One of things that happens after you have a baby is a nice person, who obviously doesn't have kids since she's wearing lipstick, comes in with paperwork for processing the birth certificate. You get to fill it out in a narcotic-induced haze while learning to nurse and running on two hours sleep. A day or two later the same lady brings it back for you to double-check before typing it up and sending it to the state, who will tehn send the information to social security. You are of course distracted by your adorable baby, operating on minimal sleep, having fun adjusting the hospital bed and still enjoying the benefits of Perocet every three hours. It's in this condition that you are expected to notice any errors in the paperwork.
Well, this is how it went for me anyway. Two weeks ago I went to the courthouse to pick up Bear's certificate (a story in and of itself) and found out that they couldn't issue it because his last name was spelled wrong. By one letter. I called the birth certificate office and had it corrected. In the meantime they'd sent his information to social security. I got the paperwork from them and naturally our last name is spelled wrong. I was very joyful because this meant a trip to the happiest place on Earth: the social security office.
I diligently collected his now accurate birth certificate, the incorrect social security card, and my driver's license. I was confident this would be a quick process. After all, this must happen pretty often.
I arrived at the social security office at 8:45 and got in line behind roughly fifteen people who hadn't had a job or full set of teeth for probably six years. I got in and told the officer (yes, with a gun and everything...what the hell goes on there?!) what I needed. He gave me a form and a number and I took a seat. I filled out the form and perused through it while I waited. I came to the section on the documentation I needed. It informed me that I'd need to show a driver's license, state ID, or passport. For Bear. Who has none of those things. Then at the bottom of the page in large, bold letters it said: "WE CANNOT ACCEPT A BIRTH CERTIFICATE...as evidence of identity." Well what the hell? What am I supposed to show them then?
Eventually my number was called. The woman working the window was exceptionally humorless, although I guess I would be too if my job involved working with people that are in trouble for "borrowing" their sister's social security number (yes, I heard a woman say this) and smell like booze.
"So, um, obviously he's a baby and doesn't have a driver's license yet. I guess this is why they should make the dads double-check and not the moms." I chuckled at my joke but she looked at me like I'd opened seven credit cards in someone else's name. She aggressively highlighted on a piece of paper and thrust it at me.
"When you come back with this information we can process the change." I sighed and silently cursed my no drinking before noon rule. I looked over the paper and saw that I'd have to get a certified copy of a medical record with Bear's name and date of birth. Sort of like the information ON HIS BIRTH CERTIFICATE.
After that I again understood why people move to Idaho, stockpile an arsenal and refuse to pay taxes.
1 comment:
OMgoodess, so funny.
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