Delay

Hi, folks!

Yes, this is another delay of my newest enemy, but I am busy cup-caking, teacher-thanking and field-daying.

We are about to buy new tags for our new van and I’m getting my game face on in preparation for meeting the red-head at the DMV.

Here’s my rant on the horrendous counter service I received from the local DMV minions from a year ago.

Wish me well…

Sing to the tune of the Brady Bunch:

Here’s a story of a red-haired lady

Who-o worked at the D-Mm-V

She was slow and very unhelpful

Yes, I am mad indeed.

Dumdadadadum….

Here’s a story of a nice mama

Who carried all her pa-per-work

To the counter with two-o little ones

Yes she was pre-e-pared.

Dumdadadadum….

Then the redhead said “no way-ay no how.”

And she had little sym-m-pathy

For the mom and her little daughter

Yes she was callous indeed.

Ca-al-lous, Dumdadadadum….so ca-all-ous. Dumdadadadum….

And that’s why I am so-o-o-o mad. Dumdadadadum….

And why this is NOT a lyric blog. I kind of stink, obviously.

Let me preface this by saying I love America. I love what we stand for. I love the beauty and the people. I have seen a great deal of it and I even cry when I hear the Star Spangled Banner.

But today I revered it just a teensy bit less.

I went to get our handicapped license plate for our van since when I received a speeding ticket last week, the kind police officer informed me I had 60 days from moving into MT to get new plates. It’s been approximately 120. I was happy he didn’t make his point by fining me for that too.

I arrived at my downtown metered parking space with the paperwork filled out from her pediatrician, our IA registration, our title, mine and J’s MT Driver’s license #s and the name of my Kindergarten teacher—Mrs. Wilson if you must know.

After looking at everything, the red-haired lady disappears for 5 minutes while Hannah and Ben used me as a merry go round only to come back and inform me they are out of handicap plates.

OUT?

Isn’t this a tag office and are we the only ones who need them in this town? And don’t you have inventory checks occasionally? Wouldn’t it be important to have them in stock so people who have to hobble in don’t have to do it twice?

But then she informs me that since Katie is not the driver {duh} she isn’t able to get a plate but needs a placard.

Ok, plate, placard, whatever. Just give me plastic or metal and let me get out of here…

But they don’t have placards here. You have to request them via snail mail.

I laugh, “You don’t have them here?”

I want to say, “I’m sorry is there a separate Handicapped tag office that I missed that has the patent on ALL handicapped tags and placards?”

I am incredulous but am trying with all my might not to get angry. After all, it’s not her fault. She didn’t make the rules. I then see her supervisor and say, “This makes absolutely no sense. Surely we are not the first people in the great state of Montana that has a child with a physical disability! What am I supposed to do until I get the placard?”

I wanted to say, “This is the stupidest thing since the invention of the Snuggie! Can’t you see that? Can’t you see that you have just sucked one hour of my life away!?”

Her lips thin into a smile. Her mouth says, “I’m sorry…” But her eyes do not. She turns back to her computer screen. I suppose this is my cue to back out of the Wizard’s curtain deflated and defeated.

I go back to the counter where the red-head says I’ll have to mail in the form signed by our Dr. but Katie’s name should be at the top, not mine.

So, I scratch it out and a nanosecond later she says, “Oh, but it can’t be scratched out, it’s not valid now.”

I bite my lip to keep myself from crying for now I have to go back to the Dr.s office to get a new signature on a new form to mail into Helena and wait for goodness knows how long until I get the golden placard.

If I cursed, I would have. If I was a public fit-pitcher it would have been my time to shine. And if I lived in a country that took bribes in government offices I would have hurled a gold brick.

{Brace yourself}

I wanted to scream, “Seriously?! Isn’t it hard enough to raise a child with a disability without having to fill in forms in triplicate, show proof of every documentable life event, every moment, every diagnosis, every THING? Isn’t it hard enough with out all you Box Checkers only worrying about worshipping the paper gods and forgetting who this country is FOR? Who the the laws are written in behalf of? This is suPPOSED to be a government by the people and for the people, but I don’t recognize THIS idiotic rule making machine! I don’t recognize THIS government with no conscience, no culpability and certainly no compassion. You can tip tap on your computer all day long but I hope I will never, NE-VER become one of you—worrying about boxes on a screen and forgetting about the person standing in front of you who is in need of a little help. A little decency. A little extra effort. A “Let me see what I can do.” would be nice instead of a weak and meaningless “I’m sorry”.

“Well, Sorry isn’t going to help me drag 2 small children into the pediatrician’s office to get yet another signature. Sorry isn’t going to help me carry Katie across the parking lot or put a Band-Aid on her knee when she falls as we hurry across the asphalt aisles any time we go to a public place.”

***deep breath***

And I’m turning down the exaggeration knob just a titch.

After this imagined diatribe I was so fired up I would have either bopped the Governor on the nose or ran for office myself.

In 9th grade I learned that laws are meant to serve and protect. {Or maybe that’s the Highway Patrol} But I felt neither provided or shielded. I felt small, helpless and infuriated.

We’ve all heard of or watched Mr. Smith Goes to Washington or Legally Blond 2 where these nobodies go and mop the town with enthusiasm and pure grit.

But in the real world, I wonder if change is really possible? We hear of politicians promising sweeping reform but as soon as they enter DC they resemble an ant gazing up at the Great Wall of China. And all the rhetoric gets drowned out by “cha-chings” of lobbyists and the backslaps of law-makers.

The ant looks at the huge, complicated labyrinth of protocol and who can blame him/her for holing themselves up in committee meetings checking boxes and enlarging loopholes.

But which came first—the bloated beaurocrat box-checkers or the irresponsible, dishonest and greedy citizens that necessitated all the forms in triplicate?

When did simplicity of service get convoluted and enlarged, sticky and covered in forms and more forms? And when did we become a society that needed such protection from ourselves?

Wouldn’t it be great if we could take people at their word that they truly were in need of something a simple as a handicapped placard for their child who struggles to walk long distances?

Wouldn’t it be great if one day a person with a HS diploma working at a government counter stands up and says, “She’s right! This doesn’t make sense. It should be EASIER, not HARDER! And I’m going to do something about it. I’m going to keep on talking about it until something changes. Until the Head Box Checker listens, looks up from the screen and recognizes that rules CAN be changed. That COMMON SENSE can be transformed from NONSENSE!”

But until then, I will get my Doctor to check the correct box, sign on the specific line and send it the form. The stupid form.

And I might just send an edited version of this essay with it. Who knows, maybe an ant CAN climb the wall.