A Welcome Letter
Imagine those transcendent moments in life, when rays of light seem to shine down upon you from the heavens and you swear you can hear the Hallelujah Chorus. It usually accompanies a sense of achievement or relief – something you've long wanted or worried about either has or hasn't come to pass.
Last week it was a letter from the Motor Vehicle Administration.
If you've paid attention to the federal REAL ID requirements, you might know that here in Maryland, it's been a bumpy road to compliance. Mike and I were among those who received a letter requesting the honor of our presence at the MVA with a pile of documents in hand. Or else.
And one of my first thoughts was Am I going to have to take Leah back there?
Our trip two years ago was successful, in the sense that we came away with the state ID Leah needed, but I wouldn't call it a triumph. Raising autism awareness, loudly, in a mostly silent, drab government office doesn't lend itself to joy.
Nope
A trip to the MVA is low-hanging fruit for kvetchers, although in reality it is well ahead of some other government offices (I'm looking at you, Social Security) with online scheduling, clear instructions about needed documents, and an office that can actually be reached by phone. Our scheduled appointment, organized paperwork, and appropriate bribe for cooperation gave me hope as I briefed my reluctant heroine about our errand.
Hope died a couple of seconds after we walked in. There was a check-in line.
Yes, we had to wait in a line to tell a state employee that we had an appointment, made with the intention of avoiding long lines. And this one was neither quick, nor particularly short.
The wait gave Leah enough time to take in the people scattered throughout the rows of gray benches. I could see the word 'NOPE' writing itself across her face. By the time I'd checked in, Leah had one goal in mind: Escape. It didn't matter that our number was called less than a minute after that. She was done.
If the employee charged with processing Leah's paperwork found it tiresome that I was alternating between answering questions and running across the room to block another escape attempt, she managed to hide it, to her credit. The middle-aged man with sagging socks and shower shoes who watched Leah's repeated efforts to flee was less restrained, telling me I needed to fit her for a tracker. That bit of wisdom caught just enough of my attention as Leah took another shot at escape that she made it into the parking lot before I intercepted her.
It pained me to bring her back each time, if I'm honest. How many of us, stuck in a crowded waiting area for an indeterminate period of time, really want to turn tail and run? Give the girl credit for being true to herself.
When we were able to escape for real, the application complete, relief swept everything else aside. I had eight years until the renewal notice would come, or so I thought until the REAL ID notices started to appear in the mail. I have never been happier to receive a government-issue form letter than I was when Leah's arrived, telling us in boldface that no further action was needed.
Reprieve.