Packing

It does not matter how wonderful a place I’m going, what I’m doing there or who I’m going with. I still hate the packing.

-I hate it because our house is always messy and John and I have conversations like, “Have you seen my Swiss army knife?” … “Yes, It’s behind the cedar chest.”

-I hate it because I have to pack myself, and two kids, and two dogs and get all the home chores ready and line up people to take care of things while we are gone.

-I hate it because I can’t remember any of the things I should do without a list.

-I hate it because I always am losing my lists and then spend more time trying to find the list than the items on the list.

-I hate it because I try to pack 12,000 things at once and end up standing in rooms wondering what I came into that room for when I know the next four things I need are somewhere else.

-And I hate it because at some point, no matter if we are leaving for a weekend, a day or a week I just want to give it up and stay home.

Then on top of my general hatred of packing I have to watch John pack.

I try hard to pack in an organized fashion, I use lists, lots of lists, I put things directly into the bag they will be traveling in, I do laundry first so I can find everything easily, and spend the entire time getting crankier and crankier. On the other hand John, spreads his stuff out on whatever empty surface is available and wanders around “playing” with it saying obnoxious things like, “Isn’t’ this fun!?” and “Look at all my cool stuff!” which fuels my general crankiness.  Then for one last insult he stuffs it all into his bags, and knowing that with his strange haphazard ways everything is packed,  immediately falls asleep.  Meanwhile I toss and turn while thinking of the two million more things that must be done before we leave and worry that only one million of them are on a list.

The real kicker.  With all my lists and “organization” I’m still the one who forgets stuff.  I think this is because I have to pack a much larger quantity of things than John (another item that must have been in the “stay at home mom contract” I don’t remember signing) and so I forget a proportional amount of items. Then John brings up the fact that I haven’t seen my keys or my sunglasses since sometime before the 11th of November, and I think I might be hopeless.

Then I hear, “Hey do you know where my flask is?”

and I say , “Yeah, it’s under the bed.”

and I’m pretty sure I’ve got company in my hopelessly unorganized state.

 

Now I must get back to packing, enjoy your weekend, and if you see a set of keys with a pair of sunglasses let me know!

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