"Well, you sure don't look 25, but your unlaminated, out-of-state driver's license is proof enough for me."
Abbie took her first trip to the Driver’s License Station yesterday, as I needed to renew my license. This may not sound like a big deal, but now that she’s already visited all of the more mundane locales like the grocery store and the bail bonds office, places like this are all I have left to take special note of. Plus it gives her a chance to see firsthand my interactions with our government as I engage in my, dare I say, patriotic duty to renew my driver’s license, and then spend the next five years avoiding that place like it’s a theater showing a Rob Schneider movie marathon.
If anyone doubts the diversity of the area, just visit your local Driver’s License Station. Nothing can force the haut-couture crowd to mix with the creatively pierced crowd like a government office everyone is legally required to visit once every five years. It helps that the county’s one station is located in the heart of one of Des Moines’s more … vibrant communities.* I didn’t see any frighteningly unusual people, like a basement dweller making one of his biennial trips into sunlight or a CEO, but I did see a nice cross-section of the area. Standing ahead of me were a sweet looking little old lady who cut in line, a high school girl who was apparently testing for her license, and a Buddhist monk wearing a full orange wrap regalia.**
At the front of the line, the clerk asked what I needed, gave the standard remarks on Abbie’s cuteness, and then handed me a number and a form to fill out while I waited for another clerk to call my number. This preliminary clerk was very helpful, but she could have been even more helpful by providing childcare while I filled out the form. It was a simple form that asked for my name, address, and other monotony, and would have been easily completed if I didn’t have a 14-month-old with me. Gone are the days when I could set her on the floor and know that her limited mobility would give me time to catch her should she make an attempt to move. Now when I set her down she can run as fast as I can walk. Completing the form was a process of writing an “M,” pulling Abbie back to my side, writing an “a,” removing whatever foreign substance she put in her mouth, writing the down stroke portion of a “t,” pulling her back to my side, crossing the “t,” and so on.
I did manage to complete the form seconds before my number came up. A survey was under the form, but I opted not to fill it out, which was probably just as well for the station since my frustration over herding Abbie likely would have meant low marks for them. When called up, I took a vision test which involved reading tiny blurry numbers, which recreated an environment where tiny blurry numbers jumped in front of my moving vehicle and I needed to read them to tell which ones I should avoid and which ones I should just go ahead and hit. I had to hold Abbie’s hand to prevent her from wandering away while taking the test, which I thought put me at a disadvantage, but later realized that it just added to the realism of the recreation of my driving experience.
I apparently read the numbers correctly enough to identify which ones should be hit, because she approved my renewal and asked for a check. The station provided a rubber stamp with their name on it so I could just stamp their name in the “pay to” box instead of writing it out. This was very helpful in saving me time, but it also gave Abbie one more thing to grab while I wrote the rest of the check. My quick action was the only thing that prevented her from stamping “State of Iowa” all over her clothes.
Finally I moved to the photo station. Driver’s license photos are notoriously bad, but I can assure you they’re much worse when you’re holding a toddler while they try to snap the picture. The photographer said, “Smile if you wish,” as if I could suppress the frustration of Abbie tugging on my hand while I tried to remain relatively still. She took my picture, I got my license, and we left with a mind full of memories that should hold us until her first trip to get my license plates renewed.
* The Driver’s License Station is located next door to my grocery store. Sure, I could visit a less interesting area, but then I’d have to pay higher prices.
** I wouldn’t think someone searching for inner peace would want to risk all serenity by driving, but I guess even monks need to drive to the nearest big box store.
If anyone doubts the diversity of the area, just visit your local Driver’s License Station. Nothing can force the haut-couture crowd to mix with the creatively pierced crowd like a government office everyone is legally required to visit once every five years. It helps that the county’s one station is located in the heart of one of Des Moines’s more … vibrant communities.* I didn’t see any frighteningly unusual people, like a basement dweller making one of his biennial trips into sunlight or a CEO, but I did see a nice cross-section of the area. Standing ahead of me were a sweet looking little old lady who cut in line, a high school girl who was apparently testing for her license, and a Buddhist monk wearing a full orange wrap regalia.**
At the front of the line, the clerk asked what I needed, gave the standard remarks on Abbie’s cuteness, and then handed me a number and a form to fill out while I waited for another clerk to call my number. This preliminary clerk was very helpful, but she could have been even more helpful by providing childcare while I filled out the form. It was a simple form that asked for my name, address, and other monotony, and would have been easily completed if I didn’t have a 14-month-old with me. Gone are the days when I could set her on the floor and know that her limited mobility would give me time to catch her should she make an attempt to move. Now when I set her down she can run as fast as I can walk. Completing the form was a process of writing an “M,” pulling Abbie back to my side, writing an “a,” removing whatever foreign substance she put in her mouth, writing the down stroke portion of a “t,” pulling her back to my side, crossing the “t,” and so on.
I did manage to complete the form seconds before my number came up. A survey was under the form, but I opted not to fill it out, which was probably just as well for the station since my frustration over herding Abbie likely would have meant low marks for them. When called up, I took a vision test which involved reading tiny blurry numbers, which recreated an environment where tiny blurry numbers jumped in front of my moving vehicle and I needed to read them to tell which ones I should avoid and which ones I should just go ahead and hit. I had to hold Abbie’s hand to prevent her from wandering away while taking the test, which I thought put me at a disadvantage, but later realized that it just added to the realism of the recreation of my driving experience.
I apparently read the numbers correctly enough to identify which ones should be hit, because she approved my renewal and asked for a check. The station provided a rubber stamp with their name on it so I could just stamp their name in the “pay to” box instead of writing it out. This was very helpful in saving me time, but it also gave Abbie one more thing to grab while I wrote the rest of the check. My quick action was the only thing that prevented her from stamping “State of Iowa” all over her clothes.
Finally I moved to the photo station. Driver’s license photos are notoriously bad, but I can assure you they’re much worse when you’re holding a toddler while they try to snap the picture. The photographer said, “Smile if you wish,” as if I could suppress the frustration of Abbie tugging on my hand while I tried to remain relatively still. She took my picture, I got my license, and we left with a mind full of memories that should hold us until her first trip to get my license plates renewed.
* The Driver’s License Station is located next door to my grocery store. Sure, I could visit a less interesting area, but then I’d have to pay higher prices.
** I wouldn’t think someone searching for inner peace would want to risk all serenity by driving, but I guess even monks need to drive to the nearest big box store.
posted by Matt at
9:37 PM
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