The Packing Gene

So, girlchild and I are going away this weekend.  On Friday I’ll pick her up straight from school and we’ll be off to New Hampshire for what is becoming our “traditional” girls’ weekend.  Of course, this year we are calling it “fencers’ weekend” so that her foster sister doesn’t feel more left out than already inherent in such an endeavour.  There is, after all, a fencing tournament on Saturday.

Girlchild is incredibly excited about this trip.  On Tuesday she asked me why I wasn’t packed yet. She asked me if she could pack, so I told her where to get luggage.  She dragged a luggage from the basement up to her room on the second floor, and proceeded to pack it.  An hour later she came clattering down the stairs with her luggage and added it to the pile I had started of “things to go with us”.

This morning I finally got a chance to open the luggage to see what was in it.  I was expecting, at best, half of the clothes she needs, and random toys.

What I found was a neatly packed luggage with one toy, one pillow, neatly folded (well as neatly as she could manage) clothes, pajamas, toothbrush and other toiletries, and two books.  Everything perfectly and logically arranged.


Tonight, she can pack my luggage.

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