smallworldjourney

I would like to take my three-year-old with me to London, but I get the strangest reactions when I mention this to people. My mother-in-law simply said “No.” One sister-in-law said she’d rather slit her wrists than take a child to Europe. But why? I ask. People in London have children, and they get by. And then they tell me that the flight’s too long or the jet lag is terrible. But he travels well, I say. He was fine for 13 days of our 14-day road trip. He’s been camping. He’s been hiking. He has waited in line at Disneyland. He’s flown to Seattle. We’ve worked up to this, and we’re ready. Sometimes I wonder why I feel so strongly about traveling with kids. Okay, I do know why, but we have to go way back:

When I was six, my parents packed their four children into the family station wagon and embarked on a road trip from Phoenix to San Diego—a trip we had saved for by collecting aluminum cans at parks or along the roadside. I got bit by the travel bug on that trip. No, not bedbugs, but wanderlust. Incurable, untreatable wanderlust.

This particular trip was my first (ever) trip to the beach. I remember thinking that the water went on forever—something I’d never seen before. In Phoenix, no matter which way you look, there are mountains on the horizon. This was sky and water. Mom explained that there was land on the other side, but it would take days and days to reach it. And then suddenly I wanted to learn everything about the ocean.

My sister and I chased waves and were fascinated by the ebb and flow of the water. My older brother constructed sand castles with defenses against the waves; my youngest brother tried to fill the ocean back up with sand as if it were a puddle in our backyard. This hands-on experience is something that no textbook or television program could have given us. It had to be experienced.

Our next stop was Sea World. I’d seen Jacques Cousteau movies in school, but they couldn’t compare with starfish and sharks and killer whales all up close. (And seagulls, which I found quite annoying after one dropped poo in my hair. No, you don’t forget that.) We also visited the La Paloma Lighthouse and toured the Naval Base. At some point, we drove over the Coronado Bridge. “How can you build a bridge in the water?” I asked. My parents answered with an explanation of bedrock and piles.

Whether it was our trip to San Diego, exploring Zion’s National Park, or fishing in the Little Colorado River, we weren’t just going to see something, but to experience something. Traveling with my parents meant having your questions encouraged and answered and fully engaging with a place. This is how I travel with my children and why, someday soon, I am taking them all to London. (Stay tuned.)