Stage One: Short-lived Cheer
We're going on vacation in a week!
Unfortunately, I still have to fill prescriptions, buy sunscreen, sign my daughter up for driver's ed, and find a pet-sitter.
I am unfazed.
Stage Two: Overconfidence
Everything is under control. I am so organized! The editors of Real Simple should study me to see how it’s done. Packing? What could be easier? I have a list!
It’s right. . . Wait, what file did I save it in?
Stage Three: Increasing Irritation
Ok, so who needs a list? We're going to the beach! All we need are shorts, T-shirts, bathing suits, the usual. Might as well get the boogie boards and beach chairs out and stick them near the front door. And find the sand toys.
Where are the sand toys?
Why can’t anyone in this house just LEAVE THINGS WHERE THEY BELONG?
Stage Four: Packing A.D.D. Mixed with Rising Fury
I am beginning to feel a certain disenchantment with my children. This increases when I realize that boogie boards are no longer in the hall. I see them on the trampoline, arranged into a fort.
I retrieve the boards. I discover that they were also used as riot shields in the epic water gun fight that raged earlier, creating a mess of wet grass and puddles all over the front hallway. I seethe.
I shake it off. Whatever! Vacation is coming!
I lay the soaking wet boards out to dry. I go back inside. Time to search again for the sand toys. Wait, better get the beach blanket before I forget.
I head up the stairs and find myself in front of the linen closet. Why am I standing here? This is not where the sand toys are!
I head back downstairs to the basement. After I drop a bocce ball on my foot (who left the bag unzippered!?), I remember the beach blanket.
Stage Five: The Breakdown
I make a Target run for sand toys.
I tell my children to pack. I tell them again. And again. I finally raise my voice. My daughter looks at me blandly and says, “All right, already. You don’t have to yell.”
An hour later, my children are still reading/watching TV/taking the now-dry boogie boards “to see if they’ll work at the pool.”
I grab the sides of my head and howl. Everyone scatters. I collapse on the couch, a couple of Kadima rackets clutched in my nearly lifeless hands.
Stage Six: Can It Get Any Worse?
When I check their suitcases, I discover:
1). My teenage daughter has packed two bikinis and a pair of flip-flops.
2). My 12-year-old son has packed two water guns, a bathing suit, and his X-box. No clothes.
3). My 12-year-old daughter has packed three stuffed animals, 60 outfits, all of her “jewelry,” and her school yearbook.
My husband comes home, throws some things in his bag, and asks, “Is the car loaded up yet?”
Stage Seven: Blind Panic/Resignation
We wedge everything into the minivan. The packing becomes increasingly haphazard. The car now looks like we are fleeing a war zone. We have to tie the trunk to close it. The children squeeze in.
On my last trip into the house to retrieve the snacks, I find the sand toys in the powder room closet.
I really, really need this vacation.
