It was Friday evening, the end of our visit to Florida; Jeremy and I were trying to decide what departure date and time would be best for avoiding the nightmare of post-spring break traffic. Would we wake everyone early, before the sun? Would we take our time leaving, knowing the highways would be jammed no matter when we left? Which day would be worse, Saturday or Sunday?
It’s the worst part of vacations, having to pack up and go home and drive for a day on a mindless, boring stretch of highway. I dread it, in a way, and I always try to get through it as quickly as possible. In fact, not one week before, someone had asked for tips on traveling with small children and I had said (among other things) to try and stop as little as possible. More stops make for longer trips and longer trips–well, they make my blood pressure go up.
So secretly I hoped we would opt for Sunday, since it would delay the grief of a day spent in the car as well as give me an extra day to dawdle about packing. In the end, however, we decided we would just take our chances and leave Saturday morning, though not in a rush.