My Homework Ate my RockyGrass Post
Well, it feels like homework. Homework that is done anywhere but home. Homework that is done in order to get the boyos into school so that they may begin their long and glorious career of doing homework.
School admissions. Peh. I'm exhausted.
So, I went to the Health Dept. two days ago to get birth certificates, and everyone drooled over the boyos (poor me *hand to forehead* can't go anywhere without people telling me how beautiful my children are). The secretary printed them out, no prob -- but the problem was, they spelled Owen's name 'Ownen.' So. I had to fill out two forms for them to submit to the hospital, and then contact the hospital to tell them that the forms had been submitted and could they please make the changes and then send them back to the Health Dept. where I could pick them up again. *breath*
So then I went on to the Ped's office to pick up the immunization forms, and since it's right next to the hospital in question, I asked the receptionist where I needed to go to do the above thingy, and she made a phone call and then told me I'd have to contact the Arapahoe County Court to authorize the change. *breath* *sigh*
So I crossed my fingers, hoping nobody down at the ole' sign-em-up-for-school-place-thingy would pay close enough attention to the birth certificates, at least until I could get it all straightened out.
So. Next stop, an elementary school IN ANOTHER TOWN where I was told to bring the birth certificates, SS cards, proof of residency, deed to house, my birth certificate and the contract with the Devil that I signed in my own blood just to get them INTO school. The mouth-breather there asked if I had their registration forms.
“No. I mailed them in weeks ago, like I was told to do.”
"Oh. Lemmee check."
"Not here. Lemmee ask someone in back."
shuffle shuffle, on feet this time
"They don't have it back there. But I remember seeing it up here. Lemmee look."
"Yeah. Right here."
So, she then handed me two forms, one which needed to be signed by the boyos’ physician (WHERE did I just come from?!?!) and told me I needed to go to ANOTHER school in ANOTHER town and turn in THOSE forms along with the birth certificates, SS cards, proof of residency, deed to house, my birth certificate and the contract with the Devil that I was told I needed with me that day. *breath*
Then, mouth-breather asked me if so-and-so mentioned that they don't like to put twins into the same class.
"No. She didn't."
"Well. They don't like to."
"Oh. That's interesting." Stare.
"Lemmee go check in the back if it's ok."
"Yeah. It's ok. But they don't like to do it."
"Because they don't develop their own personalities."
"Heh. Well, these two certainly have."
For all I know, 'they' in the back were a couple of Qwuipee dolls dressed in voodoo masks and tiny Reeboks, and their answers were determined by a Magic Eight Ball.
*Breath. Breath.* The universe is expanding...the universe is expanding... *breath*
It continued the next day. I took the new form that I drove 30 miles to pick up, to the Admissions office which is five minutes from my house (haven’t these people ever heard of EMAIL!?! Couldn’t they have emailed the info to the Admissions office!?) and was told to pick a number.
I looked around. There was one other person, and three women behind desks to assist us masses. So I sat down, and watched the boyos play with the convenient play-table-thingy and waited. And waited. And watched the desk-people talk. And waited. And finally someone told me to fill out forms A, C and D which I could select from a wall of forms lettered A-ZZ. So I did, and I decided that form D didn’t actually pertain to me, and I was missing one bit of information anyway, so I skipped it.
When I finished, I looked up and realized my boyos and I were ALONE. All the pretty desk-people had gone away. We’d been there for 45 minutes.
So I had three choices.
One; run home crying, determined to home-school the young-uns. Ugh.
Two: Mouth-breathe until someone came back.
Three: laugh at the absurdity of it all, and take notes for the book. I chose option three.
See, my concept of heaven is that it is a giant bureaucracy (among the things) and that it takes AGES and a gazillion forms to actually get through the Pearly Gates. So, I was staring at prime resource material.
I whipped out my notebook and started jotting down notes. Sure as washing your car brings the rain, one of the desk-people appeared and told me she could help me now. I carried two reams of forms (twins, remember?) up to the desk and sat down. My desk-lady vanished. Poof! Right before my eyes. So I snickered and scribbled and sketched her into a harried angel, and Poof! she came back and apologized.
“I’m sorry…my supervisor…”
I smiled and nodded, leaned over the desk and stage-whispered, “We could get so much more accomplished without supervisors, couldn’t we?”
She smiled. She laughed.
We understood each other perfectly.
“Oh! They spelled your husband’s name wrong on the birth certificates.”
“Oh, I know! I told him it would be easier just to change his name.”
“Ha! Well, here you go; they’re in the system. And aren’t they cute? And smart?”
Jack was doing the pee-pee dance, so I asked my helpful, angelic desk-lady where I could find a restroom, and she pointed down a long hallway, that, dreamlike, was lined with various classrooms, some in session, others empty. Returning down the hallway, Jack decided to complain rather loudly about going back home.
A white-haired woman (not kidding, Dear Manuscript Readers) popped out of one of the classrooms, and I apologized for the disturbance.
“Oh, no, not at all. Are they…twins?”
“Yes, yes they are.”
"Well, bless your heart.”
“You know, there’s a special place in heaven for mothers of twins.”
*snort* “Oh, I’m already there, believe me.”
Thus endith the quest for admissions.
Orientation today. Somebody hold my hand?