Boy was I dragging my feet.
Visions of a drab, greying building in the middle of a shopping strip, filled with chairs bearing a not-so-thin layer of grime, danced in my head. Forcing my husband to take time off of work just so that I could insist my children tag along with me to such a place paraded even more wildly. Obviously I've still not, even after two years, become accustomed to the idea that things are different out in the middle of everywhere.
Because when Tommy came home early from work yesterday and suggested that I just bite the bullet and scurry to get the birth certificate information squared away while he stayed home with the other four kids, I was not at all prepared for the building to look like this:
I never imagined that a visit to an office in the courthouse could be pleasant. Relaxing. Fun. But my afternoon yesterday was all of those things. And when I arrived home, certified copy of the little one's birth certificate clutched in my hot little hand because they created and printed it and stamped it right there while I poked around their office and oohed and aahed at the original historic details after waiting exactly zero minutes for my turn to be helped, my darling husband was almost finished making dinner. A delicious dinner completely from scratch.
"How was your day?" he asked as he handed me a glass of wine.
Beautiful. It was a beautiful day.