I am in the process of getting my son’s British birth certificate after being born abroad. In the process, they use the name in your passport on the certificate. As I got married recently, I hadn’t thought to update my passport, so I went through the process of doing so. It is during that time that they inform me they cannot issue the passport, as my Brazilian one was also not updated and contains my old name; therefore, I have to update my Brazilian one. This is important as it means certain documents are now present in the UK with the Passport Office.

When I go to update my Brazilian passport, I am informed that my marriage certificate with my new name is not sufficient, as I have two changes: my mother’s maiden name, along with my husband’s surname, have been added. I could have used an updated birth certificate to prove I added my mother’s maiden name, but this is currently in the UK, being used as evidence for the updated name there. The office informs me which document I have to get, and I order the document at the notary’s office at the end of September. Due to the particular way things are done, this document has to be sent from Brasília and arrive in São Paulo state.

I am informed the document will arrive one week later, no problem.

On the said day, I leave my two-month-old with his aunt and go to the notary’s office… Only to be told it hasn’t arrived. When asking if they have any estimation of when it will arrive, they tell me they don’t. So far, so normal. I ask if they could inform me when it arrives, as I have a young baby who I don’t want to take there due to his age. They tell me no, but they do give me a phone number to call, which my phone has a hissy fit with and refuses to connect to.

I ask my husband to call for me a week later; the notary’s office informs him it hasn’t arrived and to call the office in Brasília. He is assured that the document was prepared on that day (now ten days after when I was told the document would arrive in my city), and he would do his best to get it into the post that day to arrive on Monday. Happy with that, I resolve to visit the notary’s office then.

However, due to life with a three-month-old (yes, he gained a month while waiting), I don’t get there until Friday, where I am told it is still not there, now twenty-five days after the original request. I ask my husband to call the Brasília office again.

He gets through, and the first woman informs him that yes, the document has been ready for a week, but not posted. She then transfers him to the department dealing with said document. Upon hearing the request, the second lady thinks she has put him on hold, but in NAR tradition, he isn’t. Her translated response, my husband heard was:

“Oh my God, what do I tell this guy? The previous one didn’t even look into [posting] it; it’s been sitting here all week. Should I just tell him it will arrive on Monday?”

She does indeed tell him it will be there on Monday and hangs up. My response: Do we believe them this time?

I’m in the hospital, as my unborn baby is head up and we are trying to turn him head down. The doc tries a couple of times, but I am in too much pain for it to be done without anaesthesia. Therefore, I ended up with an epidural.

However, I start feeling really unwell, and I mention this to my husband, who is sitting by my head. As I start feeling better, my husband blurts out of the blue:

Husband: “Tell me a terrible joke.” 

I tell him one, but I am still groggy and slightly out of it.

It’s probably about thirty minutes to an hour later that I feel back to normal, and I ask him:

Me: “Why did you want me to tell you a bad joke? You hate my jokes!”

Husband: “Your blood pressure dropped quite badly, and you went really white. I wanted to make sure you were coming back; I was really worried about you.”

Nice to know my bad puns are a way for my husband to keep track of my health. I got back home no worse for wear and with a now upside-down baby! Fingers crossed for the birth.

This is a story passed down through the family.

My grandfather had some odd friends. One day, they invited him to go mushroom hunting with them around the local area. (He lived on a farm.) Obviously, the friends gave him some important tips to make sure they got the correct things before leaving my grandfather to hunt for his own mushrooms. They both got a reasonable amount and headed home.

Of course, once my grandmother saw the pile of mushrooms, she decided to cook them for breakfast. However, being naturally slightly dubious about these mushrooms, she gave none to the kids, a little to my granddad, and she had the rest.

My granddad headed out to work away from the farm. My mum, eleven years old at the time, then started to notice that her mum was slightly off; she seemed to have a dreamy expression. Then, she started talking about the wonderful music, freaking out my mum. Once Grandmother started talking about going ice skating in a Brazilian summer, my mum decided she needed help.

She loaded her mother and her younger brother into the car and set off toward the neighbours’ house twenty minutes away.

My grandmother ended up on a blissful two-day trip.

To this day, it is debated about the friends:

1. Were they secret mushroom gatherers and didn’t mention this to my grandfather?
2. Did they tell my grandfather, but he either forgot or misunderstood? (Portuguese was not his first language.)
3. Did neither of them know what on Earth they were doing and nearly poisoned the family?

We think all are equally likely, knowing my oblivious grandfather and his odd mates.

In Brazil, by law, there is a priority line for many services, e.g., supermarket checkouts, banks, and many ticket-selling stations. To be in the priority line, you must be above a certain age, have a physical or neurological disorder, be injured, have small children, or be pregnant. There is no limit to how early on in your pregnancy you must be, so technically, you could have just conceived and be able to use the line.

My husband and I are visiting São Paulo, and a friend has joined us. As it’s late January, it is raining, a lot, so we decide to go to one of the museums around the city. When we arrive, it appears the world and his wife has had the same idea, and it is packed.

There is no message saying the priority line cannot be used to get tickets for other people who can’t use it. Therefore, I volunteer to get the tickets so I can get moving quicker as I am sixteen weeks pregnant. (While not obviously pregnant, I am also no longer flat as a pancake.) This makes sense to the others; if the priority person can only get tickets for themselves, they still end up waiting which defeats the purpose of having a priority line. I get dull pain under my growing bump if I stand still too long, so it’s a good option for me.

It quickly becomes clear that the museum’s way to control the crowds is to sell the tickets in batches, which means that even my line doesn’t move for about twenty minutes, in a hot and crowded room. My husband and friend offer to get some water for me as they notice I’m a little off, and they head off to the cafe area (as they also want coffee) while I continue to wait with a growing pain around my hip.

As I wait, both lines get longer.

After about twenty minutes, the attendants start calling people forward. It turns out that the museum is open for free today, so they are going through people quickly. I am called forward soon after.

Attendant: “Here is your ticket.”

Me: “Oh, I need three, please.”

Attendant: “Um, hang on.”

The attendant calls for a supervisor, who comes over and looks me up and down.

Supervisor: “You need to join the back of the line.”

Me: “Um, I’m pregnant. I’m allowed in the priority line.”

Supervisor: “Can you prove it? Do you have a positive test result or record book from your doctor?”

That’s right: this random woman wants to see my private medical records before giving me museum tickets. This is in no way allowed; while they can disapprove, the priority line is self-regulated. If you say you can use it, you can. It mostly works, as surprising as that is. As I am pregnant, I am allowed to use it, end of.

I must admit, the pain from standing still but mostly thirst and heat get to me. I pull up my loose T-shirt and tug my shorts down slightly — not exposing myself, I hasten to add — showing my rounded belly, which is a bit hidden by my preferred clothes when not breathing in.

Me: “I have this. I don’t carry around my medical documents on holiday.”

Supervisor: “Well, where is your ‘group’?”

Me: “Getting me water after I started to feel a bit unwell in the line.”

I indicated the bar they had where they sold water.

The supervisor gave me a long look. The attendant did have the three tickets in her hand, and while I could have grabbed them, I wanted to wait for her to give them to me. She was clearly torn between wanting to give them to me and not wanting to upset her supervisor. Eventually, she passed them to me, and I thanked her over and over before walking away to grab the water from my husband.

I don’t know why it became a problem only after I mentioned that I was also getting tickets for other people, but no one said anything before that, and there were no signs saying the people in the priority line couldn’t get tickets for multiple people. (There were just signs that said groups of ten or more needed to alert staff to their presence; I did read the signs around and the display on the TV as I was bored.)

When we got in, my husband joked that I should have peed on a stick there and then, and when we saw some other pregnant women, we were sorely tempted to ask if they had needed to prove their pregnancy, too. (But we didn’t; unlike the supervisor, we know when not to ask questions.)

I’m about nine weeks pregnant. My husband and I are doing some last-minute shopping just before Christmas. As the shop is packed, my husband decides to go through the preferential line for older people, pregnant women, and those with disabilities. To be fair, I have had horrendous morning sickness.

Just before we get in line, we realise we have forgotten something, and I go to find it. It’s normally in the baked goods section, but when I get there, they only have ones with cream cheese (which I can’t eat due to lactose intolerance). The lady at the counter tells me there are some at the bakery, so I get into line there. Which doesn’t move. After about five minutes I go to find my husband.

He has already gone through the line, and he gives me a funny look. Apparently, everyone in the line gave him the side-eye as he was clearly not supposed to be there. I tell him that next time, I’ll wait in line and he can get the missing items, or he can just say to the nosy people that his pregnant wife is being sick in the car.