Continued from Mrs. Pickwick Gets a Passport

With successful passport photos under my belt (actually, safely tucked in the glove compartment- no way I was going to risk bringing them into our house to be lost!), I set out to tackle the actual application with my very next free moment. So about a month later. I carefully filled out the forms, then carefully filled out the extra set of forms the post office lady thoughtfully sent with me. One of the job requirements to hand out government paperwork is to be able to spot those most likely to misspell their own name. I then quickly compiled our assorted documents proving our existence and began making copies (One-sided! No, two sided! No, one-sided with both sides on the same page!). After we –ran out of ink, ran out of patience, ran out to the store, ran out of paper, ran out to the store, ran out of patience again, ran out to a copy center–  we finally had a pile of copied birth certificates and driver’s licenses ready to go. We had an even more impressive pile of rejections: too dark, too light, torn in half, chewed, crayoned, or crafted into an art project while my back was turned. Little Pickwicks are fast. I made an appointment at the post office for the next morning, sincerely hoping that the current date being several weeks later than the date I listed on the application (all that running!) and Baby P now looking much more like 5 months than her 3 month passport photo wouldn’t be a problem.

Both Fr Pickwick and I needed to be present for Baby Pickwick’s application, so another Pickwick pilgrimage began. We strollered down to the corner post office, the littles very excited that they would not have to wait in the car this trip. It is much more exciting to attack the colorful knee high displays in a lobby than climb through a sunroof. I began unpacking our envelope with a confidant smile (I had triple checked the list!) and tried to act casual, like this was not the culmination of two months of errands and paperwork.

“‘Ma’am, you can’t copy them like That.’  ‘Is this your birth certificate?’ ‘It’s not original, I need the original.’ ‘I need a raised seal.’ ‘Nope, nope, not good here.’ ‘Can’t make out the license.'” I protested in vain that it was indeed my only-ever-issued birth certificate and ran my hand over the raised seal in demonstration of its raised-ness. I promised new copies of everything. I promised to get a new birth certificate. I broke completely as I tried replacing all the copies into their envelope and the (very kind, really) post office employee asked, “Do you think you could just find your passport?” Thankfully, I couldn’t quite spit out the words I wanted to: “Oh yes, I’ll just go look under the couch again! I only lost it four years and two houses ago, but you never know what will turn up under the cushions!” So, instead of temporarily satisfying snappy repartee that I would regret later, I merely dropped the papers in a heap on the counter and raced out the door in a torrent of tears, leaving Fr Pickwick behind to collect my mess, all the children, and replace the greeting card display.

After Fr Pickwick nursed me back to some degree of sanity with coffee and breakfast and plenty of reassurances that I had indeed been born, even if my certificate was no good, I did what any self-respecting and collected adult would do: I called in my mom. She heroically braved the local health department and brought me a brand-new, raised-seal certified copy of my birth certificate exactly like the really-old, raised-seal certified copy that I already had. The only difference was an obvious improvement in printing technology since the stone age of the mid-eighties. So, feeling rather old, I scheduled a new appointment, at a new post office.

Fast-forward one (or two, or three, or something) weeks later and we are packing up for Pickwicks vs Post Office round 2. We double, triple, quadruple checked our paperwork, including my fancy new certificate that makes me look at least 20 years younger. We pull our trusty Pickwickian Honda Pilot into the post office parking lot. As we get ready to invade, I make a nervous joke. “This should be it! As long as you didn’t forget your wallet or anything!” Fr Pickwick jovially slaps his wallet pocket. Then groans, a tad theatrically. Not funny Fr P! I’m a little unstable about this already… but alas, he actually did in fact forget his wallet. Oh, the first-world curse of owning two pairs of pants. He races home and begins the frantic search (which does not go well, according to the texts). I go in to at least take care of my passport – since one of us is collected and capable- and he hopes to make it back in time to get Baby Pickwick’s before our 30-minute appointment window is over. They were quite busy and had to be strict about the times, because the entire state scheduled passport appointments that week. (No really, it’s not an exaggeration! The state started requiring a passport just to fly in the US at the same time we started planning for Serbia!! I felt like priority should have been given to folks actually trying to leave the country, but then again, this was not my first appointment…) I explain the situation as cheerfully as I can, then begin rummaging in my purse for all my papers, and my wallet. Which Isn’t There.

Sooo, fast forward another two (or three or something) weeks to our next appointment. I was willing to return to the same post office, as at least I didn’t cry (inside the lobby, anyway- maybe a little on the park bench). This time, this proverbial charming third time, we had all our paperwork. We even took a fresh photo of Baby P, now two (or three, or four, or something) months older. We chatted casually with the postal employee, who fortunately had not met us on our previous trip. I even smiled sympathetically at the lady waiting next to us who lost her passport. (What? I’m not the only one?? Other not-so-terrible people have lost important government documents before?? So many, in fact, that they have created a special lost passport application form, just for us?? I feel so not alone anymore!) In fact, we did not hit a single snag until…. “Um, yes, sorry. My address on my driver’s license doesn’t match my permanent address because we moved up the street from our old house and I never really updated it and neither one matches the address I’d like the passports mailed to because we are moving again in two weeks and I’m afraid they’ll get lost so I was hoping you could just send them to my mom who is a lot more stable than I am…….”

And after all that, they did. Look out Serbia, Mrs. Pickwick has a passport!

 

Next up, “How we lost our plane tickets for an uncomfortably long time, or Why two email addresses is even more dangerous than two pairs of pants”

Also, “Mrs Pickwick makes friends with Expedia and Aeroflot because a certain Pickwick misspelled  his daughter’s name and forgot his own middle name”

Or maybe I’ll just let you imagine all the new on-hold music I’ve recently memorized.