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8:01am: It has been 8 weeks and 1 day since we applied for Joe’s social security card. 8 weeks and not a peep from the SSA. They did give us this nifty letter when we applied, complete with a SSA local office stamp and someone’s initials (that are completely illegible). It included a couple of phone numbers we could call and a nice long reference number. I was specifically told by the Doogie Howser kid who took our application that the process could take up to 6 weeks, but that we could call for a status update before that. He said they wouldn’t give me the social security number over the phone, but they should tell me if it had been issued and then I might be able to schlep into the office and find out what it is.
So, this morning, I called. After nearly throwing the phone through the window because of the most idiotic voice-prompting system I’ve ever experienced (they didn’t want to put me through to an agent without entering Joe’s social security number - ugh!), I finally got through to a recording that promised to take my number and call me back. About fifteen minutes later, the less-than-helfpul agent on the other end of the line informed me that, no, the reference number was no help; it was only good at the local office. (Huh? That’s stupid.) She put me on hold when she realized that Joe was an adoptee and when she came back on, I explained that this was still his first social security application. I spelled his name, again. She paused and seemed to be looking up his information on her computer. Her response: there was no record for Joe. No record? No FREAKIN’ record!!?? You’ve got to be kidding me?!? I was told that I needed to go to my “local” office and straighten things out. Oh joy. Guess what we’re doing today after Joe’s nap (and once I cool down a bit)?
9:12am: So, I calmed down and decided to give the local office a try on the phone before I dragged Joe and I down there. I was on hold for about 15 minutes (they didn’t have a nifty call-back feature). Someone finally picked up, baffled, because she didn’t do social security numbers. She worked “in the back” and wanted to know if someone transferred me by mistake. It turns out that the downtown office just moved (thank goodness I called; I would have been so pissed if I had taken Joe down there by bus only to find a “We’ve Moved” sign on the door). Anyhow, because of the move, their phone system is acting up. Sounds like they’re just really discombobulated from the move. That I understand.
Anyhow, after insisting that she was the wrong person to talk to and telling me that it was impossible to transfer me and, that, even if she could, no one would give me any information about Joe. No status, nothing, nada. Security, privacy, protection, you know? Nope, I’d just have to come in. Well, that wasn’t gonna cut it with me. No sirree. I kept asking over and over for help. I cajoled, I complained, I pouted that it had already taken too long, I begged (hey, for Joe, I’d do anything), I whined about their no-food/no-drink policy and the difficulty that presents with a baby when there’s a long wait, I explained that I needed to know what to bring and asked if there was someone, anyone, who might be able to hint at what the problem was. I wasn’t going to let her hang up. That was clear. You can’t really blame me. I wasn’t about to schlep Joe downtown for no good reason without exhausting every other option first.
Finally, my persistent squeeky-wheelness paid off. She looked up Joe’s application. It turns out that we’re waiting on Joe’s state of birth again, this time to verify the birth certificate. She also told me that ol’ Doogie was a summer intern (ah ha! So I was probably right to worry that he screwed up). She even offered to print out Joe’s file and give it to one Mrs. Chavez, who was out of the office today, but would call me when she returned. She even gave me an extension. Now we’re getting somewhere. Except that this is a federal office, so I’m not holding my breath.
OK, Mrs. Chavez, now it’s up to you. I need your help. Please, oh please, get on the horn with the necessary people and get that birth certificate verified. I’ve got taxes to pay (or, maybe, get back and we could SO use those right about now). And savings accounts to set up. And a passport application to submit (you never know)… And remember, I have your number and I’m not afraid to use it.
Hey, you don’t have to be a Republican to be an lipstick-wearing agro “hockey” mom. And this is one snarling bulldog you don’t want to mess with. He he he.
So what was it, a week and a half ago, that we were 100% certain that our Ethiopian adoption was what we are “meant” to do? The decision to go international, rather than to adopt domestically, was a well-researched and thoroughly discussed option. We have struggled with the bevy of criticisms related to international adoption (thanks Madonna!), read many an adoptee perspective, considered the stats and research, absorbed books and blogs (and bears, oh my!), and still KNEW that Ethiopia was right for us.
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