5 days. 2000 miles. 3 children. And David and I only wanted to kill each other one time.
I thought we'd have at least one argument under our belts before we hit Nebraska, but we made it to Wyoming. With a track record like that we're thinking of signing up for the Amazing Race.
Our trip started out well in spite of the fact that we followed a car to Wegmans that was graced by the license plate "PMS 24-7." (Does that say "Marry me" or what?) We thought it best to keep to a safe following distance in case of hormonally induced road rage.
Except for a little paranoid checking for bedbugs in each of our hotel rooms, our travels remained mercifully uneventful until an overzealous automatic flush toilet in Champaign, Illinois scared Michael into a near-terminal case of constipation. For the most part he behaved admirably, limiting his whining to "Is this Nutah yet?" and "I want more chips!" though he did store up enough wiggles and restless energy to power a small country; energy which exploded in willful disobedience during lunches and we-can't-take-anymore-crying breaks.
The thing about driving from east to west is that there is nothing to look forward to. You pass the interesting parts early on, and then it is just boring. I think we were about three hours and 800 desolate-looking farms into Iowa when David dryly commented, "You know, politicians spend a lot of time and money courting this state."
After a few days of nothing to look at but windswept prairie, we started getting a little stir-crazy. This came to a head just over the Wyoming border, when, in a state of tired giddiness, we had a sudden urge to download the Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass version of "My Favorite Things." James Bond meets Oscar Hammerstein, it's strange and satisfying and addicting all at once. We bounced around like maniacs in the front seats until even Michael couldn't resist and joined us in our dorkiness.
It was about this time that David said, "Go google maps to find a mall we could stop at for a lunch break."
I dutifully pecked "maps" into the google search bar of my iphone. "Now what?" I asked.
He glanced at my phone. "I meant 'google' as a noun, not a verb," he said, rolling his eyes. As if my sentence deciphering abilities need hearing aids. I know what he said and there was no this-is-a-noun nuance present.
By the time we arrived at our new home I was nervous, carsick, and tired of correcting Michael every time he said, "Nutah." But I started to have hope that I could actually survive living here when I walked in the kitchen of our house and saw, painted on the wall, a quote by Julia Child:
"If you're afraid of butter, use cream."
Ah, home sweet home.