I am in packing hell, only I seem to be the only one who recognizes the rings and who feels the flames licking her feet.
Sleep away camp is Wednesday and the Israel trip is Sunday. And my living room is empty.
My living room is where we put the drawers and bags and bins that hold the items we’re packing. Nothing is out.
Laundry has barely been started. And the laundry that has been done is going to have to be redone because we still have to look good in these last few days before everyone leaves—even though NO ONE is going to see us.
Labeling. Well, labeling has been started by one child, but not the other. At least, I think it has, as I keep finding an open Sharpie on the rug.
We’re figuring out conversions between dollars and shekels and finding budgeting apps for the iPhone. Budgeting? What’s that?
The weight limit is 50 pounds for checking baggage. Obviously, the people who set this don’t have teenaged girls. Nor, does it seem, do any of the organizers of the trip. Every time I turn around, there are more requests for additional shoes. Hiking boots, sneakers, water shoes, sandals, rain boots.
Teen: “Mom, I don’t need all of those?”
Me (trying to figure out why, for the first time in her life, she’s arguing against bringing shoes): “No? Have you ever been to these countries? Because the organizers say you do, and I’m inclined to listen to them.”
Teen: “Don’t worry about it, I really don’t need all that stuff.”
I hope she’s right, because if we do pack all of those shoes, they’re going to take up 48 pounds, leaving her about 2 for her clothing. Which means she’ll either have one pair of shorts and a T-shirt for the entire trip, or she’s going to be very well heeled, but naked, and cause an international incident.
I keep walking around, suggesting perhaps it might be a good idea to get started packing and everyone looks at me like I’m crazy.
Which I am. And it’s their fault!