I am (and always have been) a horrible traveller. As a child I remember having to sit in the front seat because of the horrible horrid motion sickness I would get in the car. Windows down, fan blowing on my face, “lay your head down and close your eyes baby” as we drove across the mountain.
Violently being sick in the car. So sick that I’d exhaust myself and be able to sleep.
As an adult, this dread of travel has manifested itself first in a fear of going places (being afraid to leave the house sucks, y’all. Especially when you need groceries.) and currently, oddly enough, in the desire to actually GO. There’s just one problem:
Planning the trip? Fine.
Packing for the trip? Okay
Time to go? [brakescreech] WAIT HOLDUP I’M NOT READY. All the dishes have to be clean. The trash needs to be taken out. The beds need to be stripped. The oil needs to be changed. The laundry needs to be folded. We need to rip up all the carpets and put new flooring down.
So you’d think making it seem like a “whim” trip that’s just barely planned would be THE thing to do. You’d be wrong wrong so very wrong. Waiting until the last minute to plan things leads to a really sucky trip, full of forgotten things and money spent “at the door” instead of “purchased in advance/online”.
No, I have to pull up my panties and be THE grownup on this trip. (It is, after all, what I do.) All the driving, all the nagging, all the corralling, feeding, nagging. And did I mention nagging?
The boys are just as bad as I am about travelling. Some of it is nature, some of it is simply lack of experience. But mostly they don’t want to go places.
And that, more than anything, is why we must.