I Do the Packing at My House and it Takes a Minute

Remember a few years ago when Alexa was first becoming a thing?

They had that commercial where the couple had just had a baby and the mom was off to work and that Dad was staying home with the baby and the Mom set reminders for him throughout the day. At first I thought this a very progressive commercial. Like ohhhhh there goes Momma headed off to work. So at certain intervals Alexa (or Echo or whatever the device was) would say remember to feed the baby, now it’s time to take out the trash, don’t forget to scratch your privates. No, I’m just joking. Alexa would never go that far, but I remember thinking what a waste of a commercial. How sexist is it that a wife would need to set reminders for her husband to check a loaded diaper. Wouldn’t he just smell the diaper?

When my daughter was born, my husband stayed home with her because she couldn’t be at public daycare.

Also because Momma had the health insurance whoop whoop, for you health insurance holders, and I’ll tell ya, I set reminders for absolutely nothing. I think he changed and bathed that baby better than I did. But one thing he doesn’t do, one thing that Alexa could not take over for, is packing. I am a hot mess of a person, but I love a good packing sesh. Earlier this week I set to work packing my kids up for seven days. I did all the laundry, matched every sock. I was feeling real accomplished. Then it was my turn. I went into my bedroom and saw that my dresser and closet were a mess so then it turned into a complete Marie Condo situation. I had a pile to give away, a pile to burn in the campfire and a pile to run over the plow with in the winter. Those are the correct piles right?

My husband told me to pack lightly because we don’t have a lot of room in the truck. The trouble with telling an anxious person to pack lightly, is that it similar to telling a turtle to go without their shell.

A real trigger for anxiety is the unknown and so we like to pack like Jeff Probst has invited us on Survivor, but we might also be going to a red carpet event. This caused me to pack my skinny looking bathing suit, my post nachos and cheese bathing suit, my swimsuit for laying in the sun but never turning over, my swimsuit for falling out of a kayak. I really had all the possibilities. Then I needed to pack my athletic shorts for hiking, my athletic shorts for sitting around the campfire. Plus also my comfy bra, my workout bra, my bra that turns me from a B to a C. My jeans that make my butt look good, my jeans in case I see Patrick Dempsey, my jeans I had when I was pregnant. Do you see the dilemma? By the time I was finished, I had that suitcase stuffed so freakin full, my husband probably thinks I’m packing up for good and I have a whole new family I am traveling too.

I can see now why that Mom in Home Alone forgot Kevin up in his attic mansion that night.

She had packed all 15 people in her home and was feeling just a little bit tired people. Between Fuller peeing the bed and the creepy uncle, she had a lot on her mind. So forgive her while her husband relaxes and closes his eyes on the airplane if she just then remembered her tenth child and her husband is like wait which one?

The funny part is and I’m just going to generalize here, so maybe this is not your family and don’t get pissed off at me, but my husband will pack THE MORNING OF.

He will pull out a few t-shirts, a pair of cargo shorts and a pile of boxers. He will simultaneously watch an episode of Breaking Bad and gloat about his Nascar winnings in his gamboling pool and he will have no stress about what he packed, not one iotta. His clothes will fit him the exact same way if he drinks ten beers, or if he eats a bite of celery and washes it down with a bottle of water. He will have one bathing suit, which will fit him great and Covid bystanders will start to give him credit by the pool when they observe him being the fun Dad, throwing kids up into the air, giggle fits to follow. They will think they too should start a family with a hunky Dad that does it all. All they truly need is a good looking fellow and an Alexa to tell him what to do.

And to these bystanders I say, look over to the right of the pool, no behind that person. Oh there she is, the fabulous bitch laying out in her own germy chair, with a copy of Us Weekly and sunburned cheeks. Her name is not Alexa. Her name is Taryn and she packed this whole freakin rodeo, so quit your lusting and give her some god. damn. credit.