In our household, the packing duties are divided between me and my husband with the rigidity of a 1950’s household. He is responsible for the heavy lifting and strategic positioning of our “stuff” in the minivan. I’m the gatherer. I assess the needs of the family members then collect fragments from every corner of our abode until a miniaturized version of our household is assembled upon the floor in the front hallway.
Rarely do these two roles intersect. And while our “Me Tarzan, You Jane” separation of duties can be a source of strife in many aspects of a relationship, it actually works well in the context of preparing for a road trip. For one thing, it prevents fighting. And when a family is about to embark on a long drive together in a small, confined space, it’s not ideal to start the trip with a cloud of resentment hovering over the front seat of the car.
Our ritual is simple. On the date of departure (or the day before, if we’re leaving before dawn), I review my checklists and slowly build an arsenal of necessities for the trip. I’m in the zone – gliding from drawer to cupboard to closet. I can practically hear Snow White whistle while I work. If Ted suddenly wanders into my zone with his comments or questions, I cringe.
“Did you pack the camera?”
“When will you be done?”
“Don’t forget the passports. Did you print the map?”
“Please let me do this,” I’ll reply through a forced smile. Or I’ll send him off to grab a few things for me. Either response tends to elicit a quick withdrawal of his presence.
Generally, Ted understands why I want my solitude. After all, he does not want me in his way when it’s time to pack the car. If anything, his intrusions are less about a desire to help me, and more a desire to move into the next stage – filling the car. Our established routine took years to define. I used to load suitcases into the car, thinking I was being helpful. Ted would then proceed to pull everything out, shaking his head with a laugh.
“That’s not how you pack a car,” he’d chide me as I stood beside him, bewildered.
I still don’t know the secret to car packing. Whether men trade clandestine tips about how to get the most space out of a vehicle, or they are hardwired at birth to excel at this role, I don’t know. But I’ve learned to let him do it the way he wants. No matter how much he curses and huffs and puffs with frustration – it’s best to not interfere. That’s all part of the process. And, keeping the peace is as much a goal as readying the car to leave. Anger can take up a lot of space in small quarters, too.
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