My
sister and her large family live in southern Indiana, and this year we took the
5 hour drive down to visit. We packed up our two little ones complete with
snacks, blankets, music, and tablet for cartoons, and drove. And drove. And
drove.
This
year the weather was perfect. In years past, we have suffered through blizzards
which turned a five hour drive into a 12 hour drive on snowy, icy roads. But we
had good luck this year. The sun shone, the clouds were fluffy, and the traffic
was thin. Smooth sailing.
Have
you ever taken a long drive with a one year-old and a two-and-a-half year-old?
At best, it can be called interesting. At worst, it can be called things which
I probably shouldn’t repeat.
I
withheld naps from the boys before we left, figuring that they would sleep for
a few hours in the car. In typical sweet little Theo style, he fell asleep
within ten minutes, and in the rear-view mirror I watched him snooze sweetly
for several hours, snuggling his sheep pillow to his cheek.
On
the other hand was Remi, who, in typical high-wired Remi style, did not sleep a
wink. In my rearview mirror, I looked back at him, and saw his enormous brown
eyes, wide awake, staring back at me. The entire way there. Oh wait, that’s
right – he fell asleep when we got off of the highway, about 10 minutes from
our destination.
About
four hours into our trip, we stopped at McDonald’s for dinner. My husband got
the joyful job of feeding the boys while I kept driving. Remi proceeded to
throw every single French fry on the floor, screeching at new and
never-before-heard decibel levels. Little Theo played in his ketchup. Remi
dumped his bottle upside down and let it leak all over the car. Little Theo
whined for his special blanket and proceeded to wipe his ketchup-covered hands
all over it.
My
husband sat sideways in his seat, strangled by his seatbelt, reaching awkwardly
backwards and trying to keep the boys happy with cheeseburgers and fries. Remi
began a game of
throw-my-pacifier-on-the-floor-and-scream-until-daddy-picks-it-up. The car
began to smell like a strange mixture of cold French fries, ketchup, soggy
diapers, coffee, and little boys.
I
could feel my husband’s blood pressure rising. Know what I mean? He yelled “You better get us all out of this car soon!”
Just
in this moment, a song caught my ear, playing in the background, underneath the
shrieks of my children and pounding blood pressure of my husband. It was a
silly song. It was a special song. It was a song that I loved back when we were
first dating. It was the kind of song I listened to and thought about him, but
would be so embarrassed to admit it
to him.
It
was the kind of song that made me romanticize the future. It was the kind of
song that made me think of what our wedding day would be like. (It was
beautiful). It was the kind of song that made me think about what our babies
would look like, how sweet and beautiful they would be. (And they are). It was
the kind of song which made me think about a romantic, picture-perfect future,
the white-picket-fence kind of deal. It was the kind of song that made me think
about these days right here.
In
this moment, my girlish fantasies of the future crashed head-on with the
current reality of that future now lived, and I just had to laugh out loud.
Where do our heads get filled with these expectations that our marriage and
kids are going to be perfectly serene, lovely, and free of conflict or blemish?
Was it the Disney movies or the Backstreet Boys who filled my head with this
stuff? I’m not sure, but in any case, it made me laugh.
There
is nothing like a five-hour road trip in close quarters as a family to fill up
pages and pages of not-so-white-picket-fence moments. We argue about the radio
station. The kids smell ripe. My husband chronically corrects my driving. I
tell him I wish I was as perfect as him. Hot coffee splashes onto my hands
while I’m driving. I yell, and my son repeats my yelling. People drive slow in
the left lane and I have to pass them on the right.
My
husband wipes boogers off the boys’ noses with the McDonald’s napkins and
leaves them sitting on the dashboard. It drives me crazy but I give him a break
and don’t say anything. The floor is covered in crumbs. The kids continue to
shriek. And did I mention the weird smell yet?
I
leaned in to turn up my silly song, and sang along to the lyrics. My husband
expressed his dislike. I laughed out loud again.
Here’s
the truth: reality is much better than the romantic expectations. Reality is
sweeter. Reality is hilarious and beautiful and I wouldn’t trade it for
anything in the world.
We
have been married for three years. Three years and two kiddos and a whole world
of change since my silly little song which I listened to in the quiet of my own
imagination. Now I am wise enough to know that perhaps I am not as wise as Pastor
Dan and Janie who have 20 years of marriage, or my parents who have 37 years,
or my aunt and uncle who have 50 years.
But
three years and two kiddos has given me enough experience to proclaim with
confidence that the smell of McDonald’s combined with ketchup blankets and a
husband who hates my sappy songs is far better than any story I could have
written for myself. Ultimately, Disney’s got nothing on us. Ultimately,
ordinary is awesome.
We
have been home for a few days now, and tonight we went out to dinner to celebrate
some good news. Remi again covered the floor in French fries. But somewhere in
the ranch-smeared smile from little Theo, I found again, the truth that I
wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.
Dear God, thank you for all the
messiness of this life, thank you for all the quirks of reality, thank you for
kids who don’t sleep, a husband who doesn’t like sappy songs, and French fries
all over the floor. It is a good life and I thank you for it. 
