Getting Joseph's Walking Papers

If you have read about Joseph's home birth, then you know my sister, Sandra, attended the birth. She stayed with me for several days, and five days after the birth, she accompanied me to the health department to get a birth certificate. Try to imagine the DMV with needles. Anyway, she was inspired to write the following humor piece. As with all humor, it's mostly true with just a little exaggeration. My doctor's office was not really in a burned-out filling station, but in a converted bank building. Raleigh is the capital of North Carolina. All the dialogue with the health department is near verbatim.



Do You Know Raleigh’s Last Name?


My dear sister, finding herself in the family way, decided to buck society in her own southern genteel way. “I believe I shall have my baby at home” she said. And so began her tangle with beauracracy that would rival a tank movement across the sands of Iraq.

She would have preferred prenatal care prior to her home birth. Yet physician after physician looked upon her in horror as she described her plan. No doctor at birth!! How can it be done? “No thank you” they said as they ran back to their accountants screeching epitaphs towards the audacity of any woman giving birth without paying them first to help.

She ended up finding a lab that agreed to conduct prenatal testing. That is, they agreed as long as she wore a Led Zeppelin tee-shirt, dark sunglasses and pretended not to speak English.

The glorious day arrived and as does generally occur, everything came out just fine. Joseph William entered the world in his mama’s bedroom, amidst the pre July 4th crackle of fireworks with family and friends gathered in his circle of love.

And then we had to prove it...in order to get his government walking papers. These are otherwise known as a birth certificate and social security number. One never knows these days…Junior might go out and get a job at six months of age and NEED these documents to guarantee his payment of taxes or contribution to social security.

So…she calls the Department of Public Health. In her educated, grammatically correct voice, she requested information on newborn metabolic testing and birth certificate application. “Newborn metabolic testing?” says the voice on the other end of the phone. “I don’t think we do that here.” My sister explains to “the voice” that the baby’s family doctor (who by the way agreed to see the newborn baby as a patient WITHOUT first visiting him in the hospital nursery because his office is in a burned out filling station and he doesn’t give a hoot) told her that they did in fact do this testing at the health department. With all of her 65 points of I.Q. “the voice” said, “We will have to check on this and call you back” as she hung up the phone. That return call would have been a lot easier had she taken our phone number…the significance of this we would soon learn.

So we came up with plan B. With the father boasting a “Big Johnson” running suit, and us in Led Zeppelin tee-shirts, (Hey! It worked before!!) we approached the Health Department receptionist with baby in tow. “Yes mam” sister said, “Young Joe Bill here was borned at home and we thank he needin’ shots.” More than likely, feeling quite superior after our presentation, the receptionist i.e. “the voice” was able to figure out what to do. We were passed along to the nurses who, after scratching their heads and whispering something about ignorant people, performed all the tests they could think of on the new baby.

We were then escorted to public records. Of course the baby was crying after being poked and prodded by the nurses and wanted to nurse to relieve his angst. After taking a seat, my sister began to nurse. “Mrs. Einstein” began her routine questioning. “Where was the baby born?” “At home” sister said. “Who delivered the baby?” “We did” sister said. “Where do you live?” Sister gave the address of her residence. “We need proof that you live there…either a power bill or a phone bill will do” said Mrs. Einstein. “How about my driver’s license?” sister said. “No, I need a power bill or a phone bill” “Well, my husband has his drivers license; it verifies mine…will that do?” “No” said Mrs. Einstein, “I need a power bill or a phone bill to verify your address.” “Well…my checkbook also has our home address that verifies both of our license’s address…how about that?” “No, really” Mrs. Einstein says, “I need a power bill or a phone bill.” My sister, starting to get frustrated says, “Here are the documents from the lab that did my prenatal testing. It lists my address as the same that is listed on my driver’s license, my husband’s driver’s license, and my check book…is that not enough?” And once again, Mrs. Einstein says “What I really need is a power bill or a phone bill...hmmmm…let me call Raleigh.” Which she does and is quickly told that with two driver’s licenses, a checkbook, and a lab bill all having the same address, we are pretty much sure to live at the address listed.

“OK” says Mrs. Einstein, “I need a notarized statement from someone in the community who saw you pregnant.” “Well” says I, the aunt who has kept her mouth shut so far, “I actually saw the baby born. Will my statement suffice?” Of course, Mrs. E’s response was “No, I need a statement from someone in the community who saw her pregnant.” Husband pipes up and says “I cut the cord, will that, along with the aunt who saw her give birth, be enough to satisfy your statement?” “No” says Mrs. E., “I need a statement from someone in the community who saw her pregnant.” Unable to stand it any more, I finally declare “ The last time I looked, both the father and I were part of the community…I mean, we ARE listed in the phone book you know…the phone company seems to be fairly important to you all.” Looking puzzled, Mrs. E finally says “Let me call Raleigh…I have to make sure the baby is yours.”

So her end of the conversation goes like this. “Yes, I see the baby…Yes it is obviously a baby…I see it with my own eyes…her sister, the aunt, claims to have seen her have it and the husband says he cut the cord…No, really, I SEE the baby…actually I see the baby breastfeeding…yes, the mother says it is hers…well, she had to have a baby sometime because she is obviously breastfeeding…OK…well, If you are sure” Blah, Blah, Blah.

So…by the end of the day we had a birth certificate and, believe it or not, a social security card. And more than that, we had some important knowledge here to for unknown to us. First, the power and phone company are the final word on where one actually lives as well as one’s standing in the community. However, I wouldn’t recommend handing a phone bill to any police officer who stops you for speeding…you might get arrested for improper I.D. Second, the fact that one is carrying around 45 extra pounds from pregnancy, that one’s milk has come in, that one is obviously post natal in condition is NOT proof that one has had a baby. The only proof of pregnancy is if Raleigh SAYS it happened. Finally, we decided if sister was ever going to have another baby at home, we might ought to call Raleigh first. If it is a boy, we might even name him Raleigh because Raleigh is apparently quite intelligent. If we could just figure out Raleigh’s last name…cause he is probably listed in the phone book…and that makes him pretty darned important…don’t ya think!