At 9:39 on Sunday night, the only sound in this minivan comes from the wheels on the road below us. The only lights, besides the ones shining in through our windows, are either from our little glowing information machines ( My mom's Kindle, the GPS, my iPhone) or the reds greens and blues of the car dash.
Both my girls are silent and resting letting the light from the billboards and the intermittent street lights wash over them while they sleep.
My husband is driving. My father is in the passenger seat.The man who raised me next to the man with whom I'm raising children. Unsurprisingly, they have a lot in common.
My mother sits in front of me. She taught me -- is still teaching me-- how to be a mother. Unsurprisingly, we have a lot in common.
We're all here, together, tired and headed home. And I wish I could take a picture to remind myself during those times when I feel stretched and stressed and sorry for myself that I am, above all else, lucky beyond belief.
I was wrong about tonight's trip. I thought it would be tear-filled debacle, driving home from Galveston at night with a two year old and a baby. "A bad idea" I called it.
And instead, here I am, peaceful and grateful.
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