Today I carted two kids downtown to pick up Asa’s birth certificate. (Or certickaticket as Lydia says.) I don’t know why this is so weird to me. Why don’t they give you the birth certificate when the baby is, you know, BORN?
I don’t need this certificate to hang on the wall or place in a baby book (yikes! baby book! Asa doesn’t have one!)…I got it because we are going on a DISNEY CRUISE in fourteen days! And my lil’ pirate needs it to set sail!
We followed my precious GPS right to the front door of the Vital Records office and walked right in. As I filled out the form I noticed the others in the waiting room—a Muslim family (I could tell by the garb), a redneck family (just calling ’em like I see ’em), a gangsta family (the two year old had a tattoo…well, practically), a hispanic family, a boring white family (mine) and a motorcycle gang family. I kid you not.
Anyway, I filled out the form, handed the cashier/lady/employee $10 and bada bing bada boom, she prints out Asa’s birth certificate.
She prints it?
Like on a printer?
And I had to drive 45 minutes for that?!
I tried to make it up to my patient little girl so we stopped at a park next door. A park with a cop idling in the parking lot, two adult men on the swings and one cross-dressing looking mom/dad on the park bench.
We stayed about ten minutes.
And that was my day. How was yours?
photo by John Carleton