Trailblazing

           If there is one thing I have more than enough of in my life, it is frigging paperwork.  I like to think I am a decently moral person.  I hope I was the same in any past life.  But, alas, I must have been a book thief or some horrible weeny mean  governmental pencil pusher because I am certainly paying penance for it now.  We all have annoying forms to fill at some point.  But I never had so many forms with so many levels of inanity as I do with Feisty Pants.

           I get some of it.  It's awful, but the reality is disabled children are our most vulnerable members of society and, as such, are often prey for the worst among us.  Paper trails help keep track.  It makes sure people are paying attention to those who have little or no voice.  It is supposed to mean that those who fill out such forms have seen the kiddo involved. That paperwork should exist.  But I routinely fill out STUPID forms with silly questions and no one gives you bonus points for being funny. Although I must admit, I will be a bit of a smarty pants if I think can get away with it.  I know it's childish, but when I have to answer a legal form that asks me what language my then 2 month old speaks, I answer gibberish.  The person receiving the formula didn't appreciate it but tough.  And do not ask me to fill out a form I don't actually have to.  I used to politely explain that I did not work for whoever wanted some form I was not responsible for.  Now I just laugh maniacally and hang up on them.  What is some random clerk going to do, fire me?

           The craziest form so far was when I got randomly audited for our taxes and had to prove that Feisty Pants EXISTED.  With two statements from people who dealt with her on a professional basis.   Feisty Pants has been in therapy from the time she was 2 months old.  Children under three are provided early intervention by the state. Since three, she has been in special education.  There is a lot of paper work involved.  All overseen by the state we live in.  Bet you can't guess who audited us.  All they would have had to do was look at their own damn paper work.  Her former teacher provided me a letter of such brilliant, cutting wit I am surprised the auditor did not need stitches.
          And now, sigh, I am looking at a new Tolstoy novel's worth of paper again.  This time from a governmental agency that wants to make sure she still disabled. Because cp and brain injuries clear up on their own, donchyaknow.  As if I wouldn't  be shouting it from the rooftops and doing cartwheels down my street if she did.   And they want to know things like, "How many time has this child been hospitalized?" (We lost count after 2 effing dozen about when FP was three. )  Or, " How many times has the child seen a doctor in the past two years? ( About as often as I change my undies.) On and on, ad nauseum. Sigh.  So if you drive past our house and see Feisty Pants and me roasting marshmallows in the driveway,  I just bet you can't guess what we are roasting them over.