When
I was four, my parents took my sister and me to Walt Disney World’s Fort
Wilderness Camp. Chip and Dale and Winnie the Pooh showed up at our evening
campfire. My sister and I played at the beach in matching Minnie Mouse
swimsuits. We spent days wandering around the Magic Kingdom. A classic
family vacation if there ever was one.
What
do I remember best about that trip? Getting my own can of grape soda in a hotel
lobby.
The
memory is vivid: sitting in a sun-lit room surrounded by green plants and soft
music (the Polynesian Resort, perhaps?) clutching my VERY OWN can of grape soda, next
to my sister who had her VERY OWN can of orange soda. Dreams really do come
true.
We
are starting to plan a family trip to D.C. While my twelve year old has been
burning to go for some time, we are working on boosting my seven year old’s
enthusiasm. “I want to go back to South Dakota,” she said a few weeks ago,
referring to last summer’s excursion.
“Why?”
I asked, expecting her to reminisce about the herd of buffalo right outside our
campsite, or Jewel Cave, or the presidential heads.
“So
we can go back to that candy store.”
Candy
store? I don’t even remember a candy
store. It might have been some grubby little gas station we stopped in along
the way. That’s what she loved best?
So
why take a family vacation at all? We could save a whole lot of money staying
home sipping grape soda and buying gas station M&M’s. Why bother loading up
the van and the kids and heading across the country when you know- know- there will be at least one blowout fight?
Because
there’s so much to see! Traveling gives our kids (and their parents) a point a
reference; that thing we read about or heard about or saw on TV, is
suddenly real. Venturing beyond our backyard proves that our little
corner of the world is just that- a little corner of the world. And let's not underestimate the lessons family
vacations impart, often against our will. Lessons like:
things-will-never-go-exactly-as-you-plan (our flat tire in South Dakota) or
right-now-we-all-need-to-quit-whining-and-pull-together (trying to set up camp in the rain) or
this-is-a-map-so-don’t-ask-me-again-when-we’re-going-to-get-there-look-for-yourself
(just about every trip)
I
love to travel. I didn’t always. My parents like to tell me about the fits I
used to pitch in the back seat. But somewhere between toddler and teen, I developed
a love for traveling and I attest this to my parents’ commitment to take my
sister, my brother, and me to see places like Yellowstone and The
Grand Canyon and the giant sequoia trees in California. Traveling is addictive; it builds on itself like a snowball. You
see a little of the world, you want to see more. You see the west coast, you
have to see the east coast.
And
at the same time, as a parent, I need to consider that my most vivid childhood memories are simple, tethered to home: going to the
city pool. Taking family bike rides. Playing in the back yard. Maybe because
these were not one time memories and sheer repetition has made them
stick. These types of memories will be engraved in my own
children’s minds. Oh, they’ll remember the big trips too, but I don't want to underestimate the everyday, either. Pausing to help my daughter cut out windows in her cardboard box house may seem like
nothing to me, but it’s a big deal to her.
I have assured my daughter there are candy stores
in D.C. But not only that, one of the museums has Dorothy’s ruby shoes. (Now
there’s a dangling carrot.)
So
she’s ready now. Ready to see the world. And all the candy stores she can find.
