Apologies to Seth & Amy...

Really?!

Once again, it's almost time for the Tangent family summer getaway. Not the full week -- we're on an off-year for that -- but we're going away for a long weekend, because, you know, two weekends in a row of family reunions (dad's side, then mom's) isn't sufficient together-time (although I'll admit I spent very little time with my immediate family members there; that was more about catching up with cousins I never see).

So anyway, I'm not on the whole as bitter as I realize I sound about all of this family time, because I actually like my family, most of the time, and enjoy spending time with them. Once we're in the thick of these getaways, they're for the most part fun and relaxing and nice, and it means a lot to my parents that we get together like this.

BUT. The leading-up-to-it part? Makes me crazy. My mom sends out emails to let everyone know the plan: when we can check in, what we need to bring, where we can get food, that she's cooking for everyone the first night. All of this following, earlier this summer, the distribution of hard-copy literature about the place we're visiting, as well as instructions that the web site is pretty thorough.

So you'd think that, being adults in our thirties and forties, my siblings and I could fend for ourselves, armed with all of that information, right?

Of course not. Immediately, it's a flurry of emails along the lines of, "Hey, mom? Is there a coffee maker?" and "Hey, is there a restaurant nearby?" and "Hey, mom? My GPS isn't recognizing the address -- can you give me directions?"

Really, I know that she never stops being our mom, and maybe there's a bit of learned helplessness among us because she's been so good at telling us 97% of what we need to know about this trip.

But, really? She put the phone number of the place in the email. She is not interested in answering any more of your questions. She doesn't drink coffee; she thinks the restaurant onsite is a rip-off; she's making two tons of ziti and bringing you and your kids a week's worth of chocolate-chip cookies to eat in three days. She's paying for the trip. She is putting the statue of the Virgin Mary in the window to ensure good weather for the weekend. (Really. I know.) She has told you everything she knows. Do not try to take a kilometer when she's offered you a mile. Be a grown-up. Make the call yourself. You don't even have to tell the rest of us what you find out (that'd be nice, but not essential).

Really.