Revenge of the Pack Rats

Following in my mother's footsteps, I am a fiend for collecting, keeping, and hoarding stuff. Pretty and sturdy boxes, old letters and postcards, bits of twine. Organized on good days, FEMA-labeled disaster area on bad days, I am loath to throw stuff away and so my stuff gathers and multiplies and takes over. On the few occasions I have culled through my stuff and thrown stuff out (when I got married and moved out of the apartment; when we moved into this house before ZP was born; when TP held me at gunpoint to clean up), it has been with a heavy heart and careful deliberation akin to a judge deciding the fate of a death row inmate. This weekend, however, my accumlator tendencies saved the day.

We were heading home for my cousin's wedding (see below) and I had everything and everyone packed, fed, and ready to go. We arrived at the airport, were directed to a "special" (read "snail's pace slow") lane, and approached the check-in desk.

Clerk: "How many passengers?"
Me: "Four but one is a lap child."
Clerk: "Do you have proof of age?"
Me: ---------
Clerk: "Do you have a copy of her birth certificate?"
Me: "No."
Clerk: "Do you have a copy of her immunization shots that would show her age?"
Me: "No."
Clerk: "Do you have anything at all that shows she is under two years old?"
Me: [rummaging through the diaper bag in hopes of finding some evidence, some shred of proof, some saving grace that would allow us to board without having to resort to TP's clever but complicated plan of purchasing an extra ticket and then getting reimbursed upon sending proof of age later] "AHA!" [pulling out a strip of plastic that was hidden in a side zippered pocket that had not been opened for over a year] "THIS is the medical bracelet I wore at the hospital when AP was born! See! It has her date of birth on it!"
Clerk: "Works for me."
Me: "SUCCESS! Pack rats of the world UNITE!"