Tag Archives: travel

My Trip To Tulsa, By the Numbers

1168 — miles driven.

8 — days of travel.

170 — dollars spent on gas.

-1 — fantastic landmarks on the way out of Iowa. So long, Terrible’s sign.

4 — number of parks we visited in Tulsa, including Hunter Park and the fabulous La Fortune Park.

3 — Poopy pull-ups at rest areas (100% occurring within minutes of having been changed into a fresh one.

78 — average high temp during our stay in Tulsa, dramatically below the usual average and completely beguiling.

2 — total number of pictures in which I appear.

45 — seconds it took for Robin to pee in the wildflowers on the side of the highway. Girl can hold her Juicy Juice.

288 — approximate ounces of coffee consumed.

100 — percentage of grandparents with strange new dietary preferences and requirements.

3 — Awesome go-cart rides with Uncle D., our hero.

8 — meals the girls ate that were organized around pasta salad, because it’s their new fave and the ingredients are easy to come by.

2 — dead mice greeting us at the doorstep upon our return.

10,000 — number of MN readers we hit while I was on the road. Thanks!

0 — what we had in the cupboard for dinner when we got home.

PB on white bread (??), popsicles. Not shown: pizza. Nutrition ftw!

I have more to say and more to share but this mama is spent.

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Report from the road: How much does where you live matter when it comes to who you are?

I’m posting this from a library in south Tulsa, where my youngest is screaming and kicking because this library doesn’t have a slide! The nerve! I wrote this post a few nights ago. I have very spotty internet access, so I’m sorry I haven’t been updating at my usual breakneck pace.

May 11th

Interwebz!! I’ve missed you so much!

I’m writing this in my in-law’s living room in East Tulsa. It’s dark: my in-laws have left to go to a dance at the American Legion; the girls are finally asleep after an evening playdate with high school friends and their kids; and for the first time in days, I’m alone. The TV is playing something called Sonic Tap 814: Modern Country. I believe I just heard a song called “Redneck Yacht Club.” I could turn it off, but it’s fitting.

Its only day 3 of our epic trip and so far it’s been really lovely. The girls are great little travelers and have settled into our gypsy life with relative ease. Nothing feels very far away in Tulsa, so we’ve been all over creation, zipping from point A to point B so fast, and with so much to look at! We’re used to long and winding country highways with cows and fields: here, there’s something on every corner and in between. Today, while driving out of midtown on 41st Street, Robin said, “Mom, I love this neighborhood. It is just so beautiful.” We were surrounded by muffler places, shops and restaurants. They’re even sleeping well: snoring all night and not waking once.

I’m not sleeping well. For whatever reason, I can’t settle into deep sleep (blame the beds? blame the snoring?). It reminds me of my Dad complaining about travel and how hard it was for him to sleep in a new place. As a kid I was like WHATEVERZ OLD DUDE but now I get it, and I do think it’s an age thing. I’m slipping into the middle age zone and my body isn’t that spry young thing. I recently started having chronic knee pain, of all things. It’s related to poor posture, even less cool: if only it’d been a rugby injury or something else kickass. I’ve been calling it “blogger’s knee” because I’ve been writing while standing up at the kitchen counter, locking my knees while I type. Apparently, this is anathema to crucial support muscles in my inner leg, because now I’m all creaky and groany and stiff.

I’m not the only one showing signs – small signs – of age. My gorgeous sister has several gray hairs (she’s not even 30! wtf!) and our parents – mine, hers, and Brian’s – are getting older, too. Not old old, but older. Like, arsenal of supplements and vitamins older. Like, multiple prescription medications to manage blood pressure and arthritis older. Investing in a longterm care plan older. Seems like my friends and acquaintances are also hitting new life stages: folks who’ve stayed close to home are ready for change, and all of us who left home are feeling the urge for the familiar. Seems like things are shifting all over the place, rearranging lives on invisible tectonic plates: jobs, marriages, divorces, babies, whatever.

I keep driving in Tulsa asking myself, “How’s it feeling? What would it be like to be here every day? What would it be like to live here? What about there? How about here? Where am I, anyway?” And the answer is…? OK? It feels fine. It feels like it always did: meh, but not awful, and ecstatically lovely in certain spots. The weather is beguiling: rather than blazing hot, it’s been cool and rainy, just like Iowa. I think it’s project what it would feel like on a daily basis: one moment, I’m thinking Holy shit, I love how everything is ten minutes away, it’s so convenient! The next minute, I’m thinking, How many fucking strip malls can one town sustain?? The whole landscape is characterized by retail:  no wonder living in south Tulsa felt like hell, it’s almost a parody of suburban life and parts are downright ugly.

I could go through all the calculus of the factors of which neighborhoods feel right versus which ones cost right or school right. There’s a ton of mental math happening, and it’s all in organized pro/con lists that run through my mind non-stop, especially when I’m trying to fall asleep while my girls are snoring. What I can picture for sure is: hanging out with my sister all the time. Checking out all the parks, going to Driller’s games, going to the fair. Having a house without a freaky portal-to-hell basement drain that occasionally belches human waste. Fretting constantly over the girls’ fair skin, new allergies, and freedom to play outside, unsupervised and safe. Feeling like a super minority in terms of both politics and religion, no matter how cool our neighborhood might be.

The big question I keep asking myself is: why. Why does it matter where you live? Does it matter? I know great people from shitty places and shitty people from Portland. It all seems like a crapshoot, but the stakes feel incredibly high to me. As I shuttle the kids from East Tulsa to midtown to Broken Arrow and back again, and interact with my in-laws and parents, I realize these questions point largely to issues of identity. What kind of people will my kids be if they are raised in a place like Tulsa? Or in a small farm town in Iowa? What if we make choices similar to (or totally different from) our parents: will we end up just like them, with the same tastes, politics, or regrets? How did our parents manage to raise intelligent and open-minded kids when they possess these characteristics only debatably? If we pick the perfect house in the perfect neighborhood with the perfect school, and raise our kids perfectly, could they still turn out to be assholes? Could choosing a place to live make or break how good and cool they can be – how good and cool we can be? What if they end up unrecognizable? What if we do?

Meghan Daum writes about a concept she calls “domestic integrity:” the idea that the place you live in somehow matches the person you feel like you are inside. I am in search of domestic integrity, but I confess I worry about who I might discover I really am as we make these decisions. These are burning questions in my mind, because I desperately want to have a great decade. My twenties were somewhat squandered on the futile pursuit of a PhD. My thirties have so much potential. I want to lead an interesting life, and I want to raise ethical, thoughtful, open-minded, interesting, cool people, too. Where can that happen best? Are those two things mutually exclusive? Or what?

An art project called “Domestic Integrity Fields”

With those deep thoughts, I’m taking myself and my blogger’s knee to the other guest bedroom for some R&R. With any luck, the girls will stay settled without me in their bed, and I can get a solid chunk of rest. Cross your fingers for this old lady.

Having a Baby as a Life Organizing Strategy

A miracle occurred in my house on Sunday: my two year old slept all night, by herself, in her bed. For the first time in her life.

Finally, she sleeps!

I’ve written about my children’s terrible sleep before, so this bears repeating: my twenty-seven month old daughter slept through the night for the first time last night. I remember that it was also April when my older daughter started sleeping through the night, too: something about the spring after turning two must flip a switch in the brains of my children that says, “Hey – sleep is grand. Let’s do it some more.”

This means I slept through the night, too! For the first time! In over four years! I woke up at 5 am and could tell that it was way later than I typically got to sleep before being called back to the kids’ room. I squinted at the clock to bring the numbers in focus and couldn’t quite believe it. Then I fretted in bed for thirty minutes, assuming that she had not woken up because ya know, she was probably dead. 

It’s funny: co-sleeping is so often characterized as reckless endangerment of a child, but to me it offered ironclad knowledge that my kid hadn’t suffocated. I felt like a neglectful Mom when I woke up the next morning, having slept all night in luxury and not made sure my child was alive once. But she was alive! And I missed her little body in that moment, her snuggly ways and how she always jams her feet under my side. I know she will probably continue to wake up sometimes (like, ya know, the very next night), but I also expect that, like her sister, this will be the start of her kid years. She’s not a baby. She’s almost not even a toddler. She’s almost a kid. I’m almost to a place where I might sleep, all night, in a bed, maybe even with my husband (if he doesn’t snore).

So it might surprise you (it certainly surprises me) that I’ve been thinking a lot about whether or not I want to have another baby. Not only did my youngest child do something that tells me she’s not so little anymore, but it’s my breeding time of year. I got pregnant with Robin in June, and Holly was accidentally conceived during a post-finals week high in May two years later. My body is telling me it’s time to get back on that horse: my body really, really thinks it would be a good idea to get pregnant yesterday.

My heart also kinda wants a baby: I love newborns, I love fat baby faces and snuggles, and I’d love to see my 4-year-old dote over an infant (she often asks me to have another baby, and often asks when she can have a baby). And there’s nothing like the anticipation of a new baby. It has this open possibility that is scary but intoxicating: you know life is going to change completely, and you also know you are about to fall hard for someone completely new and wonderful in ways you can never anticipate and never knew you needed. I found this especially true with Holly (our 2nd) because we were no longer so terrified of the baby thing, so we really enjoyed her infancy and getting to know her little personality. The idea of seeing what else our genes could come up with is tempting. A brown-haired child (finally)? A boy? It’s not that different than gambling, in a way – and it has tremendous emotional and cultural payoff. Nothing is as hard as having a small baby, but on the flip side, nothing is as powerful. In the right circumstances – support, security – a desired pregnancy is enormously LIFE ORGANIZING. It has its own gravitational pull, a centripetal motion that brings everything else into focus and order in a way that’s really gratifying.

I’ve been rereading The Feminine Mystique and one of the themes that comes up again and again is that women have another baby to solve problems in other areas of their lives. I say this not as judgment but as fact: I think anyone committing to having a child does it for myriad reasons, some selfless or laudable as “in the child’s best interest” and some personal, relational, and complex. I didn’t have kids when I did because the timing was perfect and we have pre-established college funds, etc. It was a complicated blend of biological imperative, life timing, and personal desire. In Friedan’s analysis, women of the 50s and 60s kept having children because they’ve been culturally conditioned to see mothering as the only valid use of their time and abilities, and when their littlest becomes independent, they have a personal crisis. I don’t think that’s the case any longer: certainly, all the women I know understand that there are many paths to a fulfilling life and work can be a part of that; but at the same time, we still expect, and experience, an intense devotion between mother and child that can feel and be engulfing at times. It makes sense that coming out of that, and deciding to end that time (no more kids) creates new space for questioning and wondering that’s a bit scary to negotiate.

Sweet Baby Robin

Pregnancy really forces you to get your shit together. You get house projects done, you quit drinking or smoking, you start eating better. Suddenly, you are flying through your dissertation or push a big project at work through because you want to be done before the baby gets here. For some women, pregnancy is really good for them: they love their bodies, sometimes the hormones even relieve persistent problems like depression or anxiety. In some marriages I know, the time around pregnancy and birth is a time of harmony in the home: conflict and disagreement are set aside while both parents focus on the new baby. It might not be “right” but babies can temporarily repair broken relationships, broken minds, and broken bodies. The needs of an infant are urgent, primal, and utterly reasonable (love, food, clean bum). Priorities become crystal clear. Life makes sense. Nothing quite brings together personal desires, biological urges, and cultural cache quite like babies. And I think it does allow us to kick down the road some stuff we’re just not up for yet. Betty Friedan specifically asks,

What if the terror a girl faces at twenty-one, when she must decide who she will be, is simply the terror of growing up – growing up, as women were not permitted to grow before? What if the terror a girl faces at twenty-one is the terror of freedom to decide her own life, with no one order to which path she will take… What if those who choose the path of ‘feminine adjustment’ – evading this terror by marrying at eighteen, losing themselves in having babies and the details of house-keeping – are simply refusing to grow up, to face the question of their own identity?

I hope I’ve made it abundantly clear that I’m not sitting in judgment of people who might have babies to defer dealing with life problems or “facing the question of their own identity.” Nor do I think people who want to have lots of babies or who are in the middle of growing their families are necessarily “avoiding” growing up. I’m just speaking to my experience and from observation that sometimes we have babies for reasons beyond a simple “I want another baby.” I’m in the middle of the “terror” Friedan describes right now, albeit 10 years later than the women Friedan writes about, because both my childbearing years and my whole vocational concept are coming to an end at the same time.  So, I have to be aware of the fact that I might be fantasizing about another baby not just because I want another baby or it might be fun or good. It might also be – hell, it probably is largely because – I’m not sure what’s happening next in my life, and having experienced the power and pleasure of mothering a baby, that seems like an awesome option. My very own brilliant and wonderful partner wrote me this email back in February when we were trying to make sense of this emerging obsession:

I do think you should try to think about this stuff in the context of grad school falling apart. I remember after grad school feeling suddenly very old and somehow more aware of my own mortality. There’s something about being launched into the real world that is very disconcerting and makes you feel like there’s no time, or that you have to make up for lost time or something. In your email you say, “I always wanted to mother a lot of kids but maybe I’m just not cut out for that, and that’s ok, but kind of sad to acknowledge.” To me that sounds like a classic I just got out of grad school and I don’t know what I’m good at anymore statement. It makes perfect sense that you would want to replace your sort of stillborn grad school career with the thing that made the most sense to you and brought you the most fulfillment, but the reality is that you might not actually want to go through with having another baby. I can see how the idea of having a fresh little person to dote on would seem attractive to you right now. It’s unfortunate that the thing you are fantasizing about (having a baby) is also inextricably linked with some of the most unpleasant memories you could possibly conjure up (months of nausea, vomiting, sleep deprivation, etc.)… The point I’m trying to make is that you might need something new to think about. You might need something new to obsess over.

Jolly Baby Holly

This is why I’m not making any big decisions right now. As much as having a third baby might be a great thing for our family, I don’t want to get pregnant because I’ve tried nothing and I’m all out of ideas when it comes to life after grad school. I don’t want my knee-jerk reaction to the fear of what’s next to involve a human life – at least not a new human life. Having a baby is compelling but it would also shut down a lot of possibilities – writing? A magic job that may or may not be in the works? Moving? Travel? The point is, I may not know yet what I want from my future, even though my instinct is to grab on to something for dear life. I want to keep as many doors open as possible and go through the terror of “growing up,” as painful as it may be, because I want to keep possibility open and see if life surprises me. So right now? I’m sitting tight with my two kids, watching some Spongebob, and doing some more writing.

4 Roads Not Travelled: What I Should Have Done Instead of Going to Grad School

Every day, someone finds our blog by googling about quitting grad school. This is awesome: welcome. I hope our writing has been helpful to you. I also thought it might be wise to have a landing strip for folks googling  “Should I go to grad school?”

My answer is: No. Don’t go to grad school. If you want a “yes” or a “maybe,” talk to someone else. I think more people, including advisers and professors, should actively discourage people from grad school. Even the smart students. That’s what I want to do with this post. I wish someone had said this to me, given me pause, made me reconsider. There were a lot of yeasayers when it came to grad school. I want to be a naysayer.

Don’t go to grad school.

I’m about two weeks away from being done with grad school. I go through phases where I feel profoundly bitter about my lousy decision-making, and I’m right smack in the middle of one right now. Bitterness is a common post-grad school emotion: for example, after leaving grad school, my husband changed his Facebook info to “Studied: Bitterness. Degree: MA in unemployable bullshittology.”

So yeah, take this with a grain of bitter salt. This is from my perspective, bla bla bla disclaimer.

I generally pride myself on being a smart person, someone who can see the big picture, weigh pros and cons, and come up with solutions to problems. I like being decisive, and I like being right. Hell, that’s one of the reasons I thought I was a good candidate for grad school.

A very quick sum-up of my grad school experience: I enrolled in a PhD program in American Studies, an interdisciplinary field, immediately after graduating from college in 2004. I quickly became disenchanted for a variety of reasons I won’t get into now. In 2007, I decided to leave that program with an MA and considered many, many, many other paths before applying to (get ready for it) another PhD program, this time in literacy education. It was a much better program and I learned a lot, but even so, after five years, I am now leaving that PhD at the comps stage. All told, I’ve been in grad school for eight years, and will leave with 2 Master’s degrees and a boatload of mostly useless credit hours.

Grad school has been an exercise in wishy-washy hemming and hawing, and pretty much every decision I made from the type of degree to pursue to the courses I took was wrong. It has been a comedy of errors, and sometimes I can laugh about it (really, most of the time I can), but right now I’m thinking about what I should have done instead of going to grad school.

Become a High School English Teacher

I was an Education major in college and came within an inch of finalizing my teaching license by the time I graduated. I student-taught 9th and 12th grade in a suburban high school, which was a fantastic experience. I should have earned my license and become a teacher.

I had good reasons for not wanting to become a high school teacher by the time I wrapped up my BS Ed degree. No Child Left Behind was just rolling in like a tsunami and I could see the impact it would have on classroom teaching practices, school budgets, and teacher life. I did not want to experience that. At 23, I didn’t feel quite ready to sign up for my lifetime career, and I wanted a chance to get out of Oklahoma. I was having a ball in my upper division, honors courses and wanted more of that. I was newly engaged and my partner also wanted to go to grad school. So, there were reasons.

That being said, I could have, maybe even should have, finished up that teaching license so that HS teaching would have been an option at any time when grad school started sucking (which it did almost immediately). While there are serious drawbacks to HS teaching, I love working with teenagers, especially goofy, immature, at-risk college freshmen. They are essentially high school students. I love teaching books, writing together, and the buzz of the classroom. I would have been happy in high school.

I could have taught for several years before having kids, and might have been able to arrange a part-time schedule when they arrived, or at the very least have paid off my student loan debt and put aside some money before they showed up. I can’t quite quantify for you the benefits of having earned money for most of my adult life, versus having borrowed my way into crushing debt. Even a few years of teaching experience would have been invaluable in terms of understanding what I truly wanted in a job and a graduate degree, so it would have helped me make better choices if and when I did pursue graduate studies. I still might pursue this avenue: ten years later, I am securing my teaching licenses in Oklahoma and Iowa so that I’m never more than a few bureaucratic steps away from being eligible to teach in public schools.

Earned a Master’s in a Traditional Humanities Discipline

I did not understand the differences between an MA and a PhD at all before deciding to go to grad school, and this led to some extremely bad decision-making. Retrospectively, I can’t emphasize enough the value of an MA, even if you drink the kool-aid and go on to a PhD (don’t do it!).

An MA provides a breadth of knowledge that is essential to teach at the college level, as well as make decisions about dissertation research. There’s no way I could have been competitive for English or History faculty positions at 4-year schools with the scattershot coursework I took in my interdisciplinary humanities PhD program. I did not have a solid grounding in any area or field because my program let me design my own very special and unique “plan of study” (ha) and didn’t require me to have a certain number of hours in a single discipline. Ergo, my Am Studies MA is a patchwork of English, History, Comm Studies, and Anthropology courses, and I am not qualified to teach any of these at the college level.

I can and do teach at a community college, which I adore. I wish I’d known that this was an option: I could have done Master’s work in English and likely landed a teaching gig I’d have enjoyed, without all this unnecessary extra coursework. But, because I don’t have a ton of graduate course hours in English, I’m not always eligible to apply for CC English positions, because they want that breadth of graduate coursework (MA-level courses in Brit Lit, Am Lit, etc). By definition, the “Master’s Degree” is the teacher’s degree. I currently teach developmental reading and writing, and I like this very much, but I am disappointed that there are limitations to the jobs I can apply for because of my crappy coursework.

I could have earned a traditional MA and had that intellectual experience I was seeking after college, figured out that PhD students are wackadoodles, and then left. I could have gone on to do just about anything without sinking myself further into debt. I would be exactly as competitive for jobs as I am now, with two truncated PhDs. That extra coursework is doing nothing for me in terms of job apps. The only thing my additional years of coursework has brought me is more teaching experience, but I could have been doing that anyway (profitably!).

A traditional MA would still have been beneficial if I’d moved on to a PhD. Another drawback to leapfrogging all that MA coursework is that PhD course reqs are geared towards specialization and research, not establishing a broad knowledge base. Thus, I was really hamstrung when it came to conceiving of a decent research project. I had to read, on my own, the entire back history of any field I was interested in, because I had not sat through the coursework that would have provided it. This was especially true in my Education PhD: I just didn’t have the background to dream up a good research topic in a field where I’d mostly taken courses on how to do research. I needed that interim step.

Found a Professional Master’s Program

I toyed with going into counseling or social work. I could have done an education-focused MA in student development or athletic services. In fact, my adviser is eager for me to switch to a Reading MA because it would be “right up my alley.” Any of these programs would have been interesting and challenging, and would have the benefit of actual applicability to a job I might have enjoyed, with the possibility of making more money as well. I knew absolutely nothing about professional Master’s programs when I wrapped up my college career. I wish, wish, wish I’d been less embarrassed to talk to my education profs about my interest in pursuing grad school (I felt guilty that I didn’t want to go right into teaching) so MAYBE someone could have floated one of these great options in my direction. I wish I’d done more research.

Opened up a dozen credit cards and spent a year bumming around in Europe with my husband.

I went to college in those days when credit card companies would set up tables in the south oval and give you free shit if you got a card. I wish we’d opened up a ton and racked up tens of thousands of dollars in debt traveling in Britain, Germany, France. I wish we’d bought unnecessarily elaborate travel gear and taken a hundred thousand photos. I wish we’d lived for two weeks in some ritzy hotel in Rome, smoked a ton of pot in Amsterdam, and bought ridiculously expensive Eiffel Tower souvenirs for everyone in my family. I wish we’d had our luggage stolen and slept in iffy hostels and skinny dipped in the Adriatic.

Wannabe Rick Steveses

I would have accrued less debt and wasted less time than I have in grad school, and my God, the memories! I don’t know if, between a family and student loan debt, I will ever, in my life, be able to afford international travel. It would have been foolish and irresponsible, sure, but so was grad school: at least this would have had bucket list payoff.

Roots and Shoots and Fences

I’m thinking about boundaries lately.

We spent an amazing afternoon at the Naples Botanical Garden when we were on vacation last week. If you find yourself in SW Florida I definitely recommend it: very walkable (and stroller friendly), lots of shaded chairs and benches, beautiful plants (of course), and a thoughtfully-designed children’s garden.

Here’s why my girls loved the Children’s Garden: water feature to splash around in, playhouse with brooms, gated gardens with low fences and gates they could open themselves, watering cans you could fill at a hand pump, tree house with bouncy bridges and a balcony you could climb up to, small hidden garden with plants growing in funny containers like cowboy boots and toilets and purses.

Girls watering plants outside playhouse

Watering the plants outside the playhouse.

Here’s why I loved the Children’s Garden: excellent placement of benches and swings, looped paths so even when you wander away you pop right back out where you started, and clear sightlines.

mama and baby on bench

Enjoying the breeze.

Margeaux and I spent a long time swinging and enjoying the breeze while the girls filled watering cans, opened and closed gates, swept the playhouse, smelled herbs and flowers, made friends with another little girl, and talked nonstop about bugs and sunshine and vacation and whatever else 3 and 5 year old girls talk about.

It’s this amazing moment in my parenting life, when they are beginning to be independent in so many ways. Amazing, and lovely, and scary. Because I worry about what happens when they’re out of sight, out of reach. Will they fall in the water? Will they get stuck in the tree house? Will they encounter a scary stranger who offers them candy and lures them to a van? I know, rationally, that like every living thing they need space to grow in. The roots start to ball up in the pot and the leaves twist back on their stems as they struggle for the sunlight. I don’t want to be the dreaded helicopter parent, filling their watering can and carrying it for them and telling them where to pour. Part of the magic of this moment is watching them realize that they are capable of so many things.

Girl peeking out from treehouse

Look at me! Mom! Look at me!

But they are still so little, and the world is so big, and so it is such a feeling of pleasurable relief to walk into a space that feels as though its creators understood exactly what I’m always hoping for: a comfy seat to watch them grow and explore and reach and sometimes fall or spill or figure it out on their own or with a little help from a sister or a new friend. A clear view of the world as they move through it.

I’m longing for this clarity in the rest of my parenting life. What school do we choose for kindergarten, how many hours a week can I work without going insane or becoming a terrible mother, will they fall out of a bunk bed, will the baby choke on a Polly Pocket shoe, how do I know where this path goes? There’s no design to my actual life and sometimes that lack of design doesn’t feel wide open and wonderful it just feels terrifying: how the fuck do we get down from this tree house? Boundaries, expressed clearly and thoughtfully, offer a safe place to put down roots AND plenty of room to grow. I know how to build that garden. I am still trying to figure out how to build that life.

On the Road

We are outnumbered on the plane this year: three children, two parents. Although the sink is full of dirty dishes and the dryer is full of unfolded laundry and my to do list still has a couple items not crossed off, we are on the plane.

The first time we flew with Dorothy she was about 6 months old, a little younger than Margeaux is now. We took her to California, and she rode in the baby backpack while we hiked through the redwoods, walked on windswept cliffs so she could see the waves crashing below. We showed her banana slugs creeping slowly along the trails, and tiny ferns sprouting from the trucks of fallen giants. I explained transpiration and fairy rings and clear cut logging to her. She cut her first tooth.

We had no idea how to travel with a baby, and we packed way too much stuff (for reference, we are traveling today with 3 children and approximately half the luggage we brought on that first trip). We expected some tears and some sleepless nights, and we got them. But I would do it all over again.

Our girls have traveled a lot of miles, in planes and in cars. Redwoods, mountains, oceans, beaches, waterparks, the Mall of America. They have put their tiny toes in two oceans. They are, we are, incredibly lucky to have had the opportunities we have had to travel, and we are endlessly grateful to the aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents who have read stories and handed out Cheerios and Teddy Grahams and sat poolside while our girls splashed. I don’t know if we would ever have had the courage to pack up and go without families who are as crazy as we are.

And lets be real (it is the Mama Nervosa mantra, after all): my girls are not perfect travelers. I’ve seen those kids in airports, pulling their own carry ons, excited to try unfamiliar local delicacies in restaurants, unfailingly polite.  My kids leave a trail of crumbs. We have ordered mac and cheese coast to coast.  Lucy may, occasionally, kick the seat in front of her. When my mother in law asked Dorothy if she and Lucy were good on the plane D said honestly, “we were a little bit fighty.” But for every one of those moments when I look around desperately hoping no one knows those are my kids, i have a moment or two when I am lucky enough to hear them giggle in amazement at how bumpy a starfish feels. Last year at the airport I overheard D tell Lucy, “the palm trees have leaves named Ron.

It’s true that they probably won’t remember these trips. But already, they love to look back at the photo albums and slide shows and tell anyone who will listen about how the redwoods went all the way up to the sky and at the aquarium there were baby seahorses and did you know that the ocean tastes salty like French fries?

It’s a big beautiful world, after all, and I want them to know that with all of their senses. I want them to grow up with a little bit of wanderlust, with a sense of adventure, with curiousity and excitement about what’s beyond their backyard.

And there is something to be said for traveling with kids little enough to have their sense of wonder intact, even if it means leaving a trail of Cheerios behind you.