Believe it or not, I don’t write/rant about everything that annoys me. I do, with very limited success, try to present a balanced picture of life as I know it. But. I am 100% losing my shit today.
We are traveling. Our family has had the opportunity to travel. A lot. But, thanks to our record setting level of dysfunction, we can never seem to board a plane without the process making me want to gouge my eyeballs out.
Packing. I’m told there are people who enjoy it. Sadly, none of them live in my house. The days leading up to a trip typically consist of denial and procrastination.
Elise, in her defense, is coming to a point where she’s a little more organized, and does pretty well with writing out a packing list and proceeding accordingly. She also gets ample help from her task master pal Izzi who keeps her focused. If we could get to a point where she didn’t have to ask me where 70% of the listed items are, we’d be cooking with gas, but we ain’t there. And it drives me bananas.
Jerod refuses to travel with anything other than a backpack. Which is great, unless it leaves him without room to pack clothes for a wedding when the trip is to go to a MOTHER TRUCKING WEDDING. But, hey, no worries. Mom can just throw it in her suitcase. Yeah, her bag’s kinda full, since she packs things like beach towels and sunscreen for the entire family of ungrateful asshats, but WHO CARES?
Chris mercifully packs himself, doesn’t tend to have any trouble locating anything he needs, and generally takes care of himself. But he didn’t pack a single stitch of clothing until this morning. Our flight was scheduled for 9 a.m. I guess I’ll describe that as ballsy. It’s all good and well, but last night while I was running around the house like a headless chicken and he was watching netflix with his whiskey glass in hand, he let us know that our packing efforts were stressing him out. I didn’t verbally respond, but GOOD GOD Y’ALL, I may have secretly prayed for him to acquire some sort of horribly itchy and irritating rash in the groin area. But really, that would just mean I’d need to find and pack the itch cream. One problem just leads to another.
The morning of travel is always extra effing special. My children endure the horrible injustice of having to get out of bed before 10 a.m. Jerod deals by moping. Annoying, but at least it’s quiet. Elise chooses the more vocal whine about ALL THE THINGS approach. She can’t say the word mom without it turning into a multi-syllabic plea that sounds like a tortured goat. And everything I do is wrong, wrong, wrong. And when I get randomly selected for an electronics check in the security line, you’d better believe that’s my fault. And if, God forbid, I get a little discombobulated by the extra security and leave my watch behind? Well, then I’m just the sorriest excuse for a human being ever known to planet earth. And then there’s this:
Getting to the airport. Yes, you’ve heard this refrain from me before. I like to go early. Husband does not. We’ve never missed a flight, so I usually don’t pick this battle. But, at 7:20 this morning (9 a.m. flight, mind you, with at least a 20 minute ride to the airport, maybe more, because rush hour), while he was on a call (don’t even get me started on THAT), I waved my uber app at him and asked if I could go ahead and request a ride.
We got to MSP and were doing ok on time. But then we had to stop in the sky club. Because heaven forbid Chris board a plain without eating watery eggs first. And, while we were in there, the daughter who wishes I’d never been born suddenly wanted me to toast her a bagel. SHE IS 13 YEARS OLD, Y’ALL. But whatevs. I’m here to serve. By the time Chris was appropriately sated, it was about 8:30, and we really needed to get to the gate. Let the speed walking commence. I hate speed walking. I hate doing it. I hate other people doing it. Couldn’t a person just leave the house 20 minutes earlier??!!
We somehow managed to board the plane. We’ve reached our first destination. I’d like to tell you my frustration evaporated once I stowed my carry on and fastened by seatbelt, but I just finished listening to my kids bicker for an hour about who is going to sleep where. The fun is just getting started, y’all. Jesus take the wheel.