Rebecca

Levi and I went on a cruise six weeks ago. We hadn’t planned on it, but somehow, we got to Florida to visit family and suddenly realized we had babysitting right there, the port was only an hour away, tickets were cheap, and we hadn’t, since having a child, spent the night away from her.

We booked our tickets while Levi’s mother cheered us on. We called a friend and had her prescribe motion sickness patches. We kissed Adelaide on the forehead and laughed all the way to the car.

The whole time we talked to each other about how lovely it all was. The Carribean in January. All you can eat all the time. Sleeping in. No schedules or obligations or to-dos. “Why is our life so good?” we kept saying to each other.

We got home and continued to reminisce about how wonderful the cruise had been. The water was so blue!

I think it was a full four days later when Levi and I were sitting on the couch at home, talking in the dark, when he blurted out, “I’m just going to say it. I hated the cruise.”

I gasped. I was shocked and so, so happy to hear him say it. “I hated it too!”

“The food was terrible.”

“Right? It tasted like Hometown Buffet.”

“Worse. Like Golden Corral after the Sunday rush.”

“I didn’t even want to go in the first place.”

I didn’t want to go in the first place.”

“I only wanted to go because I thought you were excited about it.”

“No way, I thought you were exciting about making me happy, so I went along with it.”

On and on we went, complaining about the age of our ship, the funky smell on the fourth floor, the way the pizza at the all-night pizza bar tasted like the pizza they used to serve on Tuesdays at Grant Elementary. “How about the on-board entertainment?” I said, and we both started to laugh.

So neither of us wanted to go. Neither of us enjoyed it while we were there. And neither of us said a word.

More convinced than ever that we’re going to make it.

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