We are definitely going to adopt our next child, thank you very much! No more childbirth for me, I assure you. Honey, it's 3:00 in the morning. What are you rattling on about?! What? Oh, I'm sorry, dear, but I just had the most awful dream. (Where is that light switch? Oh, here it is!) Poor darling. 
You were in it, too, dear. I was? You were rushing me to the hospital because I was ridiculously heavy with child. How sweet. "Sweet," you say? Not a bit of it. "Sweet" doesn't even figure into it, John! (Humph! "Sweet" indeed!) Oh, dear. It started normally enough: We got the red carpet treatment at reception and an orderly raced over pronto with a wheelchair -- I should have known it was a dream right then, of course, because when was the last time you got service like that in a hospital! 1932, perhaps? Hmm. But then the figurative red carpet turned into a literal one, because I sprang a leak en route to obstetrics. 
Oh, my poor darling! Wait: It gets better: They wheel me into a claustrophobic operating room where an already blood-stained trio of obviously incompetent doctors (we'll call them Moe, Larry and Curly) are waiting to slice me open with a small arsenal of power tools -- which, last I checked, had no business being in an operating room in the first place. Oh, honey! Unless, of course, surgeons worldwide have recently begun using chain saws and someone simply forgot to send me the memo! It was just a bad dream, dear! I can see the main doctor now (we'll call him Moe): Moe is holding a chain saw over my now bare and ballooning womb, no doubt smiling crookedly behind his white face mask, bidding me hold still while giving me some lame excuses about why he couldn't possibly give me any anesthetic. It's over, darling: You're safe now! Can you believe it, John? No anesthetic? I'm like, excuse me, doctor! What ever happened to chloroform? What ever happened to nitrous oxide? Poor dear! And don't tell me that they actually cut you open in your nightmare?! Like a Christmas turkey, John, buckets of my apparently endless supply of blood flying every which way but loose! Oh, no! Anyway, the carving finally stops, right? and this bloodied intern leans over the operating table, trying to ceremoniously present me with a quote-unquote "baby" that looked for all the world like a giant bloody insect husk! Oh, honey! Then, as if determined to run this joke right into the ground, a half-dozen blood-covered surgeons in the obviously overstaffed O.R. line up arm in arm at the end of the room and start tap-dancing their way toward me in their hospital-slippered feet, twirling invisible top hats in their gloved hands and singing with highly inappropriate cheerfulness through newly unmasked sets of thin, red lips: "Yes, Sir, that's your baby, no, sir, I don't mean maybe! Yes, Sir, that's your baby, nowwww!" It's just a nightmare, Kate, you have to put it behind you. Nightmare or not, we are adopting child number 3, John. Aw, honey! Don't "Aw, honey" me! Whose number, dear? Ah, here it is: Sister Abigail, St. Margaret's School for Girls, better known to desperate would-be American mothers such as myself as Orphans r Us. Oh, darling, please. I'm making an appointment for this coming Monday morning. (No one's going to open MY womb with a chain saw!) But, honey -- and then make mock of ME with an ad hoc Vaudeville show! Humph! Naturally, you'll have to take off work for the occasion at your unspecified but apparently well-paying job in some unspecified but apparently nearby city. Well-paying job, honey? But, darling, I've never even told you what my salary is. Earth to John: we live in a tri-level pine cabin in the middle of the countryside with vaulted ceilings and a fantastic view of a scenic meadow. So? So, I dare say you're making a trifle more than minimum wage, okay? Fair cop. But the boss still won't be happy about me asking for last-minute leave like this. I don't know -- If he still plays hardball, remind him about the employee-friendly provisions of the Family Leave Act. Family Leave Act? Do they even HAVE a Family Leave Act in Canada? What? This is Canada? (NOW you tell me.) I thought we were in the United States of America! Well -- So much the better, then, John: Canada's got so much P.C. cachet that I wouldn't be surprised if they actually INVENTED the Family Leave Act -- although you may want to check the Internet before you bring up the subject with your boss because they could very well be running the program under an entirely different name. Brrrr! Fancy, giving birth to an insect husk -- by Caesarean section, no less! Oh, wow, did you paint that?
Guilty as charged your honor. It's a picture of my new family. Do you like? Do I like? I love. You're a very talented young lady, young lady. Oh, they're too childish for me. For me, life is all about work: work, work, work, work, work, work. Oh, really? Esther, miss: Esther the Orphan. Well, 'Esther the Orphan,' I'm pleased to meet you. Tell me, did you actually paint this? Oh, it was nothing. How old are you anyway? I'm 9 years old -- so you might say that I've been around the block a few times. What? You've been around the tinkertoy block, you mean, young lady, jeepers. 9 years old! Shut up, fool: Child labor was abolished eons ago, Mr. Caveman. Ug! Og not know that. Ug! Quiet! No, seriously, darling: I think she'd make a fine addition to our family. It's like she's already grown-up, too, so she might even be able to teach Max and Daniel a few things in the civility department. Max and Daniel? So you two already have two children of your own? Yes. We have one young deaf sort of girly girl, you might say, and one non-deaf sort of boy-y boy -- you know, who's into cars and guns and whatnot. Boy-y boy, sir? Esther, there's one thing you should know about John here if you're going to come live with us. Oh? What's that? He's a crazy lunatic. Ha ha! (That's funnier than you think!) So you'll have to forgive his lame attempts at humor. Do you mean you're adopting me?!! Well, naturally, we have to do a little research first, but... Research? It's just a formality. Yeah, we don't want to get you home and find out that you're actually a flaming lunatic! Ha ha! John, cut it out. 
Oh, really? They don't call St. Margaret's School for Girls the Car Max of Adoption Agencies for nothing. What's not to like, darling? The girl is as sweet as pie! True, she's something of a loner, but that's the price one generally pays for artistic genius such as she seems to possess. Besides, you heard the lady: the child comes with a money-back guarantee! I just don't know, hon: maybe we should shop around a little longer. Shop around? I passed a few girls on the stairs that were sweet enough -- Problems?? Kate's still not made up her mind, I'm afraid. Oh, that's all right. Take your time. "to me..." Yes! You won't regret this, Kate -- er, I mean, MOTHER! (Camera zooms in to reveal Esther crossing her fingers behind her anachronistic Victorian dress) Right. That's sorted then. Where do we sign, Sister? Of course, there's the little matter of the $5,000 adoption fee first (checks only, please) made payable to Saint Margaret's School for Girls, doing business as Women and Children First Inc., a Delaware Corporation. Oh, right: Honey, did you bring your checkbook? And we can always have Esther here gift-wrapped for you for an additional $500. What? W-W-Word, Esther? Why, whatever does that mean, darling? You know, honey: WORD! As in, 'word, dude! Word!' Yes, dear? Shut up. Yes, dear. Max, Daniel, I want you to meet your new sister. Esther, this is Max and Daniel. Say hi, everybody.
Daniel?
Yeah, whatever. Hi. Aside: Mom, why is she wearing such an old-fashioned dress? Quiet, you! Now, you guys go out and play -- oh, but whatever you do, don't disturb the white roses which I planted after my little Jessica died in childbirth last year. We won't, Mom. Oh, no, I wouldn't either, of course. Er, by the way, Mommy, where exactly are these off-limit flowers located -- just so I won't accidentally run into them or take a riding mower over them when I'm shaming Daniel by doing the very chores that he's no doubt always trying to get out of around here. Hey! Oh, the off-limit flowers are in the greenhouse out back, Esther. Remember, kids: Don't touch them, let alone cut them or anything like that! The greenhouse out back: gotcha. Oh, and remember, Esther: little Max here is partially deaf so you'll have to be facing her when you speak to her. Oh, don't worry, Mommy: I know American Sign Language. You DO? Say, Esther, maybe you can teach Daniel some sign language. I keep trying to get him to learn, but he's so lazy about it. Now, you play nice, Daniel: I want you to make your new sister feel at home. Yeah, whatever. Oh, fine, you sissy: Then I'll do it. Have a good day at school, kids. Yes, Mommy. Max, Daniel? What's wrong with you guys? Nothing, Mommy. Everything's okay, then, Daniel? Uh, yeah, um, sure, Mom. Okay, well, study hard. Remember, you guys will never be able to keep up the payments on this enormous house of ours if you don't become doctors at the very least, preferably lawyers! Yes, Mommy. And don't relax just because you think that the house will be paid off by the time you grow up. Whatever. Even if we've retired the principal by then, property taxes go up every single year. Uh, Mom, the bus is here. And there are constant repairs. One call to the plumber could set you back $200 U.S.! Yeah, well, maybe, John. Maybe? What do you mean by that? I got a note from Esther's home room teacher yesterday, telling me that Esther had pushed a child off of a swing set at school last week. Oh? Well, I'll talk to her about that tonight. I trust the other child is okay? Just barely. The doctor says that Esther's victim almost broke her neck. Okay, so Kate made one little mistake. "Little" mistake, John? "Little"? Look, I said I'd talk to Esther tonight, okay? And that's not all, John. Oh, really? When I called Sister Abigail to tell her about Esther's little schoolyard "mistake," as you call it (and to tactfully remind the nun that Esther was still under a full money-back warranty as far as we were concerned)... Yes? Sister Abigail said that she wanted to meet with me today. Good. So the sister wants to come over to allay your fears about Esther's personality, huh? No, John. To the contrary, she says she wants to tell us about several past incidents involving Esther that are suddenly beginning to look suspicious in light of Esther's recent behavior with us. Oh, fiddlesticks. Speak of the devil, here comes the sister now, driving right up to us in her somewhat surprisingly out-of-date station wagon. I guess she hasn't heard of the Cash-for-Clunkers Program, huh, John? Do they HAVE a Cash-for-Clunkers Program in Canada, dear? Oh, that's right: I forgot, we're in Canada. Well, that explains it, then. Hi, folks. Good morning, Sister. I just wanted to pop by to warn you two about something. Oh? What? (Won't you come in for coffee, Sister?) No, sorry, I can't stay. I just wanted to let you know that I've been going through the school incident records for the last year... And? Well, we've had five major incidents at the School over the past year, involving students getting injured in altercations and/or accidents and stuff, and... Yes? In every single case, the records reveal that Esther was the main witness of the event. What? Every single case! So? She was a witness: So what? True, Mr. Coleman, she herself was never implicated in these events, but doesn't it seem a little peculiar to you that out of a school of 300+ young orphans, Esther would be the main witness of every single instance of wrong-doing and injury? That settles it, John. We're taking Esther back to Saint Margaret's first thing tomorrow morning. (I hope you kept the receipt!) Call me when you arrive: I'll see if I can't set you up with a real sure thing this time. At Saint Margaret's, we stand by our orphans. What? Unless they're obviously faulty, of course, in which case we replace them with an orphan of equal or better value. Whatever. Look, I've got to get to work. Goodbye, dear. Honey, we'll talk about Esther's future when I get back tonight. We don't want to do anything rash. John, she's an evil little minx, let's face it. Either that or you're imagining things, Kate, filled as you no doubt are with an alcohol-stoked bitterness over the loss of Jessica in that still-birth fiasco of a year back. Alcohol-stoked bitterness? John, you know I haven't touched a drink in 6 whole months! Bye-bye! Speaking of 'bye-bye,' I'd better leave for work myself. Goodbye, dear. Not so fast, honey. I'm feeling a little (ahem!) frisky this morning, if you know what I mean? I mean, ooh-la-la, John! Well, okay, dear, but you'd better put that tongue of yours back in your mouth. Oh? And why should I do that, Mister?! I'm like a golfer sizing you up, after all, and let's just say that I've decided to play you like a snow cone. Kate, please! This is a PG flick, remember? PG?! You're kidding me! Yep, PG, I'm afraid. Why doesn't anybody tell me this stuff? Here I am, thinking I'm starring in an R-rated flick in America, and I'm actually doing a family film in Canada! Well, we can still kiss, darling. Passionately, like this? Even more passionately than that, if you'd like. Okay, but I've got another question for you. Fire when ready, darling (although I really should be going to work now...) If it's a PG flick, can we still wander into the kitchen right now and at least partially undress while leaning against the countertops and bending over each other in various suggestive poses, kind of like this? I don't see why not: as long as we're not fully nude from the point of view of the home viewer. Great. Then kitchen, ho, Mr. Hunk! Kitchen, ho-ho-HO! Yes, mama! That's what I'm talkin' about now! AAAAAaaaaah! Esther!!!!!!!!!!! Young lady, you go to your room this instant! The idea, spying on us like that! Meanwhile, I'll be calling Sister Abigail to let her know that we'll be returning you to the orphanage first thing tomorrow morning under the terms of our money-back guarantee with the Women and Children First Corporation of Delaware! Maybe we should think about this, dear: I mean, we probably should have been in our own bedroom anyway when we were... well, you know... But, John, it was 10:00 in the morning, remember? Esther was supposed to be at school with Daniel and Max! Which reminds me: I've got to tell Abigail that Esther has started playing hooky, too! Hello. School for Poor Little Orphan Girls what need homes immediately: Sister Abigail speaking. To whom may I direct your call? Abigail, it's Kate. You gave us defective merchandise! Please! You're talking about a young child, Mrs. Coleman. (Defective merchandise, indeed!) I'm not sure I AM talking about a young child anymore, Sister Abigail. This child is far too manipulative for her years. Are you sure she's only 9 years old? Well, I always thought so: Let me double-check the record here. Oh, yes, here it is: Yes, there's a big old 9 right beside the word "Age." Are you sure? Yes, I'm -- Ahem. Uh-oh. What's wrong, Sister? Well, you know that big old 9 I mentioned? Yes? Well, I just now noticed that it's actually preceded by a little old (ahem) 3. 3? Are you telling me -- Yes, Kate, I'm afraid that Esther is actually (wait for it...) 39 YEARS OLD! What? But how can that be, Sister? I don't know, Kate. Here, let me check the medical charts... Yes, please do check the medical charts, Sister -- I mean, better late than never, huh? (Can you imagine, John? We've had the girl for 3 months and only now does Abigail think to "check the medical charts") Aha! So that explains it. What? Esther suffers from what they call hypopituitarism. Hypo-pitooey what? Hypopituitarism: It's a growth-retarding condition that keeps her looking like a little girl. Hello? Kate? Hello? I refuse to believe that that child is 39 years old. Face facts, John, she's been manipulating us all along. Are you sure? I think it's much more likely that you've been hitting the sauce again and now you're paranoid -- aye, and perhaps even a little jealous of Esther. Me? Jealous? Of Esther? Well, think about it, dear: Here is a precious little girl who's so well-behaved at such a young age, and then there you are, a middle-aged lush who just can't seem to get it together. But she's not well-behaved, John. Oh, you don't think so? No, I don't! Well, just you watch: I was talking to her early today and I suggested that she do something nice for you so that you two could get along. Oh, really? And, honey, she took to the idea right away. No sooner had I made the suggestion than she rushed out back, vowing to pick you the prettiest flowers that she could possibly find. Yeah, I'll bet. Speaking of childhood innocence, here she comes now. Hi, Esther. What have you got there behind your anachronistic Victorian dress? I have a surprise for Kate -- I mean for Mommy! Oh, you do, do you? Yes. Just to show you how much I love you, I got you some flowers. I see. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Kate, please: You could at least say 'thank you' to Esther! Those are the special memorial roses that I planted for dead baby Jessica what died in my tummy! Oops. Oh, really? My bad. And that's another thing: I refuse to believe she's 39 years old. Oh, John! Okay, maybe she's not exactly 9, either, but surely she's still in her teens -- John, please! Or 21 years old at the absolute maximum! Who was that, John? Oh, just a prank call, apparently. Well, what did they say? It was supposedly some quote-unquote doctor from a mental institution in Estonia, calling to warn us that Esther is, quote, "a dangerous psychopath" and we should kick her out of the house at once, preferably with the help of some immediately summoned police officers. See, John? See? What? You don't think that the call was legitimate, do you? Esther just set fire to Daniel's tree house. What? And I think Daniel is still inside it. Are you happy now, John? Come on, Max, let's go save your brother. Oh, Kate, please: What possible motive could Esther have for burning down Daniel's tree house -- with or without Daniel inside it! I think Max just takes after you with an overactive imagination. Oh, Daniel! Daniel! Hey, big boy! Kate, indeed. Do I look like Kate, handsome?! Wha-- Esther? Is that you? Oh, you poor, misunderstood man: You've been through so much, with that crazy wife of yours. Here, let me run my hands through your hair -- kind of like this, see? Esther, cut that out! You're only 9 years old after all! I am NOT a child. Okay, then, maybe you're as much as 21 years old: I'm still not clear on that point: but in either case, you're still too young for me -- not to mention the fact that I'm already married! I see. Well, there's just one small problem with you rejecting my advances like this, John, darling. Oh? And what is that one small problem, Esther? It means that I now have to stab you repeatedly with this kitchen knife that I've been holding behind my back just in case during this entire conversation. Knife? What knife? This one, John: the one that I am now twisting gleefully in your incredibly naive CHEST! Mouhahahahahaha! Come on, Max, keep walking: We've got to carry Daniel to safety before Esther comes back. Oh, where are those police cars? I called 911 20 minutes ago! Take THAT!!!! Mommy! Well, it's about time, folks. 
We came as fast as we could. After you finished eating your full compliment of morning doughnuts, you mean. We're taking your son here to the hospital, okay? Office Brady here will take you and your other child there in his squad car. I'm an American citizen, you know: I pay my taxes. Yes, well, unfortunately, we're in Canada, lady, so your American taxes aren't going to go very far up here. Oh, yeah, my husband told me we're in Canada -- speaking of which, where is my husband, anyway? Um, well, um, you see, um, I'm afraid that... There's no need to tell me: He left me because he thought I was a drunkard, right? Uh, well... And he says I'll never see him again, right? Well, something like that. I knew it! By the way, what is this woman doing to me here? Relax, lady: She's a Doctor She's just checking you over after all you've been through. Oh, yeah? Well, what's the verdict, doc?
Great news, believe it or not. You're kidding me. What great news could there possibly be for me at this sorry juncture in my life? Yes, yes? Pregnant! Congratulations, Mommy. Oh, Max, you don't even know what the word "pregnant" means -- unless, of course, you, too, are a 39-year-old hellhound like your former sister (rest in peace -- or rather in pieces)! And, since you're going to the hospital today, anyway, I figured you could schedule your delivery while you're waiting for Daniel to make his expected full recovery from the neck injuries he received after falling from his burning tree house. Oh, dear: Well, to be brutally honest with you, ma'am, I'm a little leery of hospitals and doctors. Oh? Yes. That's why we adopted that hellhound -- I mean Esther -- in the first place. Our hospital has a very good reputation in Canada. Well, I'll think about it: Just as long as you don't have any doctors on your staff that go by the names of "Moe, Larry, and Curly"! And your staff is not in the habit of mocking newly delivered mothers with ad hoc renditions of Tin Pan Alley classics, such as 'Yes, Sir, That's My Baby' What??? I'm just kidding, Kate! Relax!