Vacation: Leisure time away from work devoted to rest or pleasure.

See, the dictionary is flat wrong about this. To find the real definition, you have to trace the word back to its roots.

Vacate: Leave (a job, post, post, or position) voluntarily.

Yes, we’re leaving and it’s voluntary. But there’s little that’s leisurely about it, particularly now that we’re in the waning hours and every tick of the clock echoes as loudly as the dripping kitchen faucet at night.

The guys are so “excitick” they’ve been packed for more than a week. Can’t wait to see the creases and wrinkles when we get there – and that’s considering only their clothes, not the new lines that will magically appear on my face.

Big Guy has been good about keeping his stuff to the confines of his carry-on size bag – which we’re going to check anyway even though checking luggage will cost us an arm and a leg.

That’s better, though, than losing an arm or a leg if one or more tantruming guys decides to chew it off during a plane-change meltdown and I’m stuck limping along carrying a kid and a suitcase.

Boots, on the other hand, still thinks he’s taking half his toy box. Talks are under way to negotiate it down to a few small Thomases.

Their backpacks are another matter. Big Guy has loaded his with his kiddie laptop, not getting that he’s going to have to carry it during the plane change. Yep. I know whose back it’s going to land on.

And they still have to remove some things to make room for snacks.

A trip to Big Lot’s yielded what should be enough to last the entire trip. Realistically, the stash could be gone before we take off thanks to the mandatory two-hour wait.

Pretzels and cheese dip – dang, is TSA going to consider that a liquid? Where are my two-quart bags hand how many pretzels and cheese dip packs can I cram in? Is TSA going to confiscate them? Heaven help the agent who tries to take food from Boots. Gitmo might have to open a preschool wing.

Rice Krispie Treats – oh, those are so not going in the cabin. Not after Boots’ cross-country meltdown the last time we flew. The last thing that boy needs is more sugar.

Juice bags – I know they’ll never make it into the cabin, and two ugly memories leave me unsure whether to risk them even in checked baggage.

There were the gel food colorings that blew up in my suitcase when I took them on a trip that involved cake decorating almost 20 years ago. I think I started a new tie-dye trend in Colorado after that one.

More recently, bagged and wrapped containers of applesauce oozed all over my luggage after TSA slashed the package with a knife instead of taking the time to open it and check. I was so glad I’d done all my laundry before we left so I wouldn’t have to wash it when we got home.

Where are my travel shampoo and conditioner? Where’s the curling brush I  haven’t used in five years but know I’ll need in the five days we’ll be gone?

Where are the tickets? Oh, that’s right. No one does those anymore. I have to kill my own trees so airlines can save a few bucks and keep down the cost on checked baggage.

Where’s the rest and pleasure? We’ll get to that, in a few more days. Then we’ll have a few more days before the trauma starts all over again.

Copyright 2009 Debra Legg. All rights reserved.

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