You know me: I am anal. I live with ADD and it is okay because it only requires me to live a structured regimine that would seem a bit confining to say, Patton. And the challenges of leaving
I had every bit of clothing washed, impeccably folded, and packed away. All ready to be opened, shiny and new, at the hotel in San Francisco. Granted, it would be at 11:00 at night, cranky baby and all, and freezing cold, but BY GOD THE CLOTHES WERE CLEAN.
I opened suitcase number one (mine and Olivia's clothing) to find that formula had exploded from the baggage handlers suitcase-flamenco dancing. Suitcase number two, opened by Jake, showed that Eric's tin of Poppycock had blown apart as they threw that suitcase on the plane after they had put it through the vice, a la Three Stooges.
I don't know if you have ever actually seen a woman systematically throw every piece of clothing in a hotel room, accusing God of persecuting her and her alone (because He does that sort of thing using glazed popcorn and Enfamil as His Equipment) then dumping out a suitcase in the hall while her husband calmly calls housekeeping. And if you have witnessed such a meltdown, then you know that the next day, her family is happy to have her sane again, even if that means they are cruising around San Francisco in clothing that has dried formula and nuts encrusted into the design.