questionable food at otherwise charming roadside diners, I learned to value the
bland certainty of a McDonald’s cheeseburger. On bumpy drives between small
towns, I learned how to protect my clothing from spills by seeking out snacks
that would crumble rather than drip, knowing that I couldn’t be photographed
with a dollop of hummus on my dress. I trained myself to limit my water intake,
understanding there was rarely time for bathroom breaks on the road. I learned to
sleep through the sound of long-haul trucks barreling down the Iowa interstate
after midnight and (as happened at one particularly thin-walled hotel) to ignore a
happy couple enjoying their wedding night in the next room.
As up and down as I sometimes felt, that first year of campaigning was filled
primarily with warm memories and bursts of laughter. As often as I could, I
brought Sasha and Malia along with me out on the trail. They were hardy, happy
travelers. On a busy day at an outdoor fair in New Hampshire, I’d gone off to
give remarks and shake hands with voters, leaving the girls with a campaign staffer
to explore the booths and rides before we regrouped for a magazine photo shoot.
An hour or so later, I spotted Sasha and panicked. Her cheeks, nose, and forehead
had been covered, meticulously and comprehensively, in black and white face
paint. She’d been transformed into a panda bear, and she was thrilled about it. My
mind went instantly to the magazine crew waiting for us, the schedule that would
now be thrown off. But then I looked back at her little panda face and exhaled.
My daughter was cute and content. All I could do was laugh and find the nearest
restroom to scrub off the paint.
From time to time, we’d travel together as a family, all four of us. The
campaign rented an RV for a few days in Iowa, so that we could do barnstorming
tours of small towns, punctuated by rousing games of Uno between stops. We
passed an afternoon at the Iowa State Fair, riding bumper cars and shooting water
soakers to win stuffed animals, as photographers jostled for position, shoving their
lenses in our faces. The real fun started after Barack got swept off to his next
destination, leaving the girls and me free from the tornado of press, security, and
staff that now moved with him, stirring up everything in its wake. Once he’d left,
we got to explore the midway on our own, the air rushing past us as we rocketed
down a giant yellow slide on burlap sacks.
Week after week, I returned to Iowa, watching through the plane window
as the seasons changed, as the earth slowly greened and the soybean and corn
crops grew in ruler-straight lines. I loved the tidy geometry of those fields, the
pops of color that turned out to be barns, the flat county highways that ran
straight to the horizon. I had come to love the state, even if despite all our work