Tomorrow our oldest son has Kindergarten screening and registration. I’m confident that he will do well writing his name, reciting his address, saying his letters, counting as high as he feels, identifying shapes and other Kindergarten readiness stuff. I am also confident that I’ll be a mess as I fill out his paperwork while he’s a in a room with someone I don’t know talking about who knows what.
But today I’m not overly focused on the fact that I have separation anxiety with my parented children.
This morning I had to pack the boys in the car and drive to the next county over — the county in which they were born — and purchase BigBrother’s birth certificate. Since I was there, I grabbed LittleBrother’s too so I won’t have to do a last minute morning trip in two years for the same reason. The boys were excited because it was raining and they got to use their umbrellas.
I was dreading it and it had little to do with the fact that the rain kept me up most of the night and I felt like Zombie Mom.
I was dreading it because I hate birth certificates in general. I hate how easy it is for me to get my sons’ birth certificates. I filled out their name, their birth date, checked a box if they were born in county or not, filled out my maiden name and my husband’s full name. I signed it and wrote my address. Less than five minutes and $44 later ($22 per printed piece of official looking paper), I had my sons’ birth certificates in hand.
– __ — __ –
I saw the Munchkin’s birth certificate once. Or, I saw the corner of it.
I was visiting the Munchkin and Dee. I do not remember what year it was other than they were living in their original house. We were getting ready to go somewhere and Dee asked for something out of her bag. I was familiar with Pennsylvania birth certificates as I am the owner of one as well, so I saw the familiar scrolling on the corner of the piece of paper. I just stared at it. I never picked it up.
To be honest, it could have been Dee’s birth certificate. Or JD’s. But I couldn’t look at it.
I kind of hate that I’ll never see my daughter’s birth certificate with my name on it — as we know that even if that was her birth certificate, it had her name with her parents. Sealed and amended birth certificates stink and are unnecessary. Why isn’t an original birth certificate with an accompanying and separate adoption decree enough? Why do I need to cease to exist? I would have willingly signed a paper that said I didn’t want my identity sealed from her.
– __ — __ –
I didn’t look at my sons’ birth certificates in the Health Department building. The small waiting room, also shared by the immunization clinic, felt suddenly smaller than when we had walked in with our dripping umbrellas. The voices sounded louder. And my vision was doing that shaking thing that it does when I have a blood pressure spike or drop.
I herded my children out the door, helped them put up their umbrellas and eventually got us into our car. As they argued about whose raincoat was cooler in the back seat, I looked at their birth certificates. Their names were spelled right. My name (and maiden name) was correct. My husband’s name was correct. Their state file numbers let me know that, while they were born with one week difference in the same month (two years apart), more children were born in 2007 than in 2005 (up to that point). Interesting.
I sat in the driver’s seat and just stared at the official papers that say two things:
1) My sons exist.
2) I am one of their parents. (My husband is the other.)
It felt both good … and hard. Ah, back to the bittersweet April rains. I’m glad that we can so easily get that confirmation, but it reminds me that so many people don’t have that right. And I go from feeling bittersweet to angry. I hope someday that this post won’t even be understood by future generations because all adoptees will be given easy access to their original birth certificates.
Until then, the wording on this certificate (which I’m sure varies a bit state to state) is not true: “This is a true certification of the name and birth facts as recorded in the Office of Vital Statistics.” That’s not true in my daughter’s case.