So I’m bad at packing.
No matter how long or short the trip, whenever I have to pack a bag, I have a problem. With every selection – every shirt, every dress, every pair of shoes – even while I am putting it in the bag, I am haunted by scenarios of what might go horribly wrong because of something I left out.
My husband can’t understand this kind of thinking. “Name one example – just one! – when anything like that went wrong.”
“What about that time with the shirts? At your nephew’s Bar Mitzvah?”
“OK,” he concedes. “Maybe you have a point.”
Ever since my boys were born, I had always packed for them each as well as for myself. Mercifully, my husband always packed all his own things, plus hardware like cribs and high chairs – but that still left plenty for me to deal with: all the special blankets, bibs, toys, books, and ever-growing collection of outfits that were required.
As the boys grew, I still took it upon myself to pack whatever clothes I hoped to see them in during the trip.
Whether we were going apple picking in the rain or taking pictures with Grandma, it was up to me to make sure anything that was required, other than what they were standing up in, was cleaned and packed.
This trip was no exception. I carefully stocked a garment bag with all the essential Bar-Mitzvah-in-the-family ingredients: Two suits, one bigger than the other, plus assorted shirts, ties, tie tacks, underwear, shoes, belts, socks, etcetera. Then I packed a bag for myself.
The problem was that getting all four of us into this finery, not to mention into the car and under way, by 8:30 a.m., for a one-hour drive to our relatives’ synagogue, would be impossible.
So I was rather proud of my clever solution: I booked us into a hotel room near the sanctuary, for the night before. That way all distractions and traffic jams were removed; all we had to do, come morning, was get dressed and across the street.
I was still in the shower when I heard the wails: “Where’s my shirt? It isn’t here! Mommy left it home!” The little boy’s voice was on the edge of panic.
I wrapped myself in a towel and came out to his rescue. “Of course I didn’t forget your shirt, sweetie. Let’s not panic. I’m sure it’s just tangled up with something else.”
“No it isn’t, it isn’t here!”
“Let’s take everything out and lay it all on the bed,” I said.
I was calm because I had counted the hangers before zipping the bag shut the day before: three suit jackets, three pants, three shirts. “You’ll see, everything’s here.”
There were indeed three shirts. The problem was, two of them were my husband’s; one was for the big brother; and none, indeed, were for the youngest boy.
“You forgot about me!” he started to wail.
“Maybe he can wear something else under the suit jacket?” suggested my husband.
“Like what?” I shot back. “His pajamas?” I was beginning to panic, now, myself.
“If only we were home, this morning, instead of in this hotel an hour away….” continued the love of my life.
“Don’t finish that sentence,” I warned him.
“Mom, this isn’t fun,” said the older brother.
“No,” I was forced to agree. “That’s because someone did a lousy job of packing.”
The boys were starting to melt down completely. I was, too.
Suddenly, my husband had an idea. He handed one of his shirts to the older boy, and the older boy’s shirt to the younger brother.
He told them both, “Here, try these on.” Turning to me, he explained: “All we have to do is get through the service. If we can do that, no one will care at the party.”
So we feverishly tucked shirt tails in, and pulled both fronts tight enough for the jackets to button, and just like that, the crisis was over.
“It’s a good thing you remembered your dress, though,” my husband said to me. “My raincoat might do, buttoned up, but it would never match those shoes.”
The upshot of it all is that nobody died. Nobody even noticed, or cared, except my three guys, who have never let me live it down.
And there is a silver lining: I was finally forced to let my children pack for themselves.
For a perfectionist who dies a thousand deaths with every decision, that is a priceless gift.
