The bags are packed and have been strategically wedged into the car in what I can only describe as the worst game of Tetris ever. We have everything but the kitchen sink and that’s because my in-laws wouldn’t let us take it. We even gained a chest of drawers. This was Tia’s birthday present from her grandparents and it’s the first time we’ve been able to pick it up.
We packed it before packing it. Everyone has to carry their weight.
The floors are covered in bags, boxes and with last minute
crap treasures we couldn’t bear to part with. In short, we are hauling whatever bits of our lives that didn’t fit in the PODS beneath our feet. For 16.5 hours. Who’s having fun?
I’m not overly concerned about the trip, really. Especially since Lee was able to fly up here and make the drive with us. Not having to do that trip alone? Priceless. Mastercard has nothin’ on that miracle. I’m quite looking forward to the adventure of driving down to Florida. I think it will be fun. Stressful, but fun.
But I am worried about one tiny, little thing. It’s really the only thing that I find myself thinking about pretty regularly with some anxiety. And you would too – in fact, most of you will probably understand and identify with this thing I fear. It’s quite frightening and is worth a bit of trepidation. What’s the one thing I fear?
GAS. And not the kind you purchase at a station (although that has me a little anxious too. Expensive much?) No. The gas I fear is the kind that you don’t want and comes with a price all its own. The “cut the cheese” kind of gas…
Three kids. One dog. And a husband.
I don’t stand a chance.
You coop that many people up in a box for two days straight eating food out of a bag or a fast food joint and the smell is bound to err on the side of ruthless. Add to it my extremely motion sick first born and his tendency to get barfy in the car and you’re looking at a good time right there.
So there you have. I am afraid. I’m woman enough to admit it. I’m scared of gas. Because it’s hot outside so cracking the windows just stirs around hot air, which only makes everyone sticky and sweaty. It doesn’t help.
We covet your prayers – for safety, for enjoyment, for excitement and for provision. But if you think about it, and you feel so inclined, feel free to say an extra prayer for me. Because I’m about to be trapped for 16.5 hours in a metal box and I kind of have a sensitive sense of smell. Smells get trapped up in my nose and don’t come out. It is a curse.
Good times. Good. Times.
Tell me your favorite, and funniest, car trip story. It will give me something to do while I try to survive the box.