We ordered a pizza and ate it on the bed while Harry slept in his infant car seat.
In my memory, it feels like we spent days and days in hotels, but it was really only four nights. Two in Salt Lake City, a night somewhere in Nebraska, and that last night in Iowa. We were back home less than a week after he was born. But those days on the road with our newborn son loom large and mythical in our minds.
On Thanksgiving morning, we awoke and ate the free breakfast in the lobby, sitting among a large family who was obviously having some sort of holiday family reunion. I wore Harry in the Sleepy Wrap and Aaron made waffles and we practiced being a family.
As we drove north toward Minnesota we saw cars in ditches and road signs coated in thick layers of ice, remnants of the storm that had blown through the days before.
We stopped for lunch at a Perkins in Owatonna, where I ordered a turkey dinner and Harry slept the entire meal in his bucket seat.
We arrived home that afternoon, a family of three.
This sign greeted us as we pulled into the driveway:
A year later, on this Thanksgiving Eve, I danced around the kitchen with my almost-toddler son to the Beatles and worked on our holiday card featuring his toothy grin.
I’ve never been more thankful in all my life.