Ketchup and Mayo

Our parenting class for Jewish Family and Children's Services was held on Jan. 12th. It was quite an experience. I knew that the class would not actually cover anything that has anything to do with day-to-day parenting. Real parenting covers how to get your kid to eat something other than candy canes and McNuggets. This class covers basic first aid, which is nice but not detailed enough to be really useful, and how to recognize grief and depression in children, and what to do if your baby turns out to be psycho. The class information was not that helpful for me because I have been researching adoption and foster care related issues for a while now so it was mostly old news.
What was really illuminating was to listen to the social workers and recognize how helpful they would not be once we became foster parents. What I learned was that I was willingly entering a Kafka-inspired bureaucratic nightmare where I would be expected to conform to set requirements even if they are beyond logic and reason, even if they are completely impractical, impossible, and possibly dangerous.
Case in point: Medical insurance. All foster children have medical insurance, not state insurance that is accepted by everyone, but Health Partners, which is basically garbage and accepted by hardly anyone. I asked, "Wouldn't it make more sense for me to use my personal insurance to cover my foster child so I could take him to my local doctor versus trying to drive out of my way to find a doctor who takes Health Partners?"
Social Worker: Yes, but we don't do it that way.
Me: What if I can get to a Health Partners doctor?
SW: Well there is always the emergency room.
Me: But infants have a lot of appointments and they get sick all the time. How can I take care of my foster child and my other child and still work if I am drive all over town, trying to find a Health Partners doctor, or sitting for 18 hours in an ER?
SW: That is certainly something for you to consider.
So I guess I did learn a lot from our class. Kevin listened attentively during the class and at one point I asked what did he think of this convoluted quagmire we were about to enter.
He looked up from his notes, which turned out to be random, rude comments and sang "Ketchup and Mayo" the refrain from the McNuggets commercial.
God, I love my husband.