It was a sunny morning when Becca arrived on our porch with her suitcase fully packed. She was wearing Converse Chuck Taylors. Her hair was in ribbons. Her suitcase was purple. Becca is 11.

“I’m ready for our trip to Georgia,” she announced.

Becca is blind. We were taking a road trip to Leesburg, Georgia, where Becca and I would be performing together. Her parents were planning on using this opportunity to enjoy their first kid-free weekend since the Carter Administration.

Her parents, exceptional people who have fostered upwards of 35 children, dropped Becca off on our porch with a mound of luggage, toys, snacks, apple juice, and very specific instructions: “Do not call us unless you are in the ER.”

So we loaded our van, and within moments we were on the road.

Becca spent most of the time in the back seat, singing. Becca has a lot of enthusiasm. In fact, calling Becca an “energetic 11-year-old” would be like calling Santa Claus an “okay guy.”

We began our journey, serenaded by a kid-centric, dance-intensive playlist of music played at a volume loud enough to crack our windshield.

Our playlist included “Hey Mickey” by Toni Basil. Becca danced and clapped in the backseat. Next came “Who Let the Dogs Out” by the Baha Men. Then, “Electric Avenue” by Eddy Grant. “Footloose,” by Kenny Loggins. “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor. “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey, played at a volume loud enough to split Japanese Steel. We were not even out of our driveway.

Somewhere around Montgomery, Becca had to pee.

“Can we pull over,” said Becca, matter-of-factly, who was rocking in her seat, doing the universal dance of the loaded bladder.

My wife and I looked at each other. We are middle-aged working stiffs who do not have kids. Moreover, as far as I know, my wife has never accompanied a blind child to the bathroom.

We pulled over.

My wife took Becca to the bathroom while I waited in the hallway, holding her purse as truckers visiting the men’s room passed me by. One trucker waved at me.

I could hear Becca and my wife talking in the bathroom.

“What is THAT?” I overheard Becca’s reverberant voice say.

“It’s a paper cover for the toilet seat,” my wife said.

“Wait,” said Becca. “I’m supposed to sit and pee on paper?”

“No, you’re supposed to hover. Your butt’s not supposed to touch the seat.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t want to get crabs.”

So we were off to a great start.

We were driving again. Next came “Ghostbusters,” by Roy Parker Jr., “Shake It Off” by Taylor Swift, “Oh Yeah” by Yello, “All Star” by Smash Mouth, and (why not?) the “Hokey Pokey” by Ray Anthony.

When we reached Sasser, Georgia, we stopped at a farmer’s market called Mark’s Melon Patch. There were hordes of families there buying pumpkins. There were bouncy houses, giant slides, corn mazes, and games galore.

Becca wanted to go on a giant slide which was roughly the size of Mount Shasta. So we rode the slide together, with her in my lap. Becca screamed “Weeeeeee!” the whole way down. I was screaming, too, of course. Namely, because I felt L4, L5, and S1 rupture.

Then we did a corn maze. After Hour Six, the EMTs finally found me.

Soon we were back in the car. After four minutes we stopped again to pee.

Becca was getting the hang of the paper seat cover.

When we got to the hotel, Becca wanted to use the TV remote. She scrolled all 7,592 channels, listening intently, and she finally said, “There’s nothing on.” And after that we played tactile tic-tac-toe until she fell asleep.

Asleep, Becca’s eyes were closed. Which is nothing new, because her eyes are always closed because of Turner’s Syndrome. Her biological parents were addicted to drugs, it caused Becca problems.

Even so, in ancient times, whenever the great masters painted angels, they always depicted holy beings with their eyes closed.

At one point, just before Becca was fully asleep, the child rolled over and mumbled in a sleepy voice, “I love y’all so much.”

My wife was sitting on the bed, watching her sleep. “Not half as much as I love you,” said my wife.

It was a great day.