I went down to Vital Records today and got Lucy's birth certificate. I had prepared for the journey as if for safari, making a list of things I'd need, packing the car the night before, preparing lunch, taking a sweater in case I was cold, leaving the house an hour before the appointment.
See, Lucy doesn't usually like the car, and it was a forty minute drive one-way. Last time I traveled in the car with her that long, she screamed most of the way home. It was not pretty. And I nearly got in an accident.
Today was golden. She cried, but not in an "I'm being tortured and am going to implode if you don't stop the car now" sort of way, but in an "I'm upset that we're in the car and I'm crying and oh, look, there's my Raggedy Ann doll. Oh, Raggedy Ann. Hmmm. What was I talking about, again?" way.
So I met our midwife there, who was there to corroborate the fact that Lucy was born at home (in the certificate, it had a space to write where Lucy was born and where she was intended to be born. Our address, labelled "Residence", was in bloth places. Cool, huh?) Andrea, my midwife, brought along her two kids because her three-year-old, Talon, was sick and didn't go to preschool. Talon is a pretty bad-ass name, no? No one is going to beat up a kid named Talon. Anyway, he was in a lovely mood. He stomped around the little interview room and said, "I'm gwumpy. And angwy."
"Well. Those are big emotions," his mom said, helpfully.
"Hmph," he said.
And then they gave me the little piece of paper that said Lucy was an official person, with her full name and birthdate and time and everything on it.
Social Security is next. Gulp. I've heard that's not fun. But at least now I know we can leave the house without me putting me and my daughter in mortal danger from being distracted. And that she can fall asleep in her car seat without too much of a fuss. My God! I might actually leave north county again!