He says we never go anywhere. Never.

He says a trip to the grocery store doesn’t count. He wants to go on a real trip.

“A real trip?” I repeat, my voice escalating dangerously. “We’ve gone on plenty of trips! Trips to the doctor, trips to the emergency room, trips to school when you miss the bus …”

His look of derision says it all.

“Look, pal,” I tell him. “In a week and a half, you’re going to camp. Camp. That’s an expensive trip far, far away in the Mystical Catskill Mountains. Where else do you need to go?”

“On a family trip,” he explains patiently, to his slow-on-the-pickup mother.

“Oh no. We avoid family trips,” I assert, in a slightly less patient voice. “That’s how we stay so successful as a family.”

He doesn’t even laugh. He’s getting his father involved. They start scheming.

“Anyway, where would we go?” I ask. “There’s nothing we all like to do! Name one activity that involves sports, classical music, Torah, reading, shopping, historical sites, and chocolate?”

My husband, always maddeningly logical, suggests that we go somewhere and do different activities each day to please us all.

“But we only have a week to get him ready for camp!!” I shriek. “We don’t even have most of the 84 items that are Strongly Recommended by the Camp Mother for a Happy Camper!”

Now they laugh. At me.

The next day the guys are busy poring over maps and leafing through AAA magazines that magically appeared in our kitchen. It’s all giving me quite the headache. The kind that drills through your eye socket and beams through your head to your neck — a.k.a., a sinus headache.

I’m kind of a baby when it comes to sinus infections. I can deal with them up to a point, but once I get to the every-time-I-cough-my-head-feels-like-it’s-going-to-explode stage, I go running for medical attention. This time, I come home brandishing a prescription, a triumphant smile on my face. Now we really can’t go away. After all… I am SICK.

My husband picks up the medicine and assures me I am going to be fine — there’s no need to cancel Our Big Road Trip. Nobody wants to hear about my dizziness; nobody cares that my son doesn’t have enough socks for camp.

I know when I’m outvoted. I start packing.

Fifteen minutes later, the men in my life haul their modest overnighters into the car and wait for me.

I have two steamer-style trunks propped open on my bed. I toss an assortment of apparel, medications, shoes, and cosmetics into the cavernous openings, frantic to finish before they go and leave me behind in my hour of need.

“Almost done, dear?” calls a sweet voice from below.

“Nope. Could take hours more.”

Male sighs follow.

 (Excerpted from Family First, Issue 597)