(NOTE: This post is the first in a series of posts regarding our upcoming vision trip to Europe, ahead of our planned move there within the next year.)
Recently, our family took a giant step toward being ready to move overseas—we got passports for everyone! We printed and filled out what seemed to be a ridiculous amount of application paperwork (complete with five notarized affidavits stating that I was aware that Miranda was getting passports for our children). Miranda loaded everyone up for a two-stage field trip: first to CVS for five sets of passport photos, and next to our friendly local US Post Office to drop off the application in person.
I have since discovered that it’s quite bizarre to look down at an official US federal government identification document and to see the face of your three-year-old son impishly smiling back at you. It feels unnatural, irregular, at first, for my children to have their own passports. When I was the age Phoenix is now, I didn’t even know that passports existed. The first time I really understood about what it meant to have a passport was when my own father was required to get one for a nine-month work project in India in the mid-90s.