Ordinary is Good

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.