Sunday, April 6, 2014

The Packing Post

I love our weird life. The traveling, the new experiences for our girls, the kettle corn, the people we meet along the way, the ball games, the kettle corn, the tight baseball pants...all of it. I am just as excited about the start of this season as I have been for the past fourteen before it.

But.

There are two things I hate about being a baseball wife:

packing and unpacking.

As fate would have it we get to move about every 6 months.

Bully for me.

I distinctly remember the night before Andy's AA season in El Paso was ending..okay I can't remember what year is was so maybe distinctly is pushing it, but we were laying in bed discussing travel plans and I rolled over and said

Just so you know, I'm going to be mad at you tomorrow.

Now, I'm sure you're wondering why I would say such a thing to such a great fella.

I'm glad you asked.

My reasons were twofold:

A) I believe in clear communication and

B)  packing sucks stinks.

If I could go back in time, anytime really, I would pick this moment. And I would say to myself

HEY YOU BIG NINNY! You think packing for two whole people is hard? See ya in eight years with your car top carrier covered mini-van complete with little pink potty. For your three children. And your dog.

(Not that the dog has ever used the little pink potty.)

(Despite my best efforts.)

(Back to the yelling at myself.)

I'm looking at you sassafras. Sleep pretty because these are the easy years!

End scene.

Anyway, packing, it's a real gas. And this year was no different. I did manage to hoist the car top carrier on the night before we left. (Which was huge because it was pouring rain the next day.)

But then I forgot such actions and very nearly crashed into the garage a few hours later.

{Insert silent cursing here}

Our friends, the Myers, were in town that afternoon and while the kids were playing Caitlin watched me flit around the kitchen like a drunk hummingbird trying to remember what all I needed to put into my "kitchen stuff" bin. At one point she said

Um, don't you have a list or something?

List? I don't need no stinking list! It's all in my head. Steel trap, baby.

Plus, if I make a list, I have to keep track of said piece of scrap paper and we all know

that's just not gonna happen.

So I just stand in each room with a suitcase, debating what needs to come with us and what we can do without (which is most everything- you'd be amazed). Then I determine if what I've collected will fit into the vehicle and if I can actually lift it. From there, the items that make the cut get stacked in an orderly manner the front hall, where they sit until it's time to load the van. 

It's all very scientific.

But not fool-proof.

Last year I forgot underwear.

My underwear.

Who does that?!?

Someone who refuses to make a check list, that's who.
















1 comment:

  1. Every post makes me miss sitting and chatting with you during ballet. You have no idea how truly hilarious you are. Gifted writer. Seriously.

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