Traveling sucks.

I don't feel like going on vacation! Maybe I'll just stay home!

Ugh. 

Traveling does not bring out the best in my family. It makes us all shitty and makes me want to crawl into bed and hide. It's the packing and cleaning beforehand and the anticipating that just makes us quick to anger. 

I get into this manic mode when we head out of town, unless I'm uncomfortably pregnant or newly postpartum or in a lazy place in my life. I want to clean and organize and get our house in order before walking out the door. I don't know if it's because I'm prepping for our return or maybe I'm just afraid if we all went down what people would think of our home with its seventeen baskets of laundry and dog-hair covered floors and dirty sinks. 

My husband, bless his heart, is short on patience and complains we're bringing too much (says the man that packed a crockpot for our three-day stay at a rented house in Michigan). He takes packing the car seriously, maximizing space like no-one's business. But heaven forbid another bag appears once he thinks he's finished packing! His easy going nature turns sour for those few hours spent tackling the last-minute tasks that simply must get done before leaving the house on a so-called relaxing vacation. 

And let's not get started on the children. 

Luckily, the tension eases a bit once we're in the groove of the vacation, though there's no telling what will make one of us snap. It's actually kind of like a game: when will someone in this family lose their shit and make everyone's mood sour? We should really take bets and make some money on this life of ours. 

I give it ten minutes. No, eight.