Well, the house is (basically) spotless. Every outlet within striking distance of a fork-wielding child is covered. Liquor and cats are both feeling neglected in the basement.
We passed our last inspection, we signed our documents saying (in effect), “What, are you KIDDING me? Of COURSE we want her!”, and we wrote another in the endless stream of cheques for the endless fees. And the social worker has gone.
BDH’s family doctor — who took one look at Mystery Baby Girl’s picture and not only agreed to take her on as his patient, but also waived the fee for the day’s visit — gave her medical report a good look-over and saw nothing untoward.
So, all that’s left is to meet with our case worker at the agency tomorrow morning, supply yet more cash, ask a billion questions, and start counting the days to a court date.
Is there a Greek god we can sacrifice a pint of Haagen Dazs to — a god of expedient court cases, perhaps? (It doesn’t have to be Greek. I mean, I have wine for any Roman god who can get this job done lickety-split. I’m flexible.)