Every year growing up, my sister and I would wait for it. Sometimes, we'd place our guesses as to when it would happen. But every year, it happened.
In the days before the family vacation, my mom would get so fed up with the process that she would proclaim her disgust and declare she was no longer going on vacation.
The reasons varied. My dad hadn't packed. The house wasn't clean. The kids are not helping. Usually, it was a combination of all of these.
Of course, my sister and I thought this was all totally ridiculous.
That was then.
NOW, I find myself edging in on declaring the same thing. I mean, really, throw in a couple of distracting, time-consuming kidlets, and I am my mother, declaring NO to vacations.
Crazy pill, thee I have taken.
I think there's an genetic fear factor involved that my mother kindly handed down to me. It's called the fear of forgetting something.
It's a three-day vacation, Jess. Get over yourself. If you forgot it, buy it or mail it.
Buy it or Mail it. I have to remember that ... as I pack, get the rental car, print out instructions for the house sitter, remember cards and gifts and packages, pack the cooler, have two house keys made, walk a dog, and and and. Oh yes. WORK.
Watch, I'll get all that done and then forget to pack a dress for the wedding we're going to.
Buy it or mail it.
Pullman and the South Side Soapbox
2 hours ago