Vacation Checklist

Packing with small children in the house is an exercise in futility.  They keep using that word that doesn't mean what they think it means.  Helping, as in "I helping, mommy.  See?  I helping." does not mean that it's a good idea to re-sort (and thereby unfold) all the clothes that I had just piled on the bed.  It also does not mean you should jump on the bed while I am re-re-sorting the clothes you just wadded up.  And under no circumstances does helping mean you should tip the suitcase over the edge of the bed onto the floor so you have more jumping room.  I'm pretty sure I blew a blood vessel when I walked back into the room and saw that little gem of help.  Actually, Jack is the sorter and re-folder.  Mitch wants to try on every article of clothing available, whether it's his, mine or Jordan's... it doesn't matter, he'll look fabulous.  I don't know what gets into them, but when the boys see suitcases they turn into little berserkers, running around causing grief and misery where ever they go.  If I'm going through clothes in their room, they go into mine and throw all the pillows off the bed, rummage through the books in the night stands and empty my jewelry box onto the floor.  My job is to not lose it completely and clean up as they go, while still somehow packing for all of us.  It's a battle of wills where the stakes are my sanity and their very lives.  Whoever wins ultimately loses, because if I go crazy they lose their ticket to the golden life and if I ground them for eternity I'll go crazy and they lose their ticket to the golden life.  Either way, I'm not holding out a lot of hope that I'll make it to retirement age with all of my cognitive powers intact.