"Honey, where's our lotion!?"

After putting my life on hold and spending ten bajillion hours planning and packing to head out of town for Thanksgiving with my husband and our young children, ages 1, 2, 3 and 4, travel day finally recently. That morning, my husband, eschewing the need for a checklist of any sorts, tosses his toothbrush and a few pair of underwear into a duffel bag, and we depart. We made it to our chosen location, no small feat with this many small people, let me be the first to tell you.
And on the third day into our trip, it happened. It never fails. Ever. It is apparently a travel necessity in our family, what was about to transpire. Crowded in a hot hotel room, damp white towels strewn about, our baby sucking on a hopefully capped mini bottle of shampoo, my husband's voice rang out from amidst the din of our four children's voices.
"Hey, Honey?" he says.
I brace myself, for I know what's coming.
My husband goes on. "Did we pack my lotion?"
I knew it. I just knew it.
My mind starts spinning with the unfairness of it all. I spend half my life creating to do lists, to buy lists, to clean lists and to pack lists in preparation for this trip. And then, I do it all, buy it all, clean it all and pack it all. We are able to travel nearly solely because of me and my preparation. All my darling husband had to do was pack his own measly things. That's it.
"Did we pack lotion? Did you just ask me if we packed lotion?" I fly off the handle. "How would we pack lotion? Like, are you asking if we were both in the bathroom the other day, lighting some candles and packing while listening to Enya? Are you asking that, Babe? Because I sure as heck don't remember that. Did we have a discussion about you maybe wanting lotion while we're down South and did we come to the conclusion that yes, we should pack it? Did we count to three and both reach into the medicine cabinet and grab the lotion together, our fingers touching, sending love sparks into our system? Did we wrap it in bubble wrap together and pack it in the suitcase, casting loving glances at each other as we did so?"
But I'm not finished. "No! I don't think so, Babe. We did not pack your lotion. I did. I packed my lotion. I packed my lotion because I thought I might need it, or that one of our children might need it. You know, our four children I packed for. In addition to myself. No, Sweetheart, between putting a hold on our mail at the post office and printing out all of our travel documents it must have slipped my mind to pack your lotion. I must have been a little busy packing diapers, bibs, tennis shoes and hair clips. I must have forgotten around the time I was feeding our children lunch while scouring Travelocity for cheap airline tickets. Or maybe it slipped my mind while I was washing and drying that one last load of laundry before we left the house at 4:30 in the morning on Saturday. Oh wait, now I remember. We didn't pack your lotion because I was too busy cleaning out the truck, procuring a place for us to park while we're out of town, finding someone to check on our house while we were gone and emailing our small group leaders that we'd be absent on Sunday night. Wow, how insensitive of me."
"So no, Darling. We did not pack your lotion. I did not pack your lotion. But you. Did you pack your lotion? That's what I thought!"
Still far from done, I carry on. "Come on, where is this personal responsibility you speak of? What about all that conservative talk radio, Hon? I get so irritated that it is my job to pack up our whole family when we travel, take care of all the necessary details, and that you only have to pack for yourself, yet still always seem to ask me if I also managed to pack your things for you."
Finally, the volume of my voice peaks and I shriek, "If you thought you might need lotion on our trip then why on God's green earth didn't you just pack it your gosh darn self!?!?!?!!?"
And then I take a deep breath and start to feel better.
But of course I don't say all that. I am learning, slowly but surely, that it is not my place to put my husband in his. He is a big boy. He can learn to remember his own lotion by himself. Well, scratch that. Maybe he can't. He's 33 and still often relies on me for nailclippers, tweezers and Q-Tips when we travel. So instead, I choose to decide it's not a big deal. Instead of ranting like I want to, I say what goes against my prideful grain to say.
I say, "Yes, we sure did, Babe. Here you go."
And I toss my tube of lotion across the noisy hotel room into his waiting hands. Sure it's only a small victory for me. But still I celebrate it.