Yesterday we picked up Baby Girl’s passport from the US Consulate. Since it came with a beautifully embossed Consular Report Of Birth Abroad, I think she is now officially an American. All without ever setting foot in the US, unless you count that time she visited as a fetus last fall. And she should be counted, for she forced me to eat more than my share of pancakes and maple syrup.

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 The passport itself is fancy. Have they been redesigned lately? My passport, which is only two years old, is plain with blue pages and a stern note on transporting contraband. Cleo’s has a microchip embedded in the cover, full-color illustrations on each page (Mt. Rushmore, the Liberty Bell, a train), patriotic quotations from various Americans, and three pages of travel advice. Maybe it’s the special passport they give to naturalized citizens born abroad – a sort of “Welcome to the club! Here’s an overview!” gesture. It is also graced with her portrait, possibly the goofiest baby picture ever taken: a fat little neckless face, toothless and smiling, topped with Ziggy Stardust hair. We’re going to get stopped every time we go through Customs, should she ever outgrow her sixty-five cowlicks and sprout a neck.

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Getting the passport has consumed so much of our free time and disposable income over the past few months, it feels strange to finally have it. What are we going to do on the weekends now? What am I going to do with my evenings now that there are no more forms to fill out? Is there any other excuse to eat lunch at the World Trade Center every other Saturday? I was almost relieved when Sweetie mentioned that now we were ready to apply for our UAE residency visas. Surely they will have new forms for us to fill out! And then there’s Cleo’s Social Security card to be applied for…ah, yes, life is good.

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