The invisible child: A cautionary tale
Ricki and Ethan Klos had a lot of criteria for choosing their second child's name. They wanted something unusual but endearing, preferably with the letter X in it, that sounded good with their surname. They were considering some fun names—Django, Dexter, Zeke—but they couldn't decide. Maybe the baby would come out looking like an Atticus or a Jaxon, they thought, but instead he just looked like a newborn, sort of pink and smushy, no flash of lightning there. So the Kloses took their little nipper home to wait until the perfect name came their way.
"The nurses will lead you to believe that you have to name your child in the hospital," says Ricki. "If you know your rights, you know that's not the case." What they didn't know was that they were in for a nightmare of red tape and months of waiting for a birth certificate. In fact, even when their bouncing baby boy was seven months old, they were still waiting. "This is the payback," Ricky sighs. The fact is, the bureaucracy behind birth certificates moves at a banana slug's pace—when things don't go according to plan.
That plan—which most couples happily follow—is to pick a name before the due date. Even those uncertain a week before the delivery can usually make a final decision in the recovery room. Before taking their cherub home, new parents get three forms to fill out: an application for a certified copy of the birth certificate, a verification form to notify health insurance of the birth, and a request for a Social Security card. Since the hospital's computer system is linked to the Social Security Administration, your infant's numbered card generally arrives in the mail before she first starts to coo.
But without a name on the birth certificate, the hospital cannot submit those forms and your child cannot get a Social Security number. Without a Social Security number, your child cannot get a passport or be claimed as an exemption on your income taxes. And health insurance is likely to be a problem, too. It's as if the kid doesn't exist.
Of course, the Klos's baby did exist, and they had the diapers—if not the name—to prove it. But they'd been down this road before: Their first child was born in Texas where they had 10 days to choose a name before facing an official name change with a $181 price tag. They'd barely made it: Their daughter was eight days old before they agreed to call her Sadie Parker Klos. This time they were in California, and every state has its own rules. If the Kloses had settled on a name within five days, they could have returned to the hospital and the paperwork would have still been filed automatically. Alas, it was three weeks of nursing, burping, changing, and agonizing over a name before Ricki and Ethan finally settled on Bixby Eli Klos. And their ordeal was far from over.
With bambino in tow, Ricki trooped down to the Vital Records office to amend Bixby's blank birth certificate, only to learn that they could be waiting up to 10 months for the official papers. "I said, 'How about I drive it the state capitol? Will that make it any faster?' But no, because we waited, that's made all the difference."
First, there was the health insurance debaucle. Newborns are automatically covered under the mother's insurance for 30 days, but the Klos's family pediatrician wouldn't treat Bixby without a birth certificate. Instead, Ricki had to drive 20 minutes out of her way to take him back to the doctor who'd first seen him in the hospital. When she finally had a copy of the birth certificate application, their local physician finally admitted Bixby, but the switcheroo wreaked havoc with their insurance. In the end, all the services were covered retroactively, but only after dozens of aggravating phone calls and collection agency threats.
Then, there was the income tax tribulation. Federal law requires every person mentioned on a tax form to have a Social Security number, so for 2003, the year Bixby was born, the Kloses had to file their return without any reference to their new infant. Later they submitted an amendment in order to receive their tax breaks. Unfortunately, amendments are like red flags for the Internal Revenue Service, and no matter how conservative Ethan swears he is with their taxes, no one wants an audit.
The Klos's advice to other decision-impaired expectant couples? "Just deal with the red tape as it comes," Ricki says. "I think it's ridiculous that he doesn't have a birth certificate, but it doesn't bother me. It was more important to me to give my child the right name—I wasn't going to name him sooner just because of bureaucracy, just like you can't name a child just because your family is tired of waiting either. But," she admits, "I doubt most people have this much trouble."
"The nurses will lead you to believe that you have to name your child in the hospital," says Ricki. "If you know your rights, you know that's not the case." What they didn't know was that they were in for a nightmare of red tape and months of waiting for a birth certificate. In fact, even when their bouncing baby boy was seven months old, they were still waiting. "This is the payback," Ricky sighs. The fact is, the bureaucracy behind birth certificates moves at a banana slug's pace—when things don't go according to plan.
That plan—which most couples happily follow—is to pick a name before the due date. Even those uncertain a week before the delivery can usually make a final decision in the recovery room. Before taking their cherub home, new parents get three forms to fill out: an application for a certified copy of the birth certificate, a verification form to notify health insurance of the birth, and a request for a Social Security card. Since the hospital's computer system is linked to the Social Security Administration, your infant's numbered card generally arrives in the mail before she first starts to coo.
But without a name on the birth certificate, the hospital cannot submit those forms and your child cannot get a Social Security number. Without a Social Security number, your child cannot get a passport or be claimed as an exemption on your income taxes. And health insurance is likely to be a problem, too. It's as if the kid doesn't exist.
Of course, the Klos's baby did exist, and they had the diapers—if not the name—to prove it. But they'd been down this road before: Their first child was born in Texas where they had 10 days to choose a name before facing an official name change with a $181 price tag. They'd barely made it: Their daughter was eight days old before they agreed to call her Sadie Parker Klos. This time they were in California, and every state has its own rules. If the Kloses had settled on a name within five days, they could have returned to the hospital and the paperwork would have still been filed automatically. Alas, it was three weeks of nursing, burping, changing, and agonizing over a name before Ricki and Ethan finally settled on Bixby Eli Klos. And their ordeal was far from over.
With bambino in tow, Ricki trooped down to the Vital Records office to amend Bixby's blank birth certificate, only to learn that they could be waiting up to 10 months for the official papers. "I said, 'How about I drive it the state capitol? Will that make it any faster?' But no, because we waited, that's made all the difference."
First, there was the health insurance debaucle. Newborns are automatically covered under the mother's insurance for 30 days, but the Klos's family pediatrician wouldn't treat Bixby without a birth certificate. Instead, Ricki had to drive 20 minutes out of her way to take him back to the doctor who'd first seen him in the hospital. When she finally had a copy of the birth certificate application, their local physician finally admitted Bixby, but the switcheroo wreaked havoc with their insurance. In the end, all the services were covered retroactively, but only after dozens of aggravating phone calls and collection agency threats.
Then, there was the income tax tribulation. Federal law requires every person mentioned on a tax form to have a Social Security number, so for 2003, the year Bixby was born, the Kloses had to file their return without any reference to their new infant. Later they submitted an amendment in order to receive their tax breaks. Unfortunately, amendments are like red flags for the Internal Revenue Service, and no matter how conservative Ethan swears he is with their taxes, no one wants an audit.
The Klos's advice to other decision-impaired expectant couples? "Just deal with the red tape as it comes," Ricki says. "I think it's ridiculous that he doesn't have a birth certificate, but it doesn't bother me. It was more important to me to give my child the right name—I wasn't going to name him sooner just because of bureaucracy, just like you can't name a child just because your family is tired of waiting either. But," she admits, "I doubt most people have this much trouble."
