I took my kids on the vacation I hated as a girl. Now I get my parents more than ever
When I think back on my summers growing up on the Connecticut shoreline, so much was idyllic. I spent long hot days on sandy beaches swimming in the Long Island Sound, or enrolled in craft camps weaving baskets while slurping Capri Sun. My family would tuck into fried seafood takeout from the clam shack down the street for dinner on our deck.
We also went on vacation. In the mid-’90s as a preteen, that meant an RV trip. My parents purchased a 27-foot Dutchmen Coleman RV and it was my dad’s dream trip. He idealized piling me, my mom, my older brother and younger sister into an RV for an epic road trip to scenic campsites where we’d trade computers and TVs for the great outdoors.
We traveled around the Northeast and to Canada in it and I remember these trips vividly. But not for the reasons you’d expect.
As a child, I disliked them tremendously. The entire vacation felt like one big laborious chore, loading or unloading the RV with endless streams of bags. Getting where we were going meant long hours driving, and there was always work to be done, either setting up or packing to go home. I’d toss and turn all night on a thin RV mattress while my parents’ snores kept me awake.
I also remember how frustrated my dad seemed, fuming that no one was helping and vowing that next time, he’d leave us kids at home and go with just my mom.
Packed into tight quarters, I’d retreat to the sole bedroom and click on my cassette player queued up with REM’s “Everybody Hurts” to fully lean into the sense of suffering I felt.
Why couldn’t we just go to Disney and sleep in real beds like everyone else?
Now, I’m a parent of a 3.5-year-old and a 1-year-old. My husband and I love to travel and try to share it with our kids. Though at their ages, it’s still more so a trip than a vacation. We’ve taken them to Hawaii, Mexico and across the United States, and typically stay in resorts where they splash in pools and we try to feel some semblance of relaxation.
But this past spring, we decided on something different. I found myself thinking of my childhood travels and those RV trips. I hadn’t camped since, and perhaps out of a sense of boredom or looking for something — anything — to keep my kids entertained, I thought it was worth another shot.
As a parent, I could see the appeal. Instead of stuffing all four of us into a 300-square-foot hotel room, we’d stay in a Keystone Passport Travel Trailer rented through RVshare with a kitchen, living area, bathroom and two bedrooms. It was larger than my family’s RV, and was parked and waiting for us in a KOA campground outside of San Diego, so we didn’t have to worry about hauling it.
Upon arrival, I felt optimistic. We were in a beautiful, remote setting where devices were forgotten in favor of jumping on an in-ground giant trampoline, swimming in a heated pool, roasting nightly s’mores, and taking part in tie-dye and gemstone hunts. The setting was tailor-made for children and as my kids played, I let out a deep exhale.
Then my toddler complained when the trailer’s TV didn’t work. She lamented her breakfast choices despite a fully stocked fridge. My baby cried every night when any movement in the trailer jolted her awake, and my husband and I were on an endless loop between the car and trailer to bring in forgotten items, all while simultaneously trying to keep two tiny humans out of danger.
I was frustrated, but not like before. I was no longer the bored child; I had fully become the exhausted parent. I found myself envisioning how much simpler things would be were it just me and my husband. Before I could stop myself, the words came spilling out.
“If we try this again, it’s just going to be you and me until they’re way older,” I told my husband.
And then I did two things. First, I laughed, and then I FaceTimed my parents to say, “I’m sorry” and “thank you.”
Only now could I see my dad wasn’t just angry for the heck of it. He was stressed because traveling with kids is tough and an RV can be a lot of work. My siblings and I were older than my kids; we could have helped but didn’t.
I also realized that he might have felt disappointed because, at that age, we couldn’t see the trip through his perspective, or appreciate the memories he and my mom were trying to create.
My own trip made me understand my parents in a way I hadn’t previously. It was a gentle reminder that my parents, and most out there, are just trying their best to make happy, lasting memories, even when things aren’t sparkly or easy.
I likely won’t become a fully-fledged camper like my dad — I still much prefer plush beds in nice hotels — but I’m glad I gave RVing another chance.
And when my girls are grown and they inevitably tease or roll their eyes over some trip we take, I won’t be offended. Who knows, if I’m lucky, one day, I might even get a “thank you” call, too.
This article was originally published on TODAY.com