Sunday, May 24, 2009

Time for a good whinge

I haven't had a good one in ages!

Morgans second was delivered this week - Thursday morning to be precise. I actually didn't know the second little bastard had entered the world until Friday morning; my wife didn't think I'd be all that fussed to know. And let me tell you, she was correct.

What I did know was that on Wednesday my wife and Morgan had rushed off to the hospital on what turned out to be a false alarm; and that Morgan had been denying possible reality by saying 'it can't be born today'. When the kid's my age I'd posit that a day here or there will make no difference and indeed, to the kid today it probably also makes no difference. But it seems that the extra day *did* make a big difference to Morgan.

Everything had been scheduled to happen on Friday. I have to confess, not being a father, that I was a trifle puzzled at this 'scheduling' thing. Surely, I reasoned, a pregnancy came to a conclusion in its own time? Even if one were able to pinpoint to the second the moment of conception there is *still* some uncertainty, no?

All of which shows how out of touch I am with 'reality' today, for, as almost all of you are thinking, they had scheduled an induced birth. Such a pity for Morgan then, that nature had taken things into her own hands.

For, on the Thursday, the news came that Morgan had failed a drug test. Now you'd reckon that after some run-ins with the police, a few nights spent in gaol and the might of the State of Arizona in the shape of Child Protection Services focussed on her, that she might realise that partaking of her favourite, illegal, recreational drug a few days before giving birth to child number two might not be a good idea.

Hence her panic when nature took its course. Of course, I'm sure she calibrated her indulgence, calculated to a nicety breakdown and excretion rates, allowed for margins of error in the testing process and knew with absolute certainty that on Friday all the evidence would be gone. I'm equally sure that pigs can fly!

Well, the might of the State of Arizona swung into action and on Friday the family interview took place. I wasn't present of course; the first I knew about it was Friday afternoon when I found the family copy of the paperwork sitting on the kitchen table.

All kinds of restrictions; Morgan is not allowed, on pain of imprisonment, to take her children off the premises without an 'approved monitor' accompanying her. Want to guess who the approved monitor is?

As I said to my wife over dinner that evening, it's effectively house arrest for us! Oh sure, I can go out anytime I like. I can even hop on a plane to Australia (and I will, 117 days from now, not that I'm counting). So can my wife, if Morgan is still at the hospital. But she comes back here tomorrow and that's when the house arrest starts, for Morgan cannot be trusted and therefore my wife must be constantly here to monitor the situation.

In the light of that it almost felt churlish to object when I discovered that they are running a background check on me! I understand their logic but it doesn't sit well with the presumption of innocence. Fortunately they'll find me one of the easier investigations; I've been through it before for other purposes and haven't changed address since then. Always assuming an FBI background check is 'good enough'.

There's another family interview taking place this Wednesday and I'm still debating whether to attend. I'm not sure there's anything I could constructively add. I'd be much more likely to make things worse by objecting to the aforementioned presumption of guilt without evidence. Probably best left alone.

I'm sure that attitude is how anti-semitism managed to grow in post Weimar Germany.

1 comment:

Ann oDyne said...

oh dear. sympathy, empathy, comiseration, I dunno.
hope it all goes as well for you as it possibly can.
I am Very Close to a woman whose 37YO daughter was unbelievably rude cruel and vicious at christmas 2007, and hasnt spoken at all since. Woman racks her brain to think where she went wrong with this grown brat. Parenting not easy.