You Have 14 Minutes. What Do You Do?

You might have to close your eyes for this one.

It's just easier to imagine it.

Though I do realize, harder to read about it. So whichever you choose - I'll totally understand.

Picture it. It's Friday, January 2nd, 2009. My house is full. Of crap. I kid you not. We rang in the New Year playing Yahtzee with some friends and so you can imagine what that meant; there were paper plates and red Solo cups full of Dr. Pepper all over the place (cuz when we "party" we do it in style, thankyouverymuch.) And do you think I cleaned it up on January 1? Uh, no. Because it's January 1. And you know what you're supposed to do on January 1, right?

Nothing.

That's how God intended it. He intended for the first day of every year to be spent lying around in your own filth and spoils. Didn't you all read that part in Leviticus?

Except that we got confused (probably because we are deviants who choose to read The Message Bible instead of the King James...whatever) and thought that God had intended for that unclean perversion to last until midnight of the third day.

Which is why on January the 2nd, at 2:30 PM my house looked like it could easily appear on some TLC reality show. For two whole days we let it build up, the paper plates, the red Solo cups, sippy cups with milk - no, apple juice - wait, Sprite - no, I guess milk, burp cloths and boxes of rice cereal that may or may not have spilled out, obnoxiously, on the hardwood floors. Not to mention dirty laundry in the hallways, dust and dishes...lots and lots of dishes.

All of us were still in our pajamas, though Rocco was the only one who had drooled on his. I think. Remi had, however, taken hers off and put them back on inside out and backwards. Which is more than I can say for the AG and I - who decided that pj's and greasy hair suited us just fine. We were starting to find each other's stench intoxicating. Or at least we told ourselves that.

The last thing I remember is the AG handing off our little drooling, teething, bundle of joy with a, "You're turn," before he headed back to the big, flat screen on the wall. And if, I'm lying I'm dying, my words to him were, "I'm so glad you arranged it where we could spend another day in our pj's and filth."

"Anything for the woman I love."

Aaaahhhh...good times. And then...

"OH MY LORD MELISSA, MOVE! MOVE!"

"What is it? What's going on?"

"I just got a reminder notice on my cell phone..."

"So?"

"So, it's 2:46 and the Adoption Agency will be here at 3:00 for their home visit."

And it was right then and there that I looked at Rocco and told him all the wishes and dreams I had for him in his life and that I hoped his next home would provide him with as much love as we had, but would make sure that his head didn't smell like Philly cheesesteak - like his did at that very moment, for reasons we still don't know.

And then? I MOVED.

I knew that I only had 14 minutes, but you better believe that 7 of them would absolutely have to, without question, be in the shower. On that matter there was no debate. You can remove my baby from my home for the box of hot wings sitting on the counter - but I'll be darn if you do it because my bangs aren't styled.

Let's just say, you've never seen two fluffy people move quite so fast. Rocco laid on the middle of the bed, untouched, while we flew - I mean, FLEW - around him. We raked everything on the counter off into a garbage bag (which means there's a pretty good chance we lost a set of car keys and a cell phone.) We didn't bother to run a vacuum or pick up the Yahtzee game, we didn't have time to change Remi's clothes or dry my hair.

So when our adoption Agent showed up - at 3:00 on the nose - I looked exactly like my 6th grade school picture. Wet hair, big bangs.

Rocco smelt like something resembling Philly Cheesesteak.

The AG reeked of pizza and hot wings.

And Remi's clothes were still inside out. And backwards. Although none of that mattered...for only 10 minutes into our visit did my demure little princes proceeded to lift her shirt and announce, "Look Miss A, my nakedness!" And then shake her booty and sing "All single ladies - All single ladies". Beyonce would have been proud. Or mortified.

But thanks to your prayers all those months ago - they must have sustained us, because as the AG so eloquently put it, "Well, I think we get to keep the kid."

Which was never really in any question considering that I have the look of a definite flight risk if they tried to pry that little beauty out of my arms. And then who would raise my little, white, Beyonce?

Because let's be honest - that's gonna take some parental guidance.