopt in the state of Michigan.

“Leave.”

“What?”

“Get out.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You should be.” I was proud of myself for the clever little dig and I stood up to emphasize. Amy just cringed.

“I don’t understand.”

“Then let me be more clear. Get out of my house.”

I thought the social worker looked pretty angry as she stumbled out the door. Then I looked at Amy.

“What was that all about?” Amy’s personality is based on patience and kindness, that is, until someone goes way too far. The social worker had stressed her patience. My handling of the situation burst the dam.

“What are you talking about?”

“Throwing her out. Now we’ll never be able to adopt.”

“Maybe not through the state, but that pompous loser is no sacred cow to me,” I said while turning to walk away.

“How are we going to adopt, then?” Amy was trying to be strong in her disapproval of my actions, but her voice faltered.

If my wife wanted to argue I could continue. I turned back around to see tears trembling in her eyes. Amy has brickyards of stellar qualities. Deductive arguing skills aren’t at the top of the list. I don’t even have to be close to right to win. What she had just done should be compared to a ninety-pound ballerina punching a two hundred-pound bully. Rather than delivering
an allegorical smack upside the head, though, I metaphorically grabbed her hands. (Even bullies are smart enough to know you don’t belt a ballerina.) I told her we’d hire an agency and go international.

Society constantly questions why some U.S. parents choose not to adopt children who are already in the States. Society needn’t wonder anymore.

Amy said we couldn’t afford an international adoption. Part of the problem with my wife is that she’s always thinking in the current. I knew our current budget was insufficient. However, the company was growing and there would be more money later, when we needed it. I ended my argument on that note.

“Yeah,” she replied sarcastically while rolling her eyes like a hammer-ride in an amusement park. Amy and I are different but we read each other’s minds. She can finish my sentences as often as I can complete hers. I knew exactly what my wife was thinking. You say that only because you are an over achieving, over confident oldest child with a type A personality, and just because you are self-employed with at least a little bit of ability to influence an increase in your income. You’re such a pain.

In my own case, the filter screening out words between the mind and the mouth is underrated and over capacity, much like a breaker in an electrical box that keeps on tripping. Amy’s never fails, though. My wife always thinks more than she says. She also believes I should have such a problem.