Viva Mexico!

Well, it's vacation time. Mexico this year (if we ever get our passports that is... read my blog entry titled National Passport Hotline for a glimpse into the reality of trying to call the National Passport Hotline).

Getting ready for a trip in our house goes something like this: I start making lists approximately two months in advance. I purchase new underwear for the whole family 6 weeks early. The neighbors are informed, the goats get manicures, the plants get automatic feeders stuck in their roots. The children get haircuts, the house gets steam-cleaned, the house-sitter gets four hundred and thirty-two pages of instructions on how to take care of the house, the animals and the attack Doberman that we always rent when we leave town. (This translates into, "Don't bother trying to come over and steal our finest Saran-Wrap and/or one of the twins. The Doberman can make it to the fence in three seconds.)

So I haven't slept in two months. I have extensive packing check-off sheets for the family. The dogs are bathed, the goats are brushed, the floor is shiny, our paperwork and tickets are in order, we have six bottles of sunscreen available and I have twelve years' worth of snacks in my carry-on. Now here's where it gets interesting:

Four hours before we leave for the airport, the husband opens his suitcase. He throws in six pairs of shorts, shirts and underwear. He closes the suitcase and announces, "Let's go!"

The pre-teen daughter walks in with fourteen chapsticks and lip glosses in fun and fruity flavors and cries, "I don't have any GOOD lip stuff! I'm NOT GOING!"

The teenage boy shuffles in with a bag containing a bathing suit, three socks and a Game Boy, and wants to know when we eat.

The twins are upset because they aren't going, and threaten to eat all of my flowers while we're gone if we don't bring them back t shirts that say, "MY PARENTS WENT TO MEXICO AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS STUPID T SHIRT".

I contemplate going alone. But I'm afraid to leave them all in the house if I'm not here. So we're off like a dirty shirt. Or a band of Gypsies. Or whatever. Mexico has no idea what's coming.