I have never been so frustrated as I have been the past 2 years, trying to get a passport first for myself, and this year for Darwin. If the passport part wasn’t bad enough, there has (both times) been birth certificate issues. Last year, I didn’t have my birth certificate so needed to get a new one. This year, I didn’t have the birth certificate for Darwin that had both mine and Dave’s name on it, so I had to have it reissued and wait 2 weeks for it.
Alas, I finally got Darwin’s birth certificate (the right one) today and was all prepared with the passport application, and his photos, to head down to the passport office and finally get the application put through. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting the passport office to be busy. Last year around this time was when I got my passport and I remember being the only person there.
I expected the same thing to happen today. In and out.
Nope.
Instead, I got there only to find that I was in line with almost 10 people in front of me and the line wasn’t moving fast. I took my number, sat down, and waited. Luckily, aunt Viv waited in the car with Darwin so at least I didn’t have to worry about him possibly crying while I waited. And boy did I wait. I waited and waited until:
“164!”
That’s my number! I sat up enthusiastically enough that I think I might have actually left the floor with both feet, if only for a moment. Like a dork, I walked up to the counter clasping the necessary items. I had the application, expertly filled out, checked and rechecked by me to make sure it was right. I had the passport photos, neatly tucked away in the cardboard sleeve Walmart gives you, one of which was signed by aunt Viv, the guarantor. I had Darwin’s birth certificate, my identification and I even brought my own passport for good measure.
The cranky old cow behind the counter looked at the application, noticed that the “Other Parent” section wasn’t filled out or signed (obviously), looked where I had checked ‘Widowed’ as the ‘Relationship With Other Parent” and narrowed her eyes at me. “Um, yeah, we’re going to need the death certificate to process this.”
The death certificate. I just waited in line for 30 minutes and you can’t help me. I was speechless for a moment and noticed she was scowling at me, pushing the application back at me. Rejected. What a waste of time.
Luckily, aunt Viv is awesome and offered to give me a ride back home to grab the death certificate so we could come back and finally get this application squared away. The entire drive took about 40 minutes or so there and back. Soon, I was back in that office, taking a number. It was 185. Whatever was going to go down in the office, I didn’t want to get called up by that same cranky woman who didn’t even bother with such human courtesies as “I’m sorry for your loss.”
About 30 minutes later, it was the moment of truth.
“185!”
That’s me! Again, I jumped up, happy this was almost over. I had everything now. No way could I lose. I gave myself a little internal pep talk on the way to the counter. You got this, Wendy!
This woman was younger, about my age, and she had a friendly face. She actually smiled at me. I felt like a rock star. I’m a somebody now, my internal voice piped up.
I placed all of the necessary items (application, photos, birth certificate, my ID, Dave’s death certificate) on the counter in a line from left to right. Her eyes first scanned the application and when she got to the “Other Parent” section, she stopped and looked up to find the death certificate. She entered a few things into the computer from the various documents. I watched her look at the dates of both the death certificate and Darwin’s birth certificate. She checked them again, doing the math in her head.
“3 weeks” I said, “He was three weeks old when his father died.”
“I see that.” she spoke softly, then looked up and made eye contact with me. “Was it sudden?”
I briefly told her the story of what had happened. About the seizures, about finding him on the couch. I noticed her eyes reddening and filling with tears. She looked at Darwin’s photos next and the reality of my situation must have hit her hard, as she retrieved a tissue to blot at her eyes.
“I’m so sorry.” she almost whispered.
She continued with the application process as I told her about how wonderful Darwin is, and how I was excited to take him to California. She recommended I carry Darwin’s birth certificate as well as Dave’s death certificate with me at all times while traveling in case anybody needs to see proof of “Other Parent”.
I left the passport office feeling badly that I had made that woman cry. I imagine that was just the first of many uncomfortable encounters that I will endure while traveling with my son. I will probably have to tell the story every time I cross the border for the rest of my life. I will forever be faced with the question “Where’s the father?” and have to pull out the death certificate like some sort of morbid credit card, buying my parenting freedom.
Life goes on.
