Macaroni and cheese

This past weekend, I traveled with my parents and Emma from Bourbonnais to Omaha to witness the dedication of my nephew, Thane.

By all logical calculations, the trip out there should have taken somewhere between 7 and 9 hours. Possibly 10 with a couple, lengthy stops. For some reason, it took us 11 1/2. Yeah... I don't get it either. I'm pretty sure we hit a time warp somewhere near Des Moines.

Regardless, we pulled in to Ben and Steph's driveway somewhere around 5 a.m. We turned in for bed immediately, but the next 5 hours of sleep went by in a blink. Then we readied ourselves for the Henry Doorly Zoo, where we walked from exhibit to exhibit from noon until 5:30 p.m. The next day, Sunday, was only slightly less sleep-inducing between church, errands and late night viewings of The Office. Then on Monday, it was time to hit the road again.

Honestly, we had a fantastic time, but I was E-X-A-U-S-T-E-D! We've been home for 2 days and I still haven't completely recovered.

But as tiring as it was for me, I can only imagine what a trip like that does to a 2-year-old's body. Emma spent more hours in vehicle than she ever had before, she spent more time walking than she ever had before, she stayed up later and went more consecutive days without a nap than she ever had before.

Even so, pushed to her limit, Emma was refleshingly pleasant. She was thrilled for the opportunity to watch Monster's, Inc. and Cinderella repeatedly in the van, she basked in the attention of her aunt and uncle, and she even discovered a new hobby: tattling on her cousin, Caleb. She loved every minute of the adventure!

Proud of her beyond measure, I wanted to reward her with a simple pleasure. At every restaurant we visited to, from, and in Omaha, I told her she could have whatever she wanted. Her culinary drothers are really quite basic, and so her response was always the same. "I want macaroni and cheese."

You would think this wouldn't be a problem. It was. It seems like that would be a restaurant staple. It's not.

Meal after meal, I would scan the menu only to feel the weight of a broken promise. "I'm sorry, hon. They don't have that. But we'll get it next time."

Only they didn't have it the next time. Or the time after that. Or the time after that. It was heartbreaking. Every time she had to settle for chicken nuggets or grilled cheese, she looked at me like I had completely crushed her spirit. Out of guilt, I even let her have what is normally forbidden fruit: pop and french fries.

Finally, with just the right amount of planning ahead, and an outrageous number of bathroom stops, we arrived in Davenport, Iowa on Monday evening just in time for dinner -- our last meal of the trip. We ate at the Machine Shed, a restaurant that prides itself in down-home cooking.

Sure enough, there it was on the kid's menu: good ol' macaroni and cheese. Woohoo!

I was downright giddy to finally provide my little girl the desires of her heart. I ordered with a great sense of pride, and as the waitress returned to our table with a tray of food, I'm pretty sure I clapped my hands in excitement. "Emma, here it comes!"

The overall-clad woman set a bowl of delightfully orangish noodles down in front Emma, and I held my breath in anticipation.

Emma took one look at the bowl and pushed it away.

With absolute certainty in her voice she told me, "I don't like macaroni and cheese."