I am with my wife, and the middle one, and the youngest one, waiting in the security queue outside the United States Embassy. The wrong queue, as it happens.
“You want citizen services,” says the woman running the queue. “Other side.”
“Told you,” says my wife, crossly.
When I got the oldest one his US passport three years ago, just months before his 18th birthday, I swore I would not leave it so late for the other two. In the end, I left it even later. If I do not succeed at this attempt, it’s unlikely I will secure another appointment before the middle one turns 18. That’s why my paperwork file is so fat and why my heart is pounding — and why my wife is cross.
The scene in the waiting room makes it clear how late I’ve left it: One corner of the room contains a soft play area, where my sons’ fellow applicants are crawling. The large-screen TV is showing a rerun of the Tweenies.
“You loved the Tweenies,” I say to the middle one. “Until you saw them live.” Back then he had a morbid fear of people dressed in large-headed character costumes. He once had a panic attack while meeting Bob the Builder.
“Eh,” he says. We approach Window 1 of 12.
“I’m here to report their births,” I say, indicating my sons with a thumb over each shoulder. The woman behind the glass does not raise an eyebrow at my having left it so late or frown while I fumble through my file. Instead, she smiles, hands back my forms and sends me to Window 2.
“This isn’t like last time at all,” I say. “They were all disapproving last time.” At Window 2, they collect my forms. Then we sit and wait for our number to be called.
“Much quicker than last time,” I say.
“Hmm,” my wife says.
“Look,” I say, pointing out a baby. “He looks just like ...”
“I’m playing Candy Crush,” she says. Last time they didn’t let you bring phones in, I think.
“This is boring,” says the youngest one.
“Do some soft play,” I say. He snatches my file and starts leafing through it. I watch the Tweenies for a while, wondering where the time went.
“Are these your actual grades?” says the youngest. He’s holding a copy of my college transcript. I can’t remember the last time I looked at it, because I have never looked at it.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s evidence of my past physical presence in the United States.”
“D in Philosophy?” he says.
“That rings a bell,” I say.
“Show me,” says my wife, leaning in.
“C-minus in International Politics,” says the youngest.
“Oh dear,” says my wife.
“Can you not mix up the paperwork?” I say. “Everything was in a particular order.”
“Do you, like, remember all these people?” says the middle one, fanning open a copy of the programme from my high school graduation.
“Mostly,” I say, pointing to a name halfway down a column. “He, for example, tried to strangle me in a back stairwell.” The middle one Googles the name on his phone and is directed to a recent newspaper article about a local man and an ex-cop getting into a knife fight in a bank parking lot.
“He became a cop?” he says.
“He won’t be the cop,” I say. “But it’s good to see he’s keeping his hand in.”
“What else is in here?” he says, dipping into the file.
“D in Art,” says the youngest. “D in Chaucer.”
“Do you actually have a degree?” says my wife.
“Yes,” I say, looking down at my ticket and willing my number to be called.
— Guardian News & Media Ltd