A few days ago, my daughter-in-law, Meghan, and my granddaughter, Cora, came to the farm to swim in what I’ve been calling our “Summer of Covid” above ground, 12’ diameter, inflatable pool. Meghan is pregnant, and so, in an abundance of caution, we have opted to keep a low profile this summer and will not be making any appearances at community pools. I ordered the pool early in the spring before the run on above ground pools, and set it up in our backyard where it’s been a great source of fun, and has become a bright blue symbol of my brilliant foresight. I pat myself on the back every time I hoist myself onto my float…

Cora is adventurous and thrives in the water. Splashing around, she loves to “go under,” and every time she comes up, either Meghan or I are there to fix her hair. Constantly trying to keep it out of her eyes, our hands feel like they are on automatic pilot reaching for poor Cora’s head. Finally, we looked at each other the other day and both realized, “OMG, I am my mother.” My mother drove me crazy about my hair; it’s length, style and color were all up for debate, and, in turn, I continue to torture my own 29 year-old daughter. I have no doubt that if she should have a daughter of her own someday, she will keep the family tradition going. It’s what we mothers do, and, if I’m being honest, most times, she was right about my damn hair.

As I’ve gracefully aged, I’ve come to realize that a lot of the things my mother said and did that caused me to roll my eyes, might be genetic. When my kids come to visit and begin to pack up to leave, I go through a well known and remembered litany: “Do you have toothbrushes? Chargers? Jewelry? Did you check under the beds? The closets? How about the shower? Do you have razors, shampoo?” As the words are leaving my mouth, channeling my mother, I am somewhat horrified as, I remember myself thirty years ago, rolling my eyes at the nagging tone and whispering under my breath, “Do you think I’m a freaking idiot, of course, I have my toothbrush,” only to get home and realize my toothbrush was still in the cup on her guest sink.

Perhaps the thing that drove me the most crazy about my mother other than her need to control my hair, was her need to be ready to travel so far in advance. My mom is a planner. As a kid, if we were going anywhere, look out, hide out, stay out. Weeks prior to travel, she would orchestrate an entire “pre-pack.” Suitcases were open on her guest room floor. Piles of clothes, organized by type would be stacked on the bed along with her toiletries, travel gadgets, cameras, film, travel books, and her journal. Her carry-on items were also placed next to the appropriate suitcase at the ready. My father’s fishing pole, tackle box, vest, waders and jacket rested in the corner and if he chose to try to fish a few days prior to the trip, messing with the set up, she was less than thrilled. Lists, lists and more lists were scattered around the house, full of reminders to turn off the water, stop the mail, call the cat sitter. I thought she was insane.

And yet…We leave for a family vacation to Lake Anna, VA, tomorrow and I have sticky notes on almost all available surfaces. Eight adults and a two year old, all traveling in four vehicles to meet at one house for a week, has taken my own “pre-pack” to a whole new level. I have boxes and bags filled with junk food, alcohol, games, toys, puzzles, flotation devices, pumps for flotation devices, water shoes, beach tents, tennis racquets, bug zappers, mosquito coils, bug spray, extra beach towels, gallons of sunscreen, TP, paper towels, extra soap, shampoo, medicine for any and all ailments, and tons of “just in case” items. Coolers are at the ready for last minute loading into the car where I have serious doubts there will be room left for me and my husband. I have just completed my final “Last Minute” informational email and sent it to everyone. My son, Luke, will say “Mom, when are you going to learn, no one reads those things,” when he calls and asks me if they need to bring towels, and I say, “That info was in the email from a week ago.” I have grocery shopped online with a pick up time a few hours after arrival. God only knows what items from that 100+ item order will be “out of stock.” This pandemic is throwing quite the monkey wrench into my planning…But I am ready and have been for days. Thanks, Mom.

When we all gather tomorrow for the week, I will push my daughter’s hair out of her eyes, casually ask her if she has any hair ties, and wonder if she has seen any of the new cute bobs certain celebrities are sporting. Meghan and I will continue the generational torture by trying to convince Cora that ponytails are so much fun, while we steal horrified glances at one another. When it’s time to get ready to leave, which in my head will be Wednesday, although check out day is Saturday, I’ll start to ask everyone if they need last minute laundry done, and they will say, “Mom, it’s Wednesday, chill.” On Thursday evening, I will urge everyone to get started packing so that they can enjoy their last day and they will say, “No worries, we just have to throw everything into the car, it’ll only take a few minutes.” They have no idea that I won’t sleep as I create sticky note lists in my head: “Clean out fridge, take garbage out, return boat, strip beds, make sure everything is out of the washer and dryer, deflate floats, get bathing suits and towels off the line, I know there’s more, what am I forgetting?” Then, on Saturday as eight adults, and a two year old pack up four cars, I’ll say, “Do you all have chargers, sunglasses, keys, razors, jewelry, toothbrushes? Did you check under beds and in closets?” They will all roll their eyes, shake their heads, and then my daughter will say, “Damn, forgot the toothbrush. I’ll run and get it. Thanks, Mom.” And I will think, “My work here is done.”

Thanks, Mom.