Realizing you are a nobody at my venerable age is quite a shock.
As we are in Canada thanks to the Man’s job, there are many administrative things I am not allowed to do without him.
Can I sign the Dwarves and myself up to the healthcare program without the Man testifying we are his real family, and not some random tourists who just got lost and ended up queuing at Service Ontario? No.
Can I open a bank account? No.
Can I have my own credit card? Yes, but only if it’s linked to HIS account (which is OK as I have verified and the credit card works perfectly to pay for spa treatments).
Entering the country alone with the Dwarves in August, I also got questions from the customs officer, who wittily pointed out I live in Canada “with somebody who is not traveling with you today”. At this point I restrained myself from saying something constructive like “Of course he is here, he always travels in my purse” or “OMG, kids, we forgot daddy in the airplane restroom AGAIN” (warning: an 8-hour flight alone with the Dwarves might occasionally prevent my brains from functioning normally).
Instead I politely answered all the questions he asked. After a few minutes, he abruptly stopped and wished us a good day.
I suspect Dwarf 2 climbing on the counter and trying to grab his pen had something to do with it.