Enjoying a truly glorious fall day with magical views
at Showalter’s Orchard in Timberville, Virginia
Walking in an apple wonderland
Virginia
That time I almost lost it at Great Wolf Lodge (but didn’t)
There are several stages of Traveling with Children.
The first is, of course, excitement. We’re going on vacation! As a working parent, I especially look forward to this uninterrupted time with my family. It’s easy to fall into this trap of daydreaming about the perfect trip during the planning phase: finishing a book poolside, laughing with my perfectly-behaved children at a calm dinner, tucking them into woodland-themed bunk beds, watching HGTV in peace. Ahh.
Next comes getting acclimated. After three hours on the road, we’re here! “Here” was Great Wolf Lodge last weekend: a family-themed resort with energetic children at every turn. GWL has a cult following and festive vibe that gets even straight-laced adults to don the trademark wolf ears (myself included). Getting acclimated includes taking in all the craziness that a change of scenery entails. Our four- and two-year-old basically just … screamed and ran at full speed for the first six-plus hours on the Williamsburg property. Calling them “keyed up” is an understatement.
Once reality sets in, we hit the “ooh, was this a good idea?” stage — usually around bedtime. This phase includes being kicked in the ribs at 2 a.m. by a child who refuses to sleep in the bunk bed of the pricey “wolf den” suite, because bunk beds are cool strictly during daylight hours. Your spouse must sleep on the couch.
So, I mean, I’m not a monster; I realize that a change in sleeping arrangements can be weird for kids. And my son, an extreme creature of habit, greatly depends on his routines. The idea of crawling into the top bunk and actually resting there alone was … a hard no.
This shouldn’t have surprised me. In fact, I was a little annoyed with myself that it did surprise me. But every time, I think … this time will be different. The kids are older now, and more adaptable; we won’t have the fussing and issues we’ve had on previous trips.
While it’s true that we don’t have to worry about round-the-clock feedings and a truckload of diapers anymore, thinking that Oliver, in particular, is adaptable? Mmm. This is the kid that, on our first beach trip, screamed so long and so hard at being put in a pack-and-play that Spencer and I wound up driving the beach access road for hours to get him to sleep … then carrying him inside in his carseat. Also the same kid that required another midnight drive around downtown Bedford, Pennsylvania, because we were desperate to calm him down. We wound up finding a well-lit gas station to catch a few hours of rest ourselves, then cut our trip short.
My blood pressure climbed just typing all that.
Sleep is at the heart of so many issues. And when traveling, of course, sleep is a major unknown … because the comfortable routines we have at home don’t directly translate. Hadley goes down relatively easy at bedtime, but Ollie is different. He struggles to settle on a regular day at home, constantly telling me that “sleeping is boring,” so traveling is just … next level.
So in the “ooh, was this a good idea?” phase, I beat myself up with big questions. Why is it so hard to enjoy something that hundreds of families are all enjoying at this very moment? Why does this feel challenging? Am I broken? Are my children? Why are we spending all this money to be exhausted and stressed in a different location? And, of course, why can’t I just relax and have fun?
Thankfully, after the first night, this exhausting (and depressing) phase typically melts into a better scene: making the best of it and hey, this is actually enjoyable, which comes after the kids, Spence and I have adapted to staying in a hotel room — all four of us, together, with little distraction — and being out of our normal patterns.
Great Wolf Lodge has the advantage of being very obviously kid-friendly. Kids here, there, and everywhere. Kids shoving past you in Build a Bear. Just … kids.
While it got overwhelming at the end, it was refreshing not to have the added stress of feeling like we were disturbing everyone around us. Our crew never earned the familiar glares of nearby couples just trying to enjoy their crab dip appetizer in peace, thankyouverymuch.
Camaraderie was in the air, actually — an “in the trenches” solidarity amongst the weary parents and grandparents. Wading through knee-high water in our similar tankini tops and skirted bathing suit bottoms, the thirty-something moms and I exchanged knowing smiles. These women got it. They, too, were wrestling toddlers into swim diapers and chasing sugared-up “PAW Patrol” characters through hotel halls. They were also in line at Dunkin’ because they would croak without another shot of caffeine.
Because we visited GWL during their “Howl-o-Ween” festivities, we enjoyed nightly trick-or-treating. Spence and I wound up walking the candy trail with another couple whose kids were close in age to ours, and our shared jokes warmed me up with the recognition of kindred spirits. My husband and I joked that we should have asked where they were from. Everyone needs friends. And this couple — with the dad dressed like Rocky ready to enter the ring, and his playful wife continuously “dinging” a bell on her iPhone — were definite contenders.
So … did we have fun at Great Wolf Lodge? Absolutely.
After our iffy first night, I faced a hard truth: Traveling with young children feels so challenging because I’m just as much a creature of habit as they are.
Understanding myself better as an adult, this is about anxiety. I get stressed when I’m out of my element. I thrive on predictability — and traveling with children has none of that. My anxiety kicks into overdrive and mostly-managed OCD issues flair up. The familiar fight-or-flight panicky feeling awakens, and I want to run away to feel normal again. By then? Well, I’m just a hot mess.
I’m working on all that.
By realizing it fairly early this trip, I could collect myself, pull it together, and coax my anxious brain back into neutral territory. Once I relaxed, we had a great time with my mother- and father-in-law at the expansive resort. There was plenty to do, and the water park was enjoyable even for a mom (and kids) who can’t swim!
Most importantly, Hadley and Oliver had a blast — and we have a new collection of fun family memories with their grandparents. I have a feeling that we’ll be talking about “the wolf place” for a long time to come. And who knows? Now that he’s four, maybe our GWL trip will be one of Ollie’s earliest memories.
Which brings us to the final phase: looking at photos and reminiscing about the great time you had. The hotel neighbors having a dance party at 1 a.m. and long lines behind indecisive middle schoolers at the breakfast buffet are all forgotten. We’re left with sweet smiles floating on a tube in the lazy river, joy when hitting the 1,000-ticket prize in the arcade, and happy, tired kids passing out within minutes on the drive home.
These are the days. The tiring, wild, haphazard days.
I have earned that pumpkin creme cold brew, friends … but it’s true that I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Bring on the wolf ears!
Wordless Wednesday: Gardens at Mt. Vernon
Enjoying the ride
The quiet surprised me the most.
The first time we took a hot air balloon ride (over Napa Valley, back in our dating days of 2012), we were in a large basket with at least 10 other adults. It was crowded, everyone was chatting — and Spencer I wound up in different compartments on our ride.
(Side note: I was somewhat convinced Spence was going to propose on that fateful ride, but that moment would come six months later. Also, if he had wanted to pop the question in that balloon, it might have been mighty awkward. We would barely have been able to reach each other and hug.)
Back on our honeymoon last November, Spence and I booked a second ride over Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. Having had so much fun the last go ’round, we were hoping for another memorable experience. Alas — cold and wind kept us grounded that trip, meaning we had to reschedule . . . for nine months later.
We certainly could have gotten back out to Woodstock, Va., before last weekend, but it’s a long trip — and I knew we’d be in the area for an annual ham radio event Spencer loves on Sunday. The stars finally aligned for us to get airborne once more.
Climbing into the basket (I have stumpy legs — it’s a process), I felt a rush of nerves as our balloon was untethered and the ground crew below us began to fall away. When a hot air balloon is released, everything happens really quickly; one moment you’re on the grass, the next you’re airborne and looking down at the world you thought you knew.
Everything looks different from above.
I thought I’d be scared, but somehow . . . I wasn’t. On paper, this looks like exactly the sort of experience that would push me into a fetal-position panic attack (extreme heights, lack of protection/parachute, risk of pilot error and, um, horrible fall to imminent death), but I didn’t even hesitate to ungracefully get in.
Not even after signing my life away in a series of legal documents.
Unlike our large ride in California, only five of us — including the pilot — shared this basket. Without the occasional bursts of fire from the burner keeping us afloat, it was silent . . . or close to silent, anyway. Even from high above we heard cars on the highway, cicadas in trees, dogs barking below on working farms. It was peaceful . . . almost holy.
No one said much. We were smashed with strangers, for one, but more than that? It just didn’t seem like the time. I was too busy gazing at the mountains — ones we were almost even with, it felt — and taking in the low clouds cresting the darkening mountain peaks.
Though only in flight for about a half hour, our view from above was totally different from our sunrise trip in Napa — but just as exciting.
And this time? I totally wasn’t analyzing Spencer’s every movement, waiting to spot the glint of a diamond. That was a beautiful thing.
We’re married now, I thought. This was an experience we were scheduled to have had in the early days after our wedding, but I suddenly felt grateful it hadn’t worked out.
We needed this break. From the house, from our worries, from work. Though it hasn’t been so very long since our Yosemite trip, the summer has been brutally busy — and this balloon ride, though brief, was almost medicinal.
I didn’t even panic as we sank toward the ground, our basket just clearing the treetops as our pilot prepared us for landing.
For once, I hadn’t worried about the ending.
I just enjoyed the ride.
Wordless Wednesday: Blooming in Richmond
Wordless Wednesday: On the water in Colonial Beach
Exploring Colonial Beach, Va., on a recent sunny Saturday.
Spring is nearly here! Time to shed those coats and splash in the river.
For more Wordless Wednesday, visit visit here!
Where Washington was born
Sometimes I like my weekends with a dash of history — and this was one of them.
As soon as I got wind that we’d see temperatures climbing past the 60-degree mark on Saturday, I began pestering Spencer to make plans. I wanted to go somewhere different! New! Exciting! Somewhere I could take pictures! I mean, aside from my Twosday shoots, I’ve barely held my camera since Christmas.
I turned to the trusty Internet, of course, and found the George Washington Birthplace National Monument in Colonial Beach, Va. It’s a skip across the bridge for us, so we shed our thick outer layers to cruise across the Potomac River for a look.
Run by the National Park Service, George Washington was born on this property in 1732 — exactly 282 years before our visit. That’s right, folks: we somehow timed our trip with George’s birthday, which was February 22! (Thanks, Jess, for pointing that out!) Color me downright impressed, right?
I mean . . . I totally planned it that way.
We knew we were in for a relaxing visit as we pulled into the parking lot with only a handful of other vehicles in sight. No crowds. After chatting with a friendly park ranger, we watched a short video about Washington’s life here along Popes Creek — he lived on the plantation until age 3 — and then set out to do some exploring on our own.
There’s nothing like seating yourself on a bench to feel warm sun on your face after the winter thaw. My icy heart opened at the sight of blue water and bluer sky, peering at the buds on trees to see if anything was beginning to open. Nothing yet, but all in good time.
The estate was quiet, tranquil, with only one other family walking around. We had the place to ourselves, a fact pointed out by the kindly park ranger — and I was impressed by their “this place is yours, too” attitude. They were very friendly, extremely welcoming. It felt good.
Though the original home where Washington was born burnt down in a Christmas Day fire back in 1779, the house’s foundation is now marked by oyster shells near the memorial house constructed in a similar style in 1931. We didn’t go inside, preferring to linger among the trees and herb garden, but it boasts a kitchen house and some furnishings authentic to the time.
The site’s major attraction is its expansive views along Popes Creek, which empties into the Potomac. Our park ranger told us the plan is to keep the plantation looking much the way it would have back in the 1700s, living farm and all. There were, in fact, many animals on the property . . . including a hog that was so scared of us, he squealed and hid until we’d left the path near his pen.
I felt kind of bad about that.
The cattle and horses couldn’t have cared less. It was lunchtime.
After we’d finished disturbing the local wildlife, we motored on to do some antique shopping and have lunch in downtown Colonial Beach, itself a beautiful waterfront town. We talked about presidents and history and life and everything in between, and it was pretty great.
Man, I love a good random day trip. You never know what you’ll stumble upon — or whose birthday you’ll inadvertently celebrate. Happy 282nd, George!
Heck yeah, America!
write meg! 