Things DO change!

This past weekend we drove to Missouri for our niece's wedding. The wedding was lovely and the bride beautiful.

Because of previous commitments, our son, Levi, 22,was the only one of our children to accompany my husband and I.

As we traveled along interstate 72, the dialogue between the 3 of us was sweet and rich. We discussed diverse topics from the mundane to complex. It was a relaxing and enjoyable ride.

I just laughed out loud, when I reminisced back, to a event that took place 6 years earlier. It involved a "road trip" to the same destination, for a different niece's wedding.

I wrote about it. And following is the adventure.

We had attended a family wedding in another state and were rolling along a remote highway, in our suburban, headed for home. Our 4 sons had finished telling stories about their day and had fallen asleep. My husband and I were seated in the front. The oldest and third child were in the captain chairs while the youngest and second born sat in the back.
I was enjoying the peace in the vehicle when I heard a faint voice say, “Water.” I recognized the voice as that of my 9 year-old youngest son. “We do not have anything to drink, son,” I told him. He said again, only this time more strained and desperate, “Water.” One of his brothers, frustrated for having been woken replied, “We don’t have any!”
With that it was as if Mount St. Helen itself had erupted. My 9 year-old heaved a partially digested wedding banquet all over the back of my oldest son and finished off in my second born’s brand new shoes, which he had slipped off for the ride home.
What happened next would have been a great study for a psychology class. Everyone in the vehicle responded in a way that was very characteristic of their personality. Our neat, tidy first born freaked out because he had vomit up his back. The third son, who hates conflict, was trying to get out of the suburban before it had even stopped. And “Mr. Style” with the brand-new shoes was yelling “My Shoes, My Shoes.” My husband did what many fathers would do. He pulled over while saying, “Why didn't you tell us you were going to be sick?” And I, the overprotective mother, made my way through the suburban yelling, “Everyone quit picking on him, he cannot help it.”
My first thought was how to clean up the mess. We were miles from the nearest exit, so I told my sons to take off their dress shirts. My analytical first born was still figuring out how all of this mess could come from such a little stomach, so I grabbed his shirt, pulled it off of him and smeared vomit up over his head in the process. He was not happy.
A short time later we were back on the road with 3 shirtless boys, 2 speechless parents and a 9 year-old that keep saying, “I will never look at barbecue weenie dogs at a reception the same again.” And neither will you!

So today, I am unwrapping the gift of change. They DO grow up, and it can be SWEET!