packing fomo

In a quick eight hours I have to be up and headed to the airport for a long weekend trip with two dear, dear friends. I believe the kids call them “ride or die” now?

It will be only three nights and almost four whole days away and naturally I am fighting every urge to pack a bunch of shit I will never use.

When I traveled a lot for big kid jobs, I would always overpack. One, because I always underestimated how tired (and early on, how drunk) I would be and bring workout clothes that NEVER got used. It was basically a whole extra wardrobe.

Then I would bring items that I was just nervous to be without my own of, like a hair dryer. Seeing me in real life you would probably ask “Umm, she does stuff to her hair?” because it’s always kind of short and flat.

Shoes are always an issue too because they feel so light but take up a shitload of room and then end up being heavier than I expected. I always want to bring sneakers, a pair of sandals, flat casual, and one cute wedge shoe. No. Unnecessary this time.

My friends are going to run in half marathon/10k races and I am going to watch. I am going to sleep. I am going to do all sorts of things without anyone needing me for basic bodily functions. Will I miss the child? Absolutely- I do already. BUT I want to have a break from the hard work of parenting. The nutrition. The discipline. The constant teaching. The safety aspects. The cleaning and clothing and reading *Gerald Giraffe 48 times a day.

I have not slept in a year since I went away to another dear friend’s wedding. Every time I go to sleep at home there is a pensive, anxious feeling that lurks because I either expect him to wake me through the adjoining wall or I am mentally going through a never-ending to-do list.

There is an unintentional condescending tone that comes with talking about parenting, I think. Everyone says you have no idea what it’s like until you are one and I used to want to smack teeth when people said that but then I got here. And I had no idea. And at the end of the day I’m dazed and tired and have no idea what happened.

This has escalated quickly. I was going to make fun of how dumb I am for dragging a bunch of stuff around that I never use and now I feel like I have an anvil on my shoulders. I did this to myself. Kind of like when I’m almost asleep and decide to have a panic attack about my mortality. It’s swell.

So I’ll go upstairs and take a shower and put a few pairs of pants and shirts in my elephant bag and try to use those little drugstore plastic bottles for the liquids and hope TSA doesn’t throw away anything expensive because the agent is salty about failing out of the police academy. (I do use a few expensive makeup things that are a life saver IT COSMETICS HOLLA.)

And nothing about the weekend will really matter what shoes or pants I’m wearing but having fun with my two longest friends on the planet. And I’ll deal with parenthood another time. K, bye.

*Gerald Giraffe is the main character in a delightful book called “Giraffes Can’t Dance” and if you MUST read a book 48 times a day, this one is great. For real. The other night I was doing dishes and Eric was reading in the living room and I was going word-for-word with him then I just recited the rest of it. We laughed.