Let the dog in!

This was Kid’s proclamation prior to our little 4-day Thanksgiving weekend trip to Grandpa’s house. She’s 4. I said, “okay, here’s your bag.”

She packed her essentials.

By essentials, I mean, a Pocahontas dress, three skirts (no shirts), four nightgowns, one swimsuit (two sizes too small) and six dresses ranging in season from Spring to Summer.

Hey, it kept her busy for a good five minutes. Which means five minutes of no one sitting on me, pulling on me, or yelling at me from the bathroom.

After all this freedom of packing, she dragged it down the hallway, pulling up the rug, and crashing into the wall a few times. Then she declared her gift to us: we carry it, the duffel bag that foreshadowed our pants after our Thanksgiving meal.

You may think this overpacking was ridiculous and she’d never in a million years wear it all, but you did not see the oh-so-excited girl upon arrival. In that first 30 minutes, her outfit changes rivaled Cher at the Mirage.

It didn’t have a mirror ball or headdresses, but Kid’s show provided encores and was free.

At that moment, I understood our role: roadies.

Only without the pot and the desperate, begging fans.

Is it too late to establish a union?

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