So there I was, sitting at Sky Harbor Airport, and, miracle of miracles, both of my children were still alive.
Of course, this probably had more to do with the fact that the food vouchers issued by British Airways were also good for alcohol than due to any acts of grace on the part of my children, but still.
We were there.
Our bags were there.
And I still had two (living) children.
That this could ever have come to pass had been under considerable doubt as little as two days earlier, when we had first taken our suitcases on a trial run down to the Pay ‘n’ Take. (The point of this trip being to determine whether or not we could manage our luggage, not whether or not we could manage a pint.) As it turned out though, we could manage both—although some of us also “managed” to annoy the hell out of the rest of us during the half mile trek.
Why? I dunno: maybe it had something to do with the fact that the people who weren’t carrying fifty pounds of luggage kept telling the people who were to hurry up. Or maybe it was how those same annoying little people insisted on getting in the way of the aforementioned Sherpas, dancing in front of us in mockery while chanting “So slow, so slow, you are so slow.”
If we hadn’t been so loaded down we would have chased after them; unfortunately, that would probably just have led to a “Homer chases Bart” type spectacle, which would not have helped alleviate the undignified feelings we were experiencing at all. And so we let them go: our (supposedly) thrifty packers.
Don’t get me wrong: in any other circumstances I would have been proud that my children had turned out to be such light packers; so unburdened with the need for heavy frivolities like make-up and game boys that they could dance around mockingly in front of us. However, the reality of the situation demanded that I feel otherwise.
The truth is my children are not some kind of “packing idiot savants;” they are just idiots.
Consider the following: despite the fact that we were traveling to a music festival that is legendary for its mud—this festival is one of the only places where non-combat doctors can study real, live, trenchfoot—if given the choice, my children would have left their rubber boots (wellies) at home. And despite the fact that after this festival we were traveling to a city—Paris—that is equally legendary for how the locals look down on the slovenly dressed tourists, they also would have traveled with only a collection of t-shirts, cargo shorts, and flip-flops.
And then there’s the little matter of hygiene. Toothbrushes? Who needs ’em? Spare socks and underwear? It’s only a month, right?
I will admit, though, that traveling with my kids now is much easier than it was when they were infants, when even a trip to the park meant packing a bag for every contingency, from mild fevers to a suitcase bomb. (Really. Ever since 9/11 my first aid kit has included radiation sickness pills). But despite the fact that I’ve slowly insisted they become more and more responsible for their own comfort, there’s a part of me that will never stop worrying that they are, actually, comfortable, the same way my sixty-five year old mother still asks me if I’m warm enough when we go out.
And so, I pack; they pack; and then I pack some more. And somehow we always manage to have almost everything. But still: I could do without the dancing.
(Update: as it happens, this has been the sunniest week in England in a decade. Sigh. Once again, Kids:1, Mom:0).