A couple of years ago, Mary Laura Philpott wrote a series for the New York Times’ Motherlode column about her family’s move from Atlanta to Nashville. Recently, I ran across her essay “And Then The Dog Died,” again. It’s about all the stuff that got in the way of maintaining routine in the midst of a big change, and, on the cusp of our own little adventure, it was helpful to revisit a piece that reminded me that life rarely goes according to plan.

Suffice it to say that May was not – and is never – our most productive month. By late-April, the school year might as well be over, except for about 12 activities per child that require heavy parent involvement in the weeks leading up to the actual end … Something we didn’t fully factor in when deciding to leave for this trip on the very last half day of school.

Before and after dropping the kids off on Wednesday, we did everything that we would have done in the past two weeks had it not been for: Ivy, three sets of house guests, 2nd grade play, kindergarten graduation, job interviews, farewell parties, field day, a preschool play, trips to Chicago and Atlanta to celebrate a friend’s birthday, and miserable fever virus in all three kids that lasted 5 (five!)  days.

It had been a long time, if ever, since we’d felt this overwhelmed.

On Monday afternoon, I started packing in earnest, a job that basically looked like me dumping out three huge laundry baskets into the middle of our living room, putting kids’ outfits into individual gallon-sized bags (for easy transfer for our one-nighters and less hap-hazard unpacking) and squeezing them into duffles.

After that, we had about five waking, kid-free hours to prep healthy snacks and pack the cooler, get our house clean and ready for two sets of house guests and a corporate rental, and pack miscellaneous bags of swim stuff, cold weather gear, kids entertainment, and clothes for ourselves.

If that had been all we had to do, I’m sure we would have left right on time.

But 45 minutes before we had to pick the girls up at school, our dryer started making a crazy noise, and in the process of trying to resolve a minor issue, Andew ripped our dryer hose in half, leaving me to pack the final bags, make the kids’ lunches, etc. while he fixed it.

If you’d seen us, you would have laughed. In fact, if we’d had time, we would have laughed, too.

We were the last people in carpool line, and the only ones with a van loaded down with enough snacks to feed a small town and clothes suited for every season.

Our first drive, for which we left an hour late, was a long haul – nine hours to Kansas City, where we would stay two nights with the parents of our friend Matt Wertz. The kids were so wired from the last day of school and the anticipation of the trip that for seven of the nine hours, I wondered if I shouldn’t have just booked a few flights for us instead of deciding to drive cross-country. But once we hit St. Louis, the mood began to shift for all of us. We had a quick dinner at the Four Seasons’ rooftop bar (secure parking, reasonable pub menu), with a clear view of the arch, and where the kids could dip their feet in the pool while we waited on our food.

Peter continues to ask where and why we are moving. It is difficult to explain to a four year old that seven weeks is not forever, especially since Bessie is loaded down with what looks like almost everything we own. Elizabeth and Claire want to know when we will reach Canada, not fully understanding the point-to-point aspect of this adventure.

And Andrew and I are remembering again how much we like traveling together. Whether things go according to plan or not, there is so much gratification in just going, moving forward with only the essentials on board and trusting the adventure ahead.