It’s a sad day when the thought of going on holidays causes a stress reaction. Packing for a family of seven is a project that requires army-like precision, at least a week lead-in time and two Valium. And that’s just to go somewhere for the weekend. Once upon a time when I was single, going away was simple. Ten minutes before I needed to leave the house I’d throw a bag on the bed, put in a few pairs of clean undies, a few t-shirts, a box of condoms, a book and my toothbrush (clearly I used to be a man). Those days are gone.

Now when I go away I need an action plan. In the week leading up to our departure I have to develop an exit strategy. Problem one: Animals. This never occurs to anyone else in my family. If it weren’t for me they’d be left behind and would be DOR (Dead on Return). As a household with two rabbits, a cat and a dog, it’s always a bit of a challenge to find someone who’s willing to tend my furry flock. Occasionally one can dress up pet minding with the title ‘house sit’, but this requires you to have an itinerant and reliable friend who’s not going to trash your house or start wearing your undies.

Cats can be left behind with a drop-in feeder, as can rabbits, but dogs are the co-dependents of the pet world and they require love with their meat… just like blokes.

While preparing for the three-day trek to western Queensland to visit my 95-year-old Nanna it occurs to me that my usual Elvis-minding arrangements weren’t going to hold: I currently have two dogs as we have been saddled with someone else’s dog for three weeks. I suggest taking the dogs on the road. They’re small, if they’re not welcome they can sleep in the car. Although the Bureau of Meteorology is forecasting 40-degree days.

Then I find out that in the Sunshine State it’s a $400 fine for an unharnessed mutt. Great, $800 for the dogs not wearing seatbelts. Our car is a seven seater. I need Nine. It’s going to cost $1500 to hire a bus with adequate seat belts. I book the furry beasts into a doggy B&B. Fleabags are sorted.

I start working through the five washing baskets scattered through the house. I count 13 loads, dried and folded and returned to their appropriate owners. Clean ironed clothes appearing in your cupboards like that, wow, it must be like a miracle has occurred. I fantasise about something like that ever happening to me. The day before we are due to leave I start the packing. I pack the baby’s bag. Jammies, cotton dresses, shorts, t-shirts, swimmers, shoes, undies, nappies, hat, shoes, little toothbrush, hair brush, nit comb (she’s been scratching again), bum wipes, paw paw ointment, goggles, swimming cap, flotation vest, toddler sunscreen.

Then I pack a bag of toys. A few books, pens and paper, a favourite doll… shit, where is the tiny blue teddy. She’s going to have a conniption if we leave without him. Two hours later after pulling the house to pieces I find him, hidden in the microwave. Of course, why didn’t I look there in the first place. I pack my son’s bag. A t-shirt, a pair of undies and some shorts. I love boys, they are just so gloriously simple.

My three teenage daughters have made three separate girlie piles of hair straighteners, bikinis, accessories, bulging make-up bags, frilly knickers, pole-dancing shorts and push-up bras. Just what you need to see Great Nanna. Thank God she’s blind – she’ll be saved from all that cleavage.

I pack the family toiletries including my middle-aged regimen of cleanser, night cream, day cream, eye cream, neck cream, body cream and tit cream. I pack the instant tan so I can look fat and orange rather than fat and white. I pack the first aid: Nurofen, baby Panadol, dissolvable Panadol for my tablet-swallowing-phobic daughter, insect repellant, tea-tree oil, band-aids, bandages, thermometer in case the baby spikes a fever, Panadol suppositories in case a sudden attack of vomiting means we need to use the back door for medication, Laxettes… for the mother who can only poo at home.

The morning of departure has arrived. John packs an esky with water and sandwiches. The baby has peed on my $3000 king-size bed again; I strip it bare, do another two loads of washing and spray the mattress with vinegar to neutralise the stench. The girls are still sleeping. Charlie is on the couch. The baby is pushing banana into the cracks in the floor. I clean out the fridge, clear the fruit bowls and empty the bins. John cleans the bathroom. I vacuum.

The girls wander Zombie-like on their two-hour dressing ritual. After all, they are supermodels. How did they know we were going to have a leaving-home photo shoot? I prepare the animals for their doggie holiday and drop them off. I feed Ivy. I tidy the toy room. I pack towels. Shoes. John is downstairs vacuuming the car. We paint a table so it’s dry on our return. I hang out the sheets. We charge the DVD and pack a few kiddie movies.

The kids start fighting about whose turn it is to use the iPod charger. We pack camera chargers, phone chargers, DVD charger. I feel like crying. It’s 38 degrees inside my house and 25 outside. I wonder if my stress is giving off heat.

I change the phone message. I hide the spare key. I lock the windows. I get on my hands and knees and scrabble under the desk to turn off the computer. I turn off the kids’ computer. I flush the poo thats been lurking in the toilet. I feed the cat and put out fresh water. I move the rabbits to a shady spot. I enforce family weeing. Husband packs car. Kids fight over what seat they get. A rotational roster for the one lone seat is established. It’s midday. We were supposed to leave at 8am. We head out of Mullumbimby. Oh shit. I didn’t pack my bag!