This past weekend I renewed my wedding vows in a Passport Office.
It wasn't planned. I didn't wear a white dress. And to confuse matters further, only I participated in renewing our wedding vows; Dan did not.
It was a beautiful and sunny Saturday, the last weekend in May. It was the perfect kind of day to cram full of errands and rush children from store to store. (Where's the sarcasm font when I need it?) We were preparing to go to Niagara Falls and realized a bit too late that the passport office needs a little time to create and distribute passports, even if it is only for crossing the border to see our neighboring Canadians.
We rushed to Costco to get passport photos. Side note: that was the day Eve decided to wear her head in something resembling dread locks; Morgan fashioned five braids in her little sister's hair. Eve was thrilled. No time to change; She can have her Medusa picture retaken when she's ten years old.
We rushed home for a birthday party of a fantastic little boy. We laughed much, enjoyed great conversations and found our shoulders relaxing, easing into lawn chairs while noshing on pizza. Then Dan got that "we have to leave now" look on his face which I'm pretty sure I have never seen on him; I am normally the one gently pushing the backs of little people, telling them to wear clothing and get in the car. He wanted to make sure we got to the Passport Office before it closed; he was determined.
A few words about the Passport Office: It is maintained by the United States government. The walls are white. The seating in the waiting room are thinly padded folding chairs, probably from the 1980s. The room was filled with humankind and one--count them-- one person working there. The individual behind the desk was polite and precise. It became evident to me that this person would be immune to my normal modus operandi in such uptight situations (humor, of course) and that if I wanted to anger the federal government, this might be a great opportunity to do so. But I wanted to see Niagara Falls, alas.
Dan and I are sitting in the waiting room. The only indication that we are in any sort of line was the brown clip board we used to sign in, including our name and the time we arrived. The perimeter of the room is filled with people who look very bored. Even Dan wasn't cracking jokes. Even.
The children are tired and hot. I am as well. Dan has already started the self talk of how stupid he was for not starting this process earlier, how much we would have to pay to expedite them. He asks me what we should do.
I am instantly angry. "Oh, no," I'm thinking, "You're not going to blame me for this mess." I give him my "I don't know" face, eyebrows raised. Inside I'm as hot as a branding iron.
If we want comfort at this point, it is not going to come from the people in the waiting room or the Passport Office staff. One individual in the room offers that he used to work for a travel agency and begins to recite all the hoops we must jump through in order to receive our documents.
Dan and I look at each other.
I want to blame someone and he is sitting next to me.
I want to blame him.
He looks like a very good person to blame.
I want to be mad at him. But I quickly realize two things:
1. I am just as much to blame as he is. Neither of us were watching the calendar days flip as we anticipated going to New York. There are no contracts saying he was in charge of this. We just assumed that it would be easy, like getting a book of stamps. "Oh, we just need the 'local' Canadian passport," I imagined myself saying to the Passport staff, "I'm sure it won't take any time at all."
2. More importantly, I love this man. He has shown me more mercy than the entire United States. Plus, we are married. His mistakes are mine; my mistakes are his. Drawing lines in the sand isn't helpful for marriage.
I remembered our vows.
"Til death do us part."
"For richer or poorer."
"Waiting in lifeless Passport Offices."
And right there, in that moment, I picked up "our mistake" and smiled at him. "Let's take a gamble and not get the expedited service." Shoot, if we're going to go down, let's do it in a blaze of glory. Let's be royally wrong. We might not get to the other side, but at least we will be together.
We sat in the dull waiting room listening to people sighing until we heard, "Dan? Dan Dykstra?"
We crossed the threshold together.
