Call Me Charlie

My husband wants to know if I’ve forgotten that we live out of suitcases. He wants to know why I went to TJMaxx three times during our two weeks in New York City to get clothes for me and the kids, and why I then didn’t get rid of any other clothes to make room for the new ones. He would like me to know, at 9:00pm on the night before we leave, that he was up at 3:30am this morning and he wanted to be in bed at 8, and mostly, he would like me to know that I have “effed us.”

I would like to remind my husband that we came from winter in Uruguay to summer in New York. Our wardrobes didn’t make sense. I needed clothes. The kids needed clothes. I would also like to remind my husband that I went shopping at a discount store and bought myself pants for $20. Don’t even get me started on the deals for the kids’ outfits, which he, by the way, said were adorable for our nice dinners out in the city. I would furthermore like to remind my husband that he married me, and we said vows, and he should find me charming rather than annoying. Mostly, I would like him to stop cursing.

The kids were asleep as we laid open the empty suitcases and stared at all the many piles of clothes and electronics and random shit, it seemed, that somehow needed to fit inside them. Our toiletry bags would go in this suitcase, in the morning, but he needed something to fit in this spot here, and something else for this teeny tiny spot right here. I went into the bathroom and retrieved my make-up bag and another small bag with travel shampoo and razors and hand lotion. Perfect fits.

“Do you have any more electronics?” Sam asked.

“Ummmm,” I said, scanning the room. I didn’t think so. He had my laptop, laptop charger, keyboard, and video camera. “I think that’s it.”

He zipped up the suitcase.

“Oh,” I said, spotting my other electronic case with my USB connector and mouse. “And this.”

Sam gave me the same look he’d been giving me all night, sort of like a death stare, one that got more and more incredulous and fed up as the night went on. I knew what he was going to say next, because he’d been saying it to me for approximately seven years.

“Babe,” he said, letting the term of endearment—which no longer felt like one—hang. “You need a better system. Don’t you think you could have given me that before I zipped up the suitcase?”

“Well I don’t know why you zipped it up so fast.”

“You just said, can we at least get one of these suitcases zipped up?!”

It went on like this for two hours, until finally, magically, we were all packed, each suitcase stuffed to the max, and two extra bags—a tote and a backpack—filled as well, that we’d have to carry on, and would make the travel day a little bit harder.

“I’ll purge in Park City,” I promised. “I’ll do better next time.”

I told Sam to go to bed. I would wash the dishes, put shows on the kids’ iPads, and return the kid books to the little free library in the basement of the apartment building.

Sam walked out of the bedroom as I was standing at the sink.

“Babe,” he said, his feet stomping toward me. I looked over my shoulder at him, all his anger back in a flash. “Why is your toiletry bag in the bathroom?”

“Because you said we were packing them in the morning!”

“But then you gave me two toiletry bags!”

“Those weren’t toiletry bags! That was my makeup bag, and just, another small bag. Of other toiletries…. You don’t know what my toiletry bag looks like?!”

“FUCK!” Sam whisper-yelled.

“It’s fine!” I said. “I’ll just put it in the diaper bag.”

Anything that didn’t have a home always went in the diaper bag. I tried to leave room every time, and every time I could barely zip it.

I brought the toiletry bag out, refilling the diaper bag to make sure it worked. Sam stood over me as I slowly, barely zipped the bag shut.

“See?” I said, “Perfect.”

Sam went to bed. I finished the dishes and the iPad shows and returned the library books. I paused to look through the kids shelf downstairs, to see if there was anything new. There was a book with a soccer player on the cover. George had recently become obsessed with the sport, playing every day in the apartment with a little blow-up ball and watching World Cup games. It was a chapter book—just the kind of length George liked. I didn’t recognize the player, Luis Suarez, but I read the back and it said he was one of the best players in the world, and he was from Uruguay.

I excitedly ran into the bedroom to tell Sam, who was laying down with his eyes closed, listening to a podcast.

“Babe look at this!” I said, showing him the cover and reading him the back.

“We have to bring it,” Sam said.

“Definitely,” I said. “I’ll put it in the diaper bag.”

—

Until next week,

Charlie