The Bean and Cheese Burrito That Ended My Career

Long before everyone had GPS in their pocket, I had a job taking pictures of houses for a weekly real estate magazine.

At the time, I was in my twenties with three children. One was already in school, but the two younger ones sometimes rode along with me when I couldn’t find anyone to watch them.

Each week, I was given a list of somewhere between 50 and 100 houses scattered across San Antonio. I would buy a new foldable paper map, spread it across my living room floor, and map out the most efficient route from one house to the next.

There was no little blue line telling me where to turn. No cheerful voice rerouting me when I missed an exit. It was just me, a giant map, a list of addresses, and the determination to avoid driving back and forth across San Antonio like a lost raccoon.

Over time, I learned that city like the back of my hand.

I learned the highways, the frontage roads, the back roads, and the shortcuts. I learned which streets connected and which ones only pretended they did. Even now, when traffic comes to a complete stop, I can usually find another way around it.

Most of the pictures were taken from outside the houses, although occasionally I photographed the interiors too. The homeowners knew when I was coming, and they were told to move their vehicles out of the driveway before I arrived.

Naturally, many of them did not.

I would knock and politely ask them to move the cars. But I had as many as 100 houses to photograph, so I wasn’t going to stand on the porch for twenty minutes while someone searched for their keys, woke up another member of the household, or held a family meeting about who had parked behind whom.

If the cars weren’t moved, the cars were in the picture.

Congratulations. Your Buick is now a prominent feature of the property.

They could always pay an extra $50 to have the house photographed again the following week.

When my little ones came with me, I tried to be prepared. I brought snacks and drinks. We stopped for bathroom breaks. We got out of the car so they could stretch their legs. But 50 to 100 houses is a lot of houses, especially when you’re small, bored, and strapped into a car seat while your mother repeatedly jumps out to photograph somebody else’s home.

One day, we stopped at Taco Bell, and I bought the kids their favorite bean and cheese burritos.

Later, when I opened the car door to let them out for another break, I discovered that my youngest had smeared an entire bean and cheese burrito across the window.

Not dropped it.

Not spilled a little filling.

She had applied it to the glass like stucco.

I stood there staring at that refried-bean masterpiece while my children stood nearby watching me, probably wondering whether I was going to laugh, cry, or simply walk away and begin a new life.

I can’t do this anymore.

It wasn’t really about the burrito. The burrito was merely the final, beautifully smeared symbol of what I already knew: this job had become too stressful for me, and spending such long days in the car wasn’t fair to the kids.

So I quit.

Later, I regretted it because it really had been a good little side hustle. But sometimes a good opportunity still isn’t right for the season of life you’re in. At that point in my life, no amount of careful route planning could make 100 houses and two little children fit comfortably into one or two days.

Still, that job taught me something I’ve carried into every road trip since: preparation matters.

A packing list cannot guarantee that everything will go according to plan. It cannot prevent traffic, closed roads, forgotten keys, cars parked in front of the house, overtired children, or the unauthorized application of Mexican food to your vehicle.

But being prepared gives you more room to handle the things you cannot predict.

When the snacks are packed, the directions are saved, the extra clothes are within reach, and the essentials have been checked off, one ridiculous mishap doesn’t have to derail the entire day.

That’s why I believe in packing lists—not because I expect travel with children to be perfectly organized, but because I have traveled with children.

Preparation doesn’t eliminate chaos.

It simply reduces the number of ways chaos can kick your ass at the same time.