Let’s stay indoors forever, shall we?

How we rollllllll. (This is Kit’s expression for every single car trip we take. Girlfriend does NOT sleep in the car.)

I’m currently feeling exceedingly emotionally fragile.*

And it’s all because I drove in a car with my kids.

Let me rephrase that: I drove for many hours in the car with my children, an activity we do a lot during the summer.



But the things require driving. And driving with two little kids and a dog and a giant husband for long periods of time is not fun.

Kit is really, really bad in the car. If I didn’t love her so much, I might pair the words “nightmare,” “Kit” and “car” together in the same sentence.  

When we’re not in the car, I’m all like, “Here’s some ethically-sourced salmon, perfectly braised with lemon and organic butter. Please eat some broccoli. Here is a glass of $5 organic milk.”


Then, after they’ve “eaten” their potato chips and scattered them LITERALLY EVERYWHERE, I go into the back seat between them, sit on a pile of saturated oils and dehydrated potatoes, to sing songs, tickle them, help Sam with his iPad, play with their hair, etc.  Which is great. BUT I DO THIS FOR FOUR HOURS OR HOWEVER LONG IT TAKES TO GET TO OUR DESTINATION.

We have fun, don’t get me wrong. This weekend, we were at the beach and hanging out with my mom, who really needs us around. It’s really, really nice. But, there is always a niggling voice in the back of my head, “Is this worth it?”

Because it’s not just the car, it’s the packing. As a friend recently said, “I never feel more like a Cinderella than when I’m packing up for my kids.”


It’s hours of packing. Hours. Packing to get there. Unpacking when we get there. Packing up to leave. Then unpacking when we get home.

Which: LOL. I don’t unpack when I get home. What kind of mother actually has the energy to unpack when they get home from a road-trip with their little children? [Answer: Probably a mother on meth. Speaking of which,  do you ever wish that you could maybe get a teeny-tiny bit of meth? Just a little bit? I mean, I NEVER have thought this. Ever. But if I did, I would probably think this as I’m trying to find the energy to clean out the black mold from yet another plastic water bottle. But only hypothetically.]

Anyway, because I don’t get access to just a TEENY-TINY bit of meth (just a little bit), and instead, pass out immediately on the couch once the kids go to bed, everything sits in their bags until the next weekend, when I’ve recovered enough (after a week of work)  to actually put everything away.

I just need to say “No” to weekends away in order to save myself (self-care, bitches!). But it’s so hard. Because I do like to have fun and get out of the house. I love it so much! I love doing things! But it’s so hard to do things with little children. Maybe in a few years?

Until then: Don’t forget about me?

*I’m also feeling emotionally fragile because as I was recovering from this weekend in bed and taking five minutes to pretend to read The New Yorker, I definitely heard an animal** in our attic and it makes me want to move into a motel for the rest of my life.

**Animals in your attic will eventually move, right? Like, they’ll just leave without having to do anything about it? Pack up their adorable little suitcases, put on an adorable jaunty cap and get a little adorable bus pass for Florida?  (Please say: “Yes.”)



Btw: Did you know I have a newsletter? I do. It’s short and funny and has some recipe ideas as well as some links to interesting articles, etc. It’s like The Skimm but for busy, tired parents and women who don’t look a day over 35. I promise you’ll like it.

You can subscribe here. It comes out every Friday. 


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