For the Egyptians, it was locusts, but we had termites – a slow, endless stream across the kitchen floor to the window. The exterminator had said I should get the children – then 4 and 1 years old – out of the house overnight, so I was packing for a hasty flight to Grandma’s.
Hasty flight…ha! If there’s anything I’m worse at than getting out of the house, it’s packing to do so.
No matter how hard I try, it’s always the same story: I spend hours scurrying around, stuffing things into bags, cursing under (and over!) my breath…only to end up with what still seems like an entire house’s worth of stuff that is all somehow essential.
I’d do better just strapping a handle on the house and dragging it along. This time, it was one big bag for each of us, plus a diaper bag, plus the toys bag, plus a separate duffel for my special hypo-allergenic pillows.
Not to mention the porta-crib, the stroller and the booster seat.
Then came loading the car:
“Did you remember the blankets? The monitor? The trucks book? The special V-I-D-E-O? Oh my God, the snacks!”
Just fitting everything in takes at least two hours, on top of the six hours it took me to pack. I once asked my husband about getting a minivan, so I could just throw everything in. “Are you kidding?” he responded. “Then you’d pack enough for an RV!”
As it happened, this night of our personal Exodus coincided with the first night of Passover…a holiday whose entire point is to commemorate our ancestors’ original hasty flight from Egypt. How on earth did they manage? I can just see us, attempting to set out:
“My pots! My matched set of earthenware pots! How can I leave them all behind?”
“Judy, it’s only what you can carry! Do you see any ox-carts here?”
“Do you have the bull-rush basket for the baby?”
“I couldn’t find it, but I’m sure we can borrow one from Moses’ mother now that he’s grown.”
“And do you have the toy pyramid? I don’t want to answer for 40 years in the desert without it!”
“Judy, the Angel of Death is on His way — He’ll be here any minute!”
“Well, can’t you mark the door or something? I’m not ready!”
Passover might have been designed with me in mind, having, as it does, two special nights to the celebration.
We can set out for the first Seder, and stand a reasonable chance of arriving in time for the second. It took my in-laws took a while to adjust, but now at least they know to assign me desserts, not appetizers, as my share of the feast.
Thanksgiving is a different story. My family in Maryland now celebrate it on Friday (or “Thanksgiving Observed,” as my husband calls it), just to be sure we are there. This leaves all day Thursday for telephoned progress reports:
“We’re just leaving New York now, Mom.”
“You haven’t packed the car yet, have you?”
“Yes, I have. Except for some socks. And my pajamas. Oh — and the baby’s formula. Gotta go!”
Or, some hours later:
“We’re in New Jersey!”
“Almost-in-Delaware New Jersey? Or just-through-the-Holland-Tunnel New Jersey? Never mind, we’ll leave you some turkey in the fridge.”
When I had my first child, I became unable to say when we’d make it to anything. With two children, all bets were off.
In fact, it will probably take an Act of God to get me out of the house at all. I can see it now. There’s a storm heading straight for Long Island. For days, the radio has been warning people. The Weather Channel shows a picture of our house as “THE No. 1 place NOT to be!” Now the National Guard are driving up and down the deserted streets, on the bull-horn, saying “This is your final warning! You must evacuate now!”
I’ll be on the phone to the National Weather Service: “I’m running a little late. Go ahead, start the disaster without me!”
