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I don't think I enjoy traveling anymore.

I like getting away, not cooking family meals, and having time to relax. But traveling? I'm just not good at it. Besides, it is so much harder to stay on a diet away from home. What's the point of exercising, denying oneself and counting calories to look good for a trip only to gain the weight back on the road?

A recent family trip reaffirmed my sentiments.

It's still an hour before the sunrise, and I'm already up rushing around. I throw a few clothes in the dryer, cook breakfast and check items off my to-do list. I scurry into the guest bathroom and notice water spots on the mirror. I grab the glass spray and tidy up, swirling the brush around the toilet for good measure.

And then I ask myself why I'm bothering to scrub a toilet for an empty house. Will I be embarrassed if thieves break in and notice my untidy bathroom? What if there's a wreck and I don't make it back? I imagine people at my wake, speaking in hushed tones. "Nice lady, but did you hear she left the house with a dirty bathroom?"

I finally have everything ready when I realize I haven't eaten breakfast. I dump what looks like the right amount of cold cereal into my bowl, slosh in some skim milk and snarf it down while scrambling to find my youngest's missing toy that absolutely must make the trip. My husband finally accepts the fact that if he wants to leave before noon, he's going to have to take over. He wipes down the kitchen counters while I begin to unravel in a bedroom full of toys.

We finally make it out of the garage (only two hours behind schedule), and I start to relax. That is, until the "What if I left . . .?" begins running through my head. Did I remember the kids' asthma medication? The certificate for the hotel? On and on it goes until we are finally so far away that I know I can't convince my husband to turn around.

When I check in, the chirpy clerk promises me special treats already in our room, thanks to our participation in their customer program. We search the room and finally find them on the counter: a single snack-size bag of M&Ms and one bottle of water - for five people. Oh, joy. Maybe later we'll share the water and count out the M&Ms.

Breakfast is my next challenge. Hotels are anything by dieter-friendly. I scan the buffet for my best options. Sausage gravy steams next to biscuits. There are defrosted waffles with only high-calorie syrup and prepackaged pastries with enough preservatives to survive a nuclear holocaust. I opt for yet more cold cereal and skim milk. My youngest takes two discs of what is supposed to be scrambled egg and pretends to have a duck bill, holding them together with his lips while flopping his head up and down until he laughs out loud and drops his breakfast on the floor. Unamused patrons at nearby tables glower in our direction and hold their papers up a little higher.

When my husband and two older kids head off to their sports competition - the reason for our trip - I drop onto one bed while my little guy jumps the other. For the next hour I listen as he flips through cartoon shows, watching each for only a few moments before moving on.

When I can't take the noise any more, I suggest that we find the exercise room. At least I can keep up that part of my diet. The room's empty, so I find a cozy corner for my son to color while I figure out how to start the treadmill. A loud screeching noise fills the air, so I move to the elliptical trainer, which turns out to be manually operated. I push and tug on the pedals, building up a sweat in no time. When I'm too exhausted to push anymore, we gather up the crayons and head back to the room for more bed-jumping and channel surfing.

I'm checking out of our hotel the next morning when I notice loud cheering just outside. The clerk, smile firmly in place, delivers the bad news. "It's a marathon. The street's closed until noon."

We sit along the curb for a long while watching the mass of sweating bodies moving by, every one of them in better shape than I'll ever be.

We finally make it home, and I step on the scales to confirm an additional five pounds to lose. And then it hits me.

I forgot my pillow - my favorite one. It's certainly too late to go back for it now. I step over the mounds of laundry and head down the hall.

The guest bathroom is clean. At least I have that.

Abeyta is an Albuquerque writer and mother of three. She chronicles the ups and downs of dieting the second and fourth Fridays of each month. She can be reached at dietdiaries@msn.com.