Getting the photo taken was difficult. She could not support her head so I tried to hold it up with my fingers not intruding the picture. In addition, I remember seeing that on "America's Next Top Model" vaseline makes skin appear to glow in photos and I just happened to have it in my baby-bag, so I threw some of that on her face too.
Her passport photo is expressionless. Instead of highlighting facial structure (like Tyra said) the strategically placed vaseline made her face look like that of a overworked truck driver at risk for type 2 diabetes.
Finally, I had two passport photos of my daughter, her social security card, and birth certificate in my possession. In addition, I had a plane tickets to Miami to Caracas to Merida, Venezuela. I flew to the US Department of State in Chicago for an "expedited" appointment which I had booked online. The flight itself went well, since the plane at left at 5am, she slept the entire plane ride.
Once we arrived I had little time to get my bearings and find the Department of State. My daughter and I jumped onto a cab. Her father called me while we were riding in the cab, and I remember thinking "I wonder if he knows how hard I am trying to make this work." I was overjoyed that I finally had a purpose to my days, other than coddling and trying to love this demanding ball of flesh that happened to be my baby. I had a goal to aspire to: getting to Venezuela to be with father of our little family.
The State Department is in the middle of downtown Chicago. The skyline was beautiful and I remember thinking how amazing it would be living there. On that same token, I remember the information given by the cab driver: it is expensive to live in nice areas of Chicago, and overall, the cultural aspects weren't that great, overall.
My daughter and I walked through the metal detectors and security in this swanky skyscraper and found our way to the 13th floor, where our appointment was at. I showed the security my confirmation ticket and they told me to fall into the line...and pointed down the infinitely long, straight, sterile hallway littered with a popuri of black, white, yellow, orange, grey, and brown cultures with their corresponding scents and attire packed onto line, shoulder to shoulder.
My baby was the topic of conversation among many strangers I met in queue. "She's so beautiful, what's her name, how old is she, can I hold her? Oh lookit! The baby is doing... something." My arms burned from carrying this 8 pounds around with me nonstop for hours in addition to a diaper bag. My breasts felt like lead, but I wasn't comfortable feeding her in this saturated hallway.
"Yup, she's great." I said, surprising myself. It is unbelievable how mothers feel obligated to respond in such a manner. I didn't actually think having my baby was great. It was a lot of work. Here's the thing that non-parents don't get about the "hard work" that parents have to do: it NEVER ends; never. It's not like loading heavy cargo into semis for hours straight (which I had done).
Raising a baby is a test of endurance that never ends. Every breath you take is for the child. Non-parents can try this: when you wake up in the morning, count the number of breathes you take. Count them all day. It never ends, until you die. If you forget to count your breaths, stop breathing because you have failed your given task. That is what parenting felt like to me, a constantly annoying rapping on the door of my soul.
I was getting better from the complications of the delivery, but I was far from healthy. Disregarding my health, I took the steps that I knew that mother's should do. My doctors were amazed. They couldn't believe that I was walking, let alone breastfeeding all hours of the day.
Babies don't love and cuddle like a puppy.
I was exhausted and this ball of flesh did not acknowledge nor appreciate that although I almost died upon her birth, I was crazily over exerting myself for the good of our family. I wanted to feel appreciated by somebody, but nobody could understand what I had been dealing with.
Thank God for Marcos, a friend of mine to whom I mentioned my trip. He lives in Chicago and called me as I was breast feeding in a bathroom stall. He found me on the top of the skyscraper eventually, after almost getting removed from the premises by security (who made sure that everyone knew that they were federal, not state police officers). Marcos and I waited for a few minutes and magically, my baby's passport was finally ready.
We went outside and roamed downtown. The river was still a little green from a St. Patrick's Day Celebration, the bums in Chicago put on shows and preformed acoustics while wearing outlandish costumes. They are definitely a step up from bums in my town who simply hold signs with a hand out. We went to the Apple Store which was seemingly enchanted, but had no customer service. We walked past Oprah's headquarters (I can't remember if that is KSTP or something else). It rained lightly so we found solace in a Thai restaurant.
I don't remember what I had, just that my child was having a fit and I had nowhere to put her but on my shoulder. The pubic stared at me and made me feel horrible. In hindsight, nobody was bothered by us. Young babies hardly make a sound when they cry anyway! My child created a gaze and people wanted to see her.
I called my airline carrier three times to change my departure from Chicago so I could spend more time with Marcos. He is an awesome guy. We went to the Museum of Modern Art and I ended up breast feeding on the third floor in the front row facing an artsy video about...art. That was strange. Nobody else had babies, let alone children with them. After an hour, we left to find the subway which would take me back to the airport.
We passed many people and I kept thinking I saw a mutual friend of ours.
"Marcos! Look, it's Jack!"
"No, Sarah." he responded giggling like a 6'2 Columbian schoolgirl with a hormonal imbalance. "There are many fat, black man in Chicago. I doubt that was Jack."
Marcos helped me carry the baby on the subway. It was nice to get a break. I still remember when he offered to hold her the first time, I couldn't give her away; although I didn't really like her, I needed her. Eventually, as I was falling in and out of sleep on the subway, I asked for help and Marcos was more than happy to provide it.
He got off the subway a couple of stops before mine. I was alone with the baby again, but felt energized after my wonderful afternoon. Throwing my purse and baby bag through the metal detectors with my right hand was easy as my left held the baby above my head, like a waiter who is so sure that his profession is the same as his vocation.
I skipped through the airport and found my gate. While getting ready to feed my child, a woman officer approached me and said she had been watching me since I entered the airport. She asked me if I knew about the soft spots on baby's heads and that one is not supposed to shake a baby.
"Yes, I know that one is not supposed to shake a baby." I replied jokingly.
Well, as it turns out, those kind of jokes aren't funny. Situational humor is not funny with a baby, and not surprisingly, neither are dead baby jokes.
We got on the plane to Minneapolis. We were heading to Caracas, Venezuela the next day.
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