So, I’ve recognised ‘a thing’ whilst preparing to head home from holidays. It’s something I’ve kinda recognised about myself for some time, but just thought was one of my own quirky character flaws (oh, I have so many of those – like restacking the dishwasher when the husband fails to get The System). Ahem, anyway, having holidayed with other families quite a bit of late, it’s become abundantly clear that this particular tick is most definitely not mine alone. So what the hell am I on about? Packing. Or, more accurately, re packing. That joyless activity that is agonising enough before your holiday, but infinitely gloomier (and odorous) at the end of it.

The truth is: you simply don’t mess with a packing momma.

This is how it goes… It’s all rather lighthearted to begin with. You start with a bit of mild procrastination – maybe a cup of tea or a quick swim. You fanny about and put it off. But the clock is ticking and the husband is starting to panic, and fume (and might even start throwing a few crumpled items into the bag, or even offer to change a nappy or two instead of you in the hope that you just bloody get on with it). So then you DO get on with it (possibly with the help of a glass of wine). Brain whirrs into action. Mental lists of items not to be forgotten swing into place in front of your eyes – a bit like The Terminator when he’s assessing a particularly killer-robot-heavy situation. You develop a military-like precision of movement otherwise absent in your life (even if sorely needed). That’s when everyone should beware…

Don’t get anywhere near. Don’t offer helpful advice. Or aid. Or pick anything up. Or make suggestions. Or, God forbid, start putting things in helpful little piles. Because that momma is In The Zone. I’ve seen the look in other mums’ eyes, and felt it in my own. You Do Not Mess with a mum who’s packing. They know where their shit is. And they do NOT want your help. You are merely an irritant in what is already a soul-destroying, futile, humourless process. The clothes in the room. The swim stuff by the pool. The miscellaneous items in the bathroom/bar/barbecue. The weird location of all your holiday paraphernalia is known only to you. And woe betide anyone who dares to get in your way. Let alone a ‘well-meaning’ husband, offering ‘helpful’ tips about what’s been ‘left behind’ (it’s not left behind, arsehole, it’s item 53 on the Terminator console). However close you are to departure, stay away. There is nothing useful you can say, do or be to a momma on a mission.

So, ladies, gents, children, just do yourself a favour; slink off for another ice cream and leave us to it. We will get that shit done perfectly well on our own. And no messing.

FOOTNOTE

Whilst I’m on the clearly emotive subject of packing, here’s my helpful list – momma to momma – of things you should never ever bother packing for holidays:

  • Socks for children (they NEVER wear any)
  • Nail varnish/face pack/massage oil (cos that’s NEVER going to happen, right)
  • Half the clothes you take for yourself (you NEVER wear more than a couple of (baggy) favourites anyway)
  • Suncream (weighs a fucking ton, costs you dear in extra baggage, and frickin’ EXPLODES all over your bag before you even arrive)

And then there are the essential things you SHOULD pack but never remember:

  • Toothbrushes (cue a week of chewing toothpaste – if you’ve remembered it – and molar rubbing)
  • Hairbrush (cue elation from daughters who see no issue with cultivating holiday dreadlocks)
  • Swim nappies (cue the ‘going commando’ dilemma, and disappointed shitty optimism)
  • Pants (cue a week of wishing you had brought a bikini instead of one piece halter neck)

Or is that just me?

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