I love to travel.  I love to plan travel.  I love to execute travel.  What I really hate are those final days before a trip when you’re securing everything at home so you don’t come back to ashes and dead pets.

I’ve taken my three kids – now three adults – on some pretty epic trips.  We’ve RV-ed around Idaho, caught lobsters in Maine, whale-watched in the Pacific, whitewater rafted in the Smokies, camped in a variety of buggy places and watched a man completely change his clothes on a subway platform in NYC.  Their first international trip was to Italy when Frank was 12, Renee 10, and Marie 8.  We survived the trans-Atlantic flights, lost luggage, lost stuffed animals on trains, and an Easter Sunday when no Italian would feed us.  Having conquered Europe – we have a picture of Frank sitting in ‘Atilla’s throne’ from some island near Venice that I doubt my ancestor ever visited – we travelled to Peru.  Greece, Turkey, Hungary, Croatia and others quickly followed.

The one thing every trip has had in common -- I’ve always managed to make somebody cry in the hours before departure.  It’s just something I do.  I guess the stress of getting everyone packed and ready, managing the tickets and passports, AND making sure the home is secure gets to me.  Invariably, I flip my lid when someone asks what I consider a stupid question, or God forbid – dawdles!

Well, I feel a major lash-out coming on.  We pull out of here in 48 hours.  Today is my last official work day for the next 4 weeks.  And, there’s a lot to be done.  Two days ago I had the vet here for health certs, the farrier here for trims, the truck to the mechanic for an oil change – all during a normal work day that included about 5 hours of conference calls and lots of prep to hand off projects I’ve shepherded for months.  At 8:30 that night, when I was finally able to deliver our third horse to a boarding stable so she won’t be left home alone while we’re gone, I thought I might just crawl into their tack room and hide for a week.

I’ve packed the camping gear.  The trailer is pretty much stocked.  The horses are healthy – we officially trimmed the last of those two horrible cracks out of Juneau’s hooves with this farrier visit!  But, I just can’t get past stressed-out to excited.  I look over the itinerary and have deep trepidation about those 300-mile drive days that I had to build into it to make the schedule work.  I think about the prospect of a horse going lame or simply refusing to load.  In my nightmares, these two things always happen in Missouri or Kansas.  I worry a lot about the fact that Kurt and I have opposite body clocks.  I’m full of energy in the morning and he, well he – God forbid – dawdles.  And work… well, the last time I was out for more than two weeks was 20 years ago when Marie was born.

I’m writing this at 6:00 AM because sleeping is a joke and my last day of work promises to be enough to make me want to ride into the sunset with a guy who doesn’t wake up well and two horses that alternate between balking at loading and running off mountainsides.

I may make an adult offspring cry today.  But more likely, it’ll be me shedding the tears.  Because, you see,  in a month’s time, when I finish this foolish trip and come home, they won’t be here.  Frank will have left to start his new life with Erika in Denver.  And, Renee and Marie will be back in Iowa City and at Clemson, respectively, finally able to take in-person classes.  So, it’ll be me and Reba, who hasn’t left my side since she saw me take the travel duffle from my closet.