Just Mash The Bag

So I'm getting ready to head to Charlottesville to do some on-site work with my favorite blogger. (In other words, I'm taking a two-day "Mommy Vacation.") Of course, this two-day visit requires about two weeks of planning and preparation that would make the Secret Service proud. I'm running around the house folding clothes, packing bags (Princess E is off to a friend's house while Princess G goes to grandma's), making a pre-trip grocery shopping list and cleaning the bathrooms (because if I go down in a fiery plane crash I do not want mourners gathering at my house and finding dirty bathrooms. Don't judge me - y'all know you do the same thing) while giving my dear knight a schedule of the princesses' activities, needs and latest quirks (pears=good; bananas=bad). My eyes catch the starter dough for the Amish Friendship Bread I've been given a couple of days before.

"Oh, and honey, make sure while I'm gone you mash the bag of Friendship Bread once a day."

"What?"

"Mash the bag of Friendship Bread once a day."

"Why?"

"Because that's what you have to do to make the bread."

"How?"

"How what?"

"How do I mash it? Do I really knead it or just lightly massage it? Do I do it in the morning or at night? How long do I mash it? Are we talking a couple of minutes, or should I get comfortable on the couch for a long mashing session? How do I mash it?"

"Oh for goodness sakes, just mash the freakin' bag for a minute every night, okay?"

At which point I stalk upstairs, muttering phrases like "How does that man manage to find his way to work every morning?" under my breath.

But, once I thought about it, as much as I hate to admit it, his reaction actually made sense. Here I was planning something akin to the D-Day invasion, giving him detailed instructions on precisely how to fix Princess G's hair and pack Princess E's snack, and I suddenly throw a random, slightly unusual, completely unspecific reminder his way. He's been filling up a notebook with the instructions I've been hurling his way, so when I give him something so easy, my dear knight thinks there has to be more to the whole bag-mashing duty - just mashing the bag simply cannot be all there is.

Which of course led me to then realize that my family didn't really need to pull out the D-Day invasion playbook for my two-day trip. They probably would do just fine with directions as simple as, "Clean clothes are in the closets. Food is in the fridge. Get in bed by 8 p.m. and stay out of the cookie jar. That means you too, dear knight."

Would it be perfect? No. Would it be perfect even if they followed my directions to the letter? No. Would it be perfect if I were there running the show? Uh, no.

Hmmm. Lesson learned.

So, I'm headed out the door in just a few hours. The house is not perfect. I can't find Princess E's favorite socks. And Princess G is just going to have to suck it up and wear jeans again tomorrow (oh, the horror). But they'll be fine. And they'll have fun. And next time, we'll all be a little less stressed - we're just gonna relax and mash the bag.