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I eagerly anticipate our weeklong summer vacation every year. We always head to Michigan with my partner’s extended family, and it’s truly a fantastic escape. Our lodgings are cozy cabins that come with basically nothing, so we have to bring everything — from sheets to pots and pans. You name it, we cram it into two minivans for the trip up north.
Let me paint the picture. I have four kids. I love them dearly; they’re adorable, sweet, and hilarious. But when it comes to packing? Useless. Honestly, they can’t do a thing! Maybe it’s intentional. They’re crafty little tricksters who know just how to mess things up enough to have me step in to do it right. So, I take over the packing process, which feels like it takes six months to organize for five people. Sure, I have a husband, but he’s pretty much on his own.
I handle his laundry, but he packs his own suitcase. At 48, he should manage this. And he does, but he never brings enough underwear, so I toss in extras — at least 14 pairs for a week-long trip. Just in case. This year, he scoffed at my stash, claiming he hadn’t had an accident in nearly 46 years, so he was fine without my two-week supply. I secretly hoped he’d face a bathroom emergency at Walmart, but it didn’t happen.
Once I had packed enough to survive a zombie apocalypse, we were off. My parents joined us, so we split into two minivans, with the back seats down, filled to the brim with our stuff: pool noodles, laptops, a Keurig, and enough movies to last a month. It was a tight squeeze, but everyone was absorbed in their devices, happily entertained. We broke up the drive over two days to keep the kids from getting restless.
Our week was blissfully spent at the beach, fishing, and lounging by the fire. It’s truly heavenly. But as soon as it was time to head home, the complaining began: “When will we be home?” “I have to pee!” “When can we see the dog?” “I’m hot!” This year, to add to the fun, I was stuck wearing a cumbersome knee brace, making the 11-hour journey even more delightful. I just wanted to get home and escape the car.
But when we arrived, chaos erupted for the next three days. My kids unloaded the car, leaving ALL their stuff in my dining room. When I say “all,” I mean practically everything they own. Once they deposited their belongings, they were done with vacation and ready for the rest of the summer. Not a single thought went to helping me with the aftermath.
Suitcases big enough to hide a body were filled with clothes they expected me to put away. They disregarded the six sets of sheets I had to wash or the towels I needed to stuff into a space bag until next year. No one even noticed the enormous Rubbermaid container filled with food that could have gone into the pantry. Nope, they just wanted to dive into Minecraft and grab a snack.
I had already done all the laundry before we left to lighten my load upon return. It was straightforward. All their clothes were neatly folded by room. The only thing left for them to do was take them upstairs and put them away. Simple, right? Wrong. The whining started immediately, leading to a full-on brawl between my three boys as they wrestled each other while clutching clean clothes — because why not? The straightforward request of “put your laundry away” turned into a wrestling match. But I held my ground; not a single item was going away from me!
You’d think that with their suitcases emptied, they would at least take them to the basement, right? Nope. Those would remain as a tripping hazard for two more days. I swore I wouldn’t touch them. I was ready to fall to my doom before I’d carry those bags down. The Blu-ray discs and Nintendo Switch they left lying around? Also not my problem.
They piled stuff in the front window for the whole neighborhood to gawk at. Our cute little window seat, loved by our dog, now looked like a minivan had exploded. If anyone peered in, they’d think we were moving or had been robbed. At one point, I even blocked the basement door, hoping they’d drag some of the stuff down just to get through. Nope. They just stayed upstairs.
By day three, I lost it and started screaming. I transformed from the cheerful, nurturing mom to a horror movie character. My husband, working from home, suggested I retreat upstairs while he took over — thank goodness! I might have locked myself in my room forever. But I was at the end of my rope with the mountain of American Girl toys that appeared to multiply overnight. My five-year-old daughter finally sprang into action when I threatened to donate her Bitty Baby, Francine, to Goodwill. Suddenly, she was a whirlwind, gathering shoes and putting them on the stairs.
Her brothers finally caught on that it was time to get moving. My second son, whom we affectionately call Specs because of his adorable glasses, asked, “Mom, you never get upset when we’re making the mess. Why do you get so mad when it’s time to clean it all up?” The realization hit him, and he understood.
Do you? Do you finally grasp it? Can you rally your siblings together? Perhaps hold a family meeting like the Brady Bunch to avoid turning me into a cleaning zombie again? I may have a bum knee, but I could learn to juggle if it meant no longer dealing with the mess in my dining room.
They had no idea I was documenting our progress for future generations. One day, my grandchildren might want to see how their parents once treated their grandmother. I could even send them photos at midnight to give them nightmares about the state of their house if they don’t keep things tidy.
Kids, listen closely. Your mother is not your maid. She doesn’t get paid for cleaning up after you. In fact, she doesn’t even get a tip for emptying a barf bucket in the middle of the night. This is just part of her job as mom, so please, ease her burden and put away your suitcase when you return from a vacation where she was merely a caregiver in a different setting. She didn’t relax for a second because moms are always in charge. So when she says “jump,” you better ask “how high?” and start cleaning up.
Moms are the ones who endure years of barf and mess. We’re the ones who enforce rules and make our kids dress appropriately, even when they’d prefer to wear shorts in the snow. And we’re the ones who need a break after coming back from vacation and trying to restore order.
Next year, I might just skip the packing and unpacking altogether. Maybe I’ll stay home and let them fend for themselves for a week. Who am I kidding? I’d miss them way too much; they wouldn’t even make it out of the neighborhood without me chasing after the car.
So off I’ll go on vacation next year, Xanax in hand, blissfully unconcerned about unpacking. And I’ll pack enough underwear for everyone to last a month. You never know when you’ll need a clean pair. But when we get home? They will be the ones putting it all away.