The RMV, Two Kids and Me

I was traveling back from Chicago in early February when I met a very kind, albeit very serious, middle-aged woman at O'Hare--we'll call her Security Checkpoint Lady--who informed me with the double-tap of her red fingernail on my Massachusetts ID, that my license was going to expire. In April to be exact. Pretty soon to be more exact. But not soon enough to concern me. I smiled and thanked her by filling the space between us with useless words of gratitude, and then I tucked the license back in my wallet and made my way through security ... the news of the impending, ominous expiration forgotten by the time I'd reached the Starbucks across from my gate.

That brief encounter brings me to last week: Two weeks before the actual expiration of my license, when I was again reminded, this time by the clerk at the wine store (yes, I still get carded - at my neighborhood wine store), that my license was about to expire. I sighed. I knew a trip to the dark and dank basement of the Haverhill RMV was in my future. Not only that, but I knew I'd have to bring the kids with me because I had waited too long to secure childcare. Thankfully, via a FB post, a friend informed me that a new RMV had opened at a local mall. This lightened me a little about the situation that lay ahead, and I planned a trip to the shiny new RMV at Liberty Tree Mall in Danvahs (Danvers) for Friday afternoon.

It was pouring rain by the time I got us all packed and out the door. The effort I'd put in to "fixing" my hair for the photo had become just another exercise in futility. I entered the address into the GPS and we were off on our adventure. Even though I had been pleased to see online that this RMV was open and well lit and had large flat screen TVs to keep everyone in the queue distracted from the long wait and the upside down smiles of the clerks, I fully anticipated one or more of the following: crying, prohibited button-pushing, tantrum, begging, whining, reprimands and mean glances by aforementioned disgruntled clerks, and wishing I had never claimed to be against toddler leashes. For those of you who don't know Henry, let me put it this way ... the last time we were shopping at Ann Taylor Loft, I said his name so much throughout the store, that when we got up to the checkout, they addressed him directly. I asked (read: pleaded with) Henry to behave and promised him that if he acted on his best behavior we would go to the "Mall Tots" zone to play afterward. Another exercise in futility, I imagined.

My nerves were tight as Henry, Sadie and I strolled into the RMV at 2:30 p.m. There was a six-person line just to get to the front desk. I saw the numbers 4:16 flashing at the center of the clock and feared it indicated the time we were expected to be served. Thankfully, common sense stepped in and reminded me 4:16 was the date. I told myself to get it together. Henry stood pressing his open mouth against the glass wall and filling his cheeks with air in between reminding me of how good he was being. "Yes," I said, knowing that on the Henry behavior scale, indeed he was being good. Finally, we got the paperwork for the renewal (not before Henry tossed my license over the desk and into a big box of license plates, from which I had to fish it out).

But just then, something magical happened. The clerk laughed and played a game of "where do you see the license" with him. She wasn't mad. We were all smiling. We stepped out of our usual reality and into what I can only describe as an alternative universe. And it didn't stop there.

A man got up out of his seat to let Henry sit while I stood filling out the form. And sit he did. Legs crossed, hands in lap, periodically reminding me of how good he was being. A nearby grandmotherly woman chatted up Sadie and kept her smiling. A few minutes later, we received our number, B289, and found a space on a bench as far away from other people as possible. Henry, though, was feeling social. He sidled up next to a lone woman in a green scarf at the far end of the bench and opened with, "What's your number?" Her wait number, that is. She was B177. Knowing the woman's fate--that once you answer one “Henry” question, you had better be prepared for the 99 that will follow--I moved with Sadie closer to the two. Together, the lady and I answered all of Henry's questions about wait numbers: the big digital sign that flashed the numbers as help became available, the difference between an A number and a B number, how the 170s came before the 180s, etc.

Sadie laughed and cooed as we talked. Entertainment news and trivia flashed on the flat screen in between advertisements. Henry asked me to read him the Star Trek trivia. Then, his eyes lit up at one of the ads and he asked our new friend, "Uh, what does that say?"

"Oh," she said, "That is an advertisement about people who want to help kids."

"No," Henry said. "That's 1-877-Cars for Kids."

B177 was called and we said our goodbyes to Green Scarf Lady. Soon enough, after another ten minutes of answering RMV-related inquiries, it was our turn. I took the eye test and stood against the white board to get my photo, Henry stood next to me (thinking he, too, was in the picture). "Cheese!"

We were done!

As we strolled back through the rows and rows of benches and faces, Henry waved a big wide politician's wave and shouted, "Bye, bye! Bye, bye, everyone!"

About fifteen people gave big waves right back and wished him goodbye, followed by a round of chuckles and smiles. In that little moment, I sure was glad I brought my little troublemaker to the RMV. He's a handful, but he brings a lot of joy to me, and I love being reminded of how much joy he can bring to others, even strangers.

"I was good, mama," he said. "You were. You really were." He really was.