I have the BEST best friend in the entire world.

She took me out tonight, picking me up as all good boyfriends do when their girlfriends get their driver's license suspended (Isn't it kind of weird how I automatically made Car the boy?). She drove to Barnes and Noble where we sat in the cafe and sipped our very sophisticated speciality frappuccinos and discussed important issues, like feminism's take on holding open doors and why it's so weird to pray for other people. We later ended up at Target, where I bought my seventh and eighth pair of tights in three days. I think that's a sickness. She dropped me off with a plethora of gifts, including stationery, a very European style journal, a sewing kit (must. learn. how. to. sew.), an alarm clock, 12 felt-tip markers and pepper spray. I am so prepared now that it's not even funny.

Then there's the packing issue itself. My room was SPOTLESS just a week and a half ago. Every last piece of clothing was tucked away in my bureau or closet. Now, it's like every viable surface is fair game for my messiness. Even the one suitcase that I had nearly packed has to be redone because I realized that the only outfit I had left - a strappy tank-top and "Got Crabs?" boxer shorts (from a seafood restaurant, come on!!) - might not be appropriate for outside wear. And of course the chosen wardrobe pieces were near the bottom of my stack.

That's all the complaining I can think of for now. The end.

I am so EXCITED EXCITED EXCITED.

I think this is the first time I can say that and know that I'm not kidding myself. EEEEEEK. I think I know what changed my mind, too, although it's kind of weird.

Amy called me into the sunroom last night because she was watching home movies. The first one she popped in was my dad's fortieth birthday, when a bunch of guys from his work showed up with a wheelchair and a massive sign for the front lawn. When they got to work and wheeled my dad into the conference room, a woman donning secretary gear stood up and starting gyrating her hips and unbuttoning her blouse. This is the point where Amy and I screamed and covered our eyes and fast-forwarded it to a safe part where our dad was eating pizza at Godfather's with his good buddies. Whew.

So then we switched to a safer video - one from nine years ago when Kevin was learning to walk and Amy in all of her chipmunk-cheeked glory whined from the opposing couch. And I saw us all as little kids, when things were simple and self-consciousness was non-existent and we were all our own unadulterated selves. I was confident, I was cute, I was blessedly naive, and I clearly had the oldest child syndrome! I was self-assured because I didn't have a reason not to be.

I think as you grow up, you sometimes lose sight of the person inside of you. You develop a paradigm of yourself and you feel like you have to fit in that clearly inadequate little bubble. You set limitations for your dreams.

Looking at myself on the screen as I used baby Kevin as a shield to block Amy's irritated kicks, the way I smiled and laughed and clapped - like no one was watching - just made me feel so rejuvenated. It reminded me that I can do anything and that there are enough people in the world to set limitations for me without me doing it to myself.

I am going to London and I will unashamedly be myself and I will have fun and I will not stress out. And when I have to be mature and be at work by 9 a.m. - all polished and ready to go - I will go out clubbing the night before.

I have decided that somewhere between birthing seven children - including one who is suspiciously looking more and more like a cat every day - washing apples in the soda fountain at McDonald's and telling bathroom stories in the middle of a meal, my mother has lost her mind. Oh, and she also forgot to care that tomorrow is the first day of school for the three youngest monsters in this household.

I'm sure your first day of school ritual went something like this: You laminate your school supply list at the beginning of the summer and keep it in a safe place until August rolls around the corner. You schlept yourself to Wal-Mart and painstakingly debate between the five different designs of Lisa Frank pencil boxes. You dig through plastic sacks the night before school starts, putting every glue stick and box of crayons in the right pocket. You lay out your pressed polo shirt and polyester plaid skirt right before you're tucked into bed for your necessary nine hours of sleep.

That was me. In the early 1990s. With a refreshed mother who got excited about little things, like the newness of the first day of school. That's when our family still balanced, albeit shakily, on the edge of normalcy. And, perhaps most poignantly, that's when there was no Lexie.

Fast forward twelve years. Dad dragged himself and the three youngest kids to bed after a night at the fair. My sisters live for one thing and one thing only: their cats. They don't care about school. In fact, they probably even forgot that school starts tomorrow, so forget about packing your bookbag. No worries, however, because Mom's on top of things. She directed me toward the downstairs basement closet and the bags and bags of school supplies. She also scrawled out three class supply lists before popping four Naproxins to numb the pain shooting down her legs.

So here I am, sleepy and CHILDLESS, mind you, trying to pacify these soulless professionals. Kevin's teacher wants the gluesticks that come three to a pack - DO THOSE EVEN EXIST?! Somehow we ended up with seven boxes of markers, yet one box of crayons. Dry erase markers for a fifth grade class?! What the hell. I don't even think we were allowed to operate pens then. Between the three of them, they need roughly 26 boxes of Kleenex and Mom must have forgotten that.

I'm going to poke my eye out with a No. 2 pencil.