I Did It!

Before I had my daughter, I had this glorious mental image of myself as, well, Laura Petrie. Laura seemed to have it all together without being totally pandering like June Cleaver. She was sorta hip, and I’m sorta hip, so why not? Then again, it may have had something to do with the Capri pant phase I was going through.
I figured out quickly after having my daughter that it would take a crack team of costumers and set designers and writers to make me into Laura. I’m mostly ok with that, even though some days I’d love to wake up, walk to the living room, and have everything set up for the day with a script laying next to my coffee.
It’s only when we get ready to travel that the inadequacies sneak into my brain. I’m pretty certain I never saw Laura Petrie actually pack anything, but hers is the voice I hear when the suitcases come out and the packing lists begin. Laura Petrie is my inner nag.
Yes, I have talked to a therapist about this.
I suppose the problem is even more insidious than a mere comparison to a television character. My grandmother lovingly constructed a collage of her mother’s papers after her death that hangs in the front hall of the house where I grew up. It is remarkable in its symmetry, and it is comprised almost entirely of lists. My great-grandmother made a list of everything. If you received a package from her, it contained a typewritten manifest. If she loaned you money, she kept a ledger of it. As she traveled extensively after her retirement from the Bureau of the Budget, she made concise yet thorough lists of what she packed. One sweater, navy cable knit. Three pairs stockings. One pair navy shoes. Two blouses, white. This woman went on month long cruises with two outfits. I can barely make it to the grocery store without a change of clothes.
I put great pressure on myself to pack the most efficient suitcase, and it is a long and arduous process. About a week before departure, I begin constructing the list. First page is non-clothing items—toiletries, books, toys for Lucy. Second page is my things, third is Lucy’s things. Packing Sickness does not afflict my husband, so he doesn’t need a page. The list is in a small spiral-bound notebook, the same one I use for grocery lists and take-out orders and is written with a Uniball pen while I am sitting on the couch. It takes me 2 cups of coffee to finish the list, and I take breaks to pace laps from the living room to each of the bedrooms and then back to the couch. When I am satisfied that I have a good start, the notebook and pen go on the corner of a granite top cabinet.
Over the next few days, I pick up the list every morning and read it while I have my second cup of coffee, alternating sips with tapping the pen on my lip. I rarely change it, but looking at it is part of the alchemy. Good trips are two parts company and destination to six parts artful preparation. Three days before we leave, the suitcase comes out. It is well known in my house that once the suitcase makes its appearance, I am not someone to be trifled with. C learned very early in our relationship that I suffer from PPS—Pre-Packing Syndrome. Even our cats give me wide berth, often taking turns sleeping in the suitcase instead of curling up at my feet. Lucy, however, makes her own lists and practices packing her bags. We start ‘em young in my family.
There are four bags for the three of us. I carry a large purse and a canvas shopping bag with toys, crayons and the pink stuffed Bunny for Lucy on the plane. C has a backpack with whatever it is that he takes. The three of us share a rolling suitcase for the rest. This is very important, as PPS involves much gnashing of teeth over whether I can fit everything.
Two days before travel, I begin the process of moving items from the list to the bag. Panties and socks are rolled and placed in one Ziploc freezer baggie, Lucy’s and mine together. Lucy’s pajamas go in another baggie, as well as her shirts. These are stacked in the top of the suitcase, first with the underwear baggie on the bottom, followed by shirts and then pajamas. I reverse the order after everything goes in, with the Laura voice gently chiding me for stacking them in a nonsensical order. ‘Oh Jen, you know you’ll need easy access to these things.’
Once Lucy’s things are in and checked off the list, I circle the suitcase with hands on my hips, carefully assessing how much space is left. It’s never enough, and so I throw my hands in the air, roll my eyes, and declare to C that this trip we’ll have to take a second suitcase. He assures me that this is ok, and I don’t believe him. I then pack my own things, taking up the rest of the luggage. Satisfied, I can go about my day. Well, for a few hours at least.
The thought of taking an extra bag is like a mosquito bite; I know I should ignore it, but I have no willpower. ‘Now Jen calm down,’ says Laura in my head, ‘you’re just being silly. You’ve traveled before with these same bags before and you can do it again.’ Ok, Laura, but I need to focus. Then I repack the whole thing.
The cats retreat to their secret, PPS-free hiding place, C sits in the living room wondering why he ever agreed to go anywhere with me, and Lucy scrambles to cram puzzle pieces and wooden vegetables into a metal pail because they simply all have to fit. I manage, after some jockeying and re-rolling, to fit Lucy’s and my clothes into half of the suitcase and emerge from the bedroom, triumphant. My husband packs his things, as usual, an hour before we leave the house.
My therapist calls it ‘obsessive tendencies,’ my grandmother suggests it’s genetic, and my husband has given up trying to figure it out. I think all of those are apt reactions, but it’s probably more a way to ensure that nothing bad happens on the trip. Before I became a mother, travel was scary and exciting, but my rituals were limited to throwing some stuff in a suitcase and having a drink on the plane to calm myself. I don’t know if I’ll ever go back to the toss-in-a-bag method, but in the meantime if our plane crashes, people can marvel at how much I fit into so little luggage.