Yesterday morning we woke up in Nevada City, hearts and bellies full from a resurrection weekend with family.
We’d spent the weekend in perpetual hug-mode, embracing, again and again and again, telling hush-hush stories of youth and asking each other questions, because even if we’ve known our cousins since birth, there’s always something new to learn, to share.
We visited Grandpa – dear, sweet Grandpa – whose mind is almost gone with the effects of Dementia now. We sang hymn after hymn after hymn, and watched with wonder as he sang gloriously along, not knowing his kin in that moment, per say, but knowing his Jesus.
We played with the star of the show, our little Cancan, spoiling him rotten in the best way possible, with more hugs and more kisses, finding delight in the way he now mimics our waving hands and pounding fists. We called him the most brilliant eight month old we’d ever seen, and begged him to slay the masses and pout his lips together just once more. We cheered him on as he pulled himself up for the first time, standing and leaning against the docile and gentle Buddy-dog, pulling out scraps of fur in the process.
We refilled glasses of Cabernet and of Chardonnay, and closed our eyes at the perfection of Easter Dinner: salmon baked with creme fraiche and parmesan, a peppery grilled tri-tip, roasted veggies in balsamic vinegar and olive oil, and creamy, butter-topped mashed potatoes. We sang Happy Birthday to the best man I know, and ate New York style cheesecake from The Flour Garden in his honor.
So on Sunday morning, at 8:24 am, after a couple of baby wake-ups in the middle of the night, maybe because Hope had risen indeed, I too was filled with eager anticipation that we’d be able to make it back to San Francisco for an 11 am church service. Totally doable.
Never mind that the HBH hadn’t packed yet.
Or that the kid wasn’t up either – I mean, I could pump and feed him on the road!
Forget about the fact that we’d be needing a little caffeine injection to make the 2 hour and 20 minute drive doable.
And let’s not even insert the fact that my cloudy mind hadn’t thought through a potentially screaming, pooping, car-hating Little Man.
[It all goes back to the idea that I somehow seem to think that I’m above my child’s bowel movements – and because the good God knows I sometimes need a swift kick in the proverbial pants, one doozy of a blow-out happens somewhere between downtown Sac and the Williams exit. So car filled to the brim from the road trip, rain pouring down outside, we render mercy to the decrepit Jack in the Box bathroom that boasts no changing table, but plenty of pee-filled puddles on the concrete floor. Crouching on the floor in Easter attire and too-high wedges, I unravel the toilet paper, covering every inch of ground around me, but like the Princess and the Pea, liquid seeps through to my bare knees, while Baby pulls out every trick of the trade, rolling and flipping and gyrating past the changing mat’s 10-inch radius. Let’s just say the HBH stills owes me for this taking-of-the-team.]
Needless to say, we rolled into our bright city at 11:48 on the dot, missing the perceived mark altogether – but giddily in a fit of laughter by that point. Adventure confirmed, through the miracle commonly known as the iphone, we found another church community for the morning that just so happened to decide that an 11:45 am start was perfect for Easter morning. We ate free bagels and chugged down our much-needed coffee with cream and a little bit of sugar, and smuggled strawberries inside the sanctuary for Cancan to munch on.
A boyfriend of mine used to tell me in all his sage 22-year-old wisdom that it’s the journey, not the destination that counts. I’d then claim the opposite position, really just wanting to win the argument: no, it’s the destination, it’s the end, that’s what matters!
But in the midst of the everyday, in a weekend and a drive like this weekend held, I realize that the journey does matter. It is what counts.
Cheers to the journey.0