Family vacationing is not a lot of things, such as relaxing and rejuvenating. But it is one major thing, and that’s illuminating. Silly as this might sound, I know my boys better now than I did before we left, and I watched them, even if just a teeny bit, grow in the 6 days/5 nights we were away. They became a smidge more worldly-wise, and also a large measure more deeply themselves. Really, if when we as adults go away to a place we’ve never seen or experienced, we etch more grooves into our personalities, why wouldn’t the same be true of  our children? Being in a new — and overwhelming, overtaxing, exhilarating — environment brought out what’s uniquely James about James (his intellectual approach to things like fear), and uniquely Daniel about Daniel (his devotion to facts and detail).

You just can’t underestimate the power of the Mouse. Even this natural-born cynic fell under the spell of old Walt’s magic. Or should I say, Magic (this being the most-often used word in the 43 square miles of Disney universe). You turn a corner, and there’s a band! Or a parade! You stand still for 5 seconds and a staffer (excuse me, “cast member”) comes up to your child and asks for a high-five and an accounting of their day. Before you know it,they’re chatting about the best way to rack up points on Buzz Lightyear’s Space Ranger Spin, or debating favorite characters. And they’re all so bloody nice. You do a lot of waving. A lot.

But I have a couple of observations. Which you might expect I would.

One: Innocence rules. A lot of parents who go to Disney World lament the fact that there’s merchandise wherever you turn, and it’s true. It’s an empire, and empires have to sell stuff to make it all profitable–and to increase the sort of intense (insane?) loyalty that keeps people coming back for more. Take those ubiquitous Disney princesses, which some smart Disney marketer decided, a few years back, to group  together into a sort of irresistible-to-little-girls cabal. They’re all there, from the Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty of my youth to the 80′s and 90′s and early 2000′s gals like Mulan, Belle, Ariel, and Jasmine. The force of their allure is so strong it began to appear odd to see a little girl dressed in her regular clothes. The place was crawling with princesses, decked out in polyester gowns and glittering tiaras. Your kid sees the movies, aches for the merch, and then to visit them in “person,” and then you’re dumped right into a store post-ride and you buy some more. It’s a cycle, and you could call it vicious. I prefer instead to just skirt around it. Literally. We went in plenty of stores (mommy needed regular doses of air conditioning, for one thing). But we didn’t buy much at all.

Both boys brought their own wallets with their own stash of dollar bills they could use. James bought: a lollipop, a postcard, a Donald Duck keychain and a Woody Kooky Pen. And I bought him a Mickey t-shirt. Daniel got: a lollipop, a book of postcards, a pen, a Donald keychain and a Goofy Kooky Pen. And a t-shirt from me. This plan worked so well that, in one store James and I browsed while Daniel and his dad hit a ride Jamie was too chicken to try (Splash Mountain), he tried on a Mickey-ear hat done up like Lightening McQueen, as well as a Goofy hat (both of which were adorable, see):

without once asking if he could have them. As he put the McQueen hat back on the rack, he even volunteered, to another mother nearby, “we’re not buying anything. We’re just shopping.” Good boy.

When I say innocence rules, I mean this: My kids know who the characters are, but in a similar way that I did as child. These were quasi-real beings to hopefully get a glimpse of, not an experience to buy into. That’s literally all they see; the rest — the autograph books you can obsessively fill with character signatures; the pins you can buy and trade with others, the princess and pirate garb — is all just eye candy. They have only a dim idea of how huge the whole thing can be, and that’s by design — mine. I don’t deceive myself into thinking they’ll never ask for more and/or buy into it further, but neither do I urge, push, or encourage them to see, do and want more. Which, believe me, plenty of parents do. I saw it.

Two: Diapers and Disney are an odd mix. The first time I went to Disney World, it was quite literally a different era. It was 1976. We drove down in our fake-wood-paneled station wagon, just my parents and sister and me. I was 10, my sister 13. My brother, at 3? He stayed at home with my aunt. (Before you get all boo-hoo about baby bro, by the time he was of age, and my sister and I were in college/on our own, he got trips aplenty that we never imagined, speaking of different eras). But anyway. I don’t recall having seen strollers. Today? There are thousands of strollers, thousands. (Which you can also rent, and which parents rent for kids as old as my sons, too). Here’s just one of the many designated stroller parking areas:

Acres of them, I tell you. Acres.

I don’t disparage wanting to go when your kids are small (and I’m talking not of parents with older kids, but those with only tiny ones); I just don’t understand it, personally. My question is a simple, plaintive, why? Disney’s not going anywhere; it’ll still be pouring out the pixie dust when those kids are out of diapers and ambulatory. I saw many hot, miserable  parents with strollers and sippy cups and diapers and princess tiaras. I saw one family with two girls who had to both be under four, sparkled up to the nth degree as pretty princesses, with a defeated-looking dad and a hugely pregnant mother (bear in mind this is August in Orlando). I saw tiny, flushed toddlers passed out in strollers, and big, flushed parents waiting in line for Dumbo with infants in their arms.

In 1976 it didn’t occur to my parents to figure out how to tote a three year old (who still needed naps, I’m sure). These days, it somehow appeals to to parents to haul three kids under four around for several days. The Magic Kingdom’s added on a new section aimed specifically at the under-kindergarten set, called Mickey’s Toontown Fair. It’s awfully cute, with cartoonish, fanciful buildings and a sprinkler park area filled with tots in swim diapers and parents seeking spots of shade while they watch. Couldn’t they have saved a couple thou and stayed home with the sprinkler, and come back with a splash when their kids were old enough to remember? One thing they seem to be accomplishing (besides lining the pockets of the booming stroller-rental trade) is to be creating Disney-philes earlier and earlier.

Three: The pace can kill you (if you’re not careful). Did I mention the part where Disney is 43 square miles? Old Walt Disney, having shoehorned his original Anaheim, CA park into already-developed land, probably felt a rush of exhilaration (and saw dollar signs, no doubt) when he first toured the swampy center of then empty Florida. And it keeps going. In 1976, it was just the Magic Kingdom. I went back to Disney in my 20s, when EPCOT had joined the group. Now there’s Animal Kingdom, Hollywood Studios, Downtown Disney East and West, Pleasure Island, and two mega waterparks. And you can tour them all! We met and talked to families who were on 12 day trips. Personally, I can’t eat substandard food for that long; Disney does a fairly decent job of feeding the masses (and though there’s a lot of junk food, there are also a good amount of healthy choices), but I was out of patience with feeding myself and my kids from the same range of options over and over. (A food aside: One of the biggest selling “snacks” at all the parks is a giant smoked turkey leg. Yes, you too can walk around in 90-degree heat looking like Henry VIII in short shorts and a sweaty Mickey t-shirt!). We paced ourselves pretty carefully — no late-night “magic hours” for us (on any given night, a park might stay open till 2am!) — and we generally got out of Dodge and back to our hotel for a swim by evening. Plus, we skipped Hollywood Studios (see Innocence Rules, above; if my kids have no idea about the Tower of Terror, should I be the one to drag them there before they ask?) and the water parks (ditto). And though my original plan called for two days at EPCOT, we kept that to one in favor of a third at Magic Kingdom. Why? The kids loved the tea cup ride:

Daniel, spinning Madly. My favorite photo of him from the trip.

...and here's James, also gettin' dizzy with it

…and so did we. I’d rather hang around and do a handful of favorite rides four times over, than drag tired kids from one end of the property to another to “see” it “all.”

So, that was our trip! Any questions?

I’ve written about this sort of vacation before, and I’ll write about the whole multi-generational family vacay again, I’m sure, but for now I bring it up because it was yet another chance for my boys to take in little tiny lessons about money. Specifically, the quarters they asked for so they could feed the machines in the game room and increase their stash of rubber bracelets, fake rings, and sticky frogs. As it was vacation, we were liberal with dips into our pockets for extra quarters after they ran out of the modest amount they extracted from their piggy banks at home.

But it was interesting to watch, especially as I’d just written a piece for the website DailyWorth.com about teaching small money lessons to kids. Not big teaching moments: we weren’t drawing up lessons about compound interest or how the Fed works (which I don’t always get myself). But little ones, like the value of a quarter, a dollar, a couple of bucks. Here’s what I wrote for DailyWorth:

I like to treat my five- and seven-year-old sons, but I don’t want them to believe Silly Bandz fall from heaven, or that my wallet is a magic dollar dispenser. So every time they troll the grocery store with me or get tempted by the snacks for sale at summer camp, I try to impart little money lessons—and they’re actually adding up.

• Dollars and sense. Candy and ice cream at day camp are usually a dollar or less, and my sons didn’t understand why I was reluctant to just hand over a buck or two. So I totted it up for them: $1 per boy, per day, comes to $10 a week. That number produced newfound respect for how much their snacks really cost. And respect is where responsible spending starts.
• Size matters. The other day, I tossed a loaf of raisin bread in the grocery cart, remarking that it cost $3.50 a loaf. My seven-year-old piped up: “The Subway sandwich at camp is $3.50.” Ding! “That’s one sandwich,” I said. “This is a whole loaf of bread—breakfast for you and your brother all week.” And he got it. I could see him mentally comparing the idea of all those breakfasts against a measly six-inch hero.
• No matter how you slice it… I sometimes let the kids buy pizza ($2 a slice)—but I usually stop them at one slice (they want more for competition’s sake with their friends, not because they’re hungry). I tell them: $2 may not be much money, but $4 is too much for a lunch they won’t finish, especially when I have perfectly good food at home. I have to repeat myself (often!), but the other day I heard my older son say to the little guy, “You don’t need two slices of pizza for lunch, you know.”

Of course, I get regular reminders that this is a big learning curve for them—and me. Yesterday was supposed to be Carnival Day at camp, and I gave the kids $5 for the games and activities. Well, the carnival was postponed due to bad weather, but guess who spent the $5 on candy anyway? Sigh. One step forward, two steps back.

Since the last time we went upstate to this particular resort, in those ancient, lovely mountains, we didn’t have a lot of things. We didn’t have, for example, the experience of my father undergoing (successful!) surgery for lung cancer. We also didn’t have my newest nephew, Nico, or know what college my older nephew Nicholas was going to. The point is, we’re growing, we’re changing, we’re together.

And we’re thrifty!

Can you see what's on my big boy's shirt? Mr. Strong. I'm a lucky, lucky mom.

Regular readers may have noticed I didn’t post last week — that’s because we were in Florida for a bit over a week, visiting my parents, who some years ago joined the throng of Northerners who take off for southern climes in January and don’t come back until April or so, leaving their progeny with the snow and the gloom, as well as with the option to come on down for some sun & fun.

This year, we were there for slightly longer than usual (the school vacation combined with the jacking up of February-break-time airfares make planning a vacay awkward, so it ended up being less expensive to stretch the trip a couple days beyond the week the kids had off from school. Sounds like a good idea? In theory, yes. In practical terms, not so much. I love my parents to pieces, and some niggling family dynamic issues notwithstanding, we get along. My boys adore them, they show us a good time, my husband gets along famously with both my mom and dad. So what’s the problem?

A wee bit too much togetherness, with me, in the center, as the link connecting my kids to my parents, and my husband to my parents. The end result is that the boys had fun, but I felt slightly stressed. Also, truth be told (and I’m all about telling the truth about child-rearing, right?), it was just plain old too much kid-time. Me and my boys, 24/7, is only fleetingly wonderful. Overall, sure, it’s precious. I am keenly aware of the passing of time, of how quickly my babies stopped being babies. Now seven, Daniel, in particular, is breaking my heart on pretty much a daily basis. He’s still so young, but then he is busting his britches for more independence. He’s just so… big. And strong. And his own person.

I want to build times like this vacation into our years, to enjoy this before they scoff at the idea of spending a week with mom and dad, much less Grandma and Grandpa (oh, and did I mention that we also spent time with my in-laws, who also snowbird it for a month or so, conveniently not too far from where my parents winter? Yep. It was a Grandparent-palooza!). But that doesn’t mean that each and every moment of the past eight days was swimming in a sea of mommy love. No, it was not. I found myself wishing for a shorter trip, to get back and get them back to school, to leave my parents to their golf and their friends and the relative peace of their condo without Cars cars and crayons underfoot.

Then a funny thing happened on the plane on the way home yesterday. Not funny-ha-ha, but funny in that niggling way that sticks with you. Seated behind Daniel and me (my husband was sitting across the aisle with James) was a mother with two young children, a boy and a girl, I’d guess about a year or two older than Daniel. The boy, quite suddenly, let out a loud, long yell. It shook me out of my seat. Then he did it again. In the exact moment that his mother reached across her daughter in the middle seat to touch her son’s arm, I registered that she wasn’t about to angrily shush him. I realized that he wasn’t being disruptive on purpose. The child had a problem — Tourette’s maybe? Or autism? The mother did her best to soothe him, but he wouldn’t stop until we were in the air and he could fire up his portable DVD player and watch a movie.

The boy, whose name was Colin, I found out, yelled out in that sharp, startling way a few more times over the course of the flight. Daniel jumped every time, but I quietly explained to my son that this boy had a problem, that he couldn’t help what he was doing. I forget exactly how I explained it, but I said something like, “that boy has something just slightly wrong, maybe with his brain, that makes him unable to control what he’s doing. He can’t help it.” Daniel still winced at the yells, but otherwise wasn’t bothered. I winced, though. The mother was totally calm, even cheerful, which I’m sure must be her way of coping with his issues (and also went a long way toward making those around us understand, without having to say anything, that there was nothing she could do; no one said a word).

In the last 20 minutes of the flight, my boy pulled up the armrest, and put his head down on my lap. Before long, he’d fallen asleep, my big second grader, his large, heavy head with its untamable mop of dark brown hair resting on my leg. I held my book with one hand, and stroked his cheek with the other. Just as when he was a baby and slept on me, he both drooled and sweated, gradually dampening my jeans.

Meanwhile, Colin yelped and shouted.

Like I said, it was a small moment, and the obvious feelings — of gratitude and great love — bubbled up. It’s natural for any mother to feel that “but for the grace of God” sense when she sees another mom with a much, much greater burden. Then the funny thing happened. At one point, I put my book down and put both hands on my kid. I did all my usual mommy things, like cleaning a little stray wax out of his ear (gross? Sorry; it’s a habit I picked up from my mother, who couldn’t let any earwax or navel lint sit for long, either); trying in vain to smooth his hair, still stiff from yesterday’s dose of pool chemicals; shifting the collar of his shirt where it looked like it might be tight against his neck; slipping a hand under his shirt to feel his breathing and his skin over ribs newly exposed by a growth spurt.

I realized in that small, necessary moment that I wasn’t just lucky to have this kid and his little brother, busily coloring across the aisle with his dad. I was lucky to be able to do these tiny bits of mother-care, to literally feel him growing under my hands. I don’t know for sure if that moment was connected to being confronted with a boy like Colin, but I feel somehow that it was.

But whatever prompted it, I’m glad it happened. Though it didn’t stop me from being very, very grateful that they are both safely and happily back in school today, back up north in the tail end of a snowy winter.

What does this little guy have to do with our family vacation? Read on!

For many Americans, and famously for much of Western Europe, August is vacation season. Everyone who’s anyone decamps for mountains, lakes, beaches, theme parks, the family cabin, the campground… you get the idea. We’re not going anywhere; in fact, we haven’t gone on vacation in any real sense (that is, for more than a few days; to somewhere that doesn’t involve visiting a relative; or to a place that has bought new sheets for the beds in the last four decades–more on that later) for, um, ever? I, personally, haven’t been on vacation For Real since my honeymoon.

I’m not kvetching, really, just stating a fact as a way of introduction to my somewhat accidental vacation stance when it comes to my children.

When I was a kid, we went on usually one vacation per year, nearly always in the summer, and nearly always to the Catskill Mountains, about a four hour drive north of us in New York State. Back then (as now, I guess), the mountains were studded with resorts, from tiny, pokey, inexpensive places with cabins and a bell that called guests to family-style meals, to higher-end places with indoor and outdoor pools, skating rinks, and evening entertainment. Guess which kind we went to? Yep, the first kind. And we LOVED it. From when I was tiny, we went to a place in Round Top, NY, called Riedlbauer’s, which as you can see from the name was (and still is) owned and run by Germans. Why an extended family of Italian-Americans fell in love with this meat-and-potatoes (literally) place, with nonstop German music emanating from hidden speakers and Alpine-village gingerbread trim on the buildings, I’ll never know. I’m going to assume it had to do with the price. Which was cheap. REALLY cheap.

But it was fun — and we didn’t know any better. We didn’t know there were Caribbean resorts, or even nice hotels on beaches in Florida (we did go to Florida when we were a bit older, during February break, but that was only after our grandparents had become snowbirds and had winter dwellings there. Nothing like spending a winter vacation in a retirement village. Whatever: there was a pool!).

But back to Riedlbauer’s. As kids, we’d spend a July or August week there, eating our three square meals (plus dessert!) a day, swimming in the pool, hiking through the woods, splashing in the cool mountain creeks and waterfalls. My kids have now been to Riedlbauer’s a couple of times, for long weekends in October. It’s become something of a tradition, with my parents, my brother and sister in law, and my sister and her three nearly-grown kids. We don’t care for the food, as abundant as it is (they’re nice, warm, welcoming people, the family who runs the place, but they wouldn’t know a salad or a fresh vegetable if it was dumped over their heads, though it’s a great place if you like meat, with side dishes of potates, and perhaps more meat); the rooms have not been redecorated since an “upgrade” sometime in the mid-seventies; the sheets are scratchy; that German music never stops; and the entertainment involves the owner, Henry, on his electric keyboard, accompanied by an accordionist, and every so often some German folk dancing.

But it’s a total blast. We all sit around these 1970s Formica tables in the main room at night, getting pitchers of beer from the bar and doing the Chicken Dance with the kids. Days, we hike the same trails we hiked as kids, to the same sites: Polly’s Rock, with its views over the gentle mountains, and the wide pool with the waterfall you can walk behind. Watching my boys toss flat, smooth rocks into the same pools my father once did is, you know, priceless.

A sight to see, generation after generation.

Daniel and James learning to skip creek-smooth stones.

I don’t have any photos of the food, possibly because goulash doesn’t really photograph that well, but suffice to say we get a lot of laughs out of dinner (and the boys end up making up most meals from the bread and butter, and the peanut butter and snacks I tote from home). But I have to show you the beds, with the acid-yellow spreads:

The furniture and bedding is distinctly 1970 (or even earlier).

One major thing going to Riedlbauer’s has done for my boys — and for me — is to cement the idea that an extended family, ranging in age from 4 to 72, can all have fun doing the same things at the same time. And another thing it’s done just for my children is to give them wildly low expectations of what a family vacation can be.

There are kids in my son’s class who go on an annual cruise, routinely hit Disney World, and have been to the kind of posh all-inclusive island resort I didn’t even know existed until I was fully grown. That’s fine; I’m not dissing those parents. If could have afforded a way cooler vacation, with way better food and sheets with a much higher thread count, I’d have done it, and I will, someday, when our finances allow. I want to treat my kids, give them things I didn’t have, all that stuff that’s natural for parents.

But I’m actually kind of gratified that a pokey spot like Riedlbauer’s makes my kids happy. Crazy happy, in fact. I’m gratified that this is what Daniel asked me a few months ago, when it suddenly occurred to him that other people had other types of vacations:

“Mom? Is there someplace besides Riedlbauer’s?”

See. Low expectations. Next vacation stop: probably my parents’ Florida condo come February. If they see a fancy hotel room before they’re 10, they just may explode with happiness. And that’s just fine with me.

But let me give you some background on this whole summer thing. As I’ve said before here, I’ve always worked, and of course that includes summer. However, since James was born, I’ve been freelance, which means my office is in my home, my commute is short and sweet (up the stairs!), and my time — theoretically, at least — is my own. But anyone who is freelance or who has his or her own business knows, there are no every-other-Friday paychecks, no paid vacations, no slacking off (unless you don’t, you know, want to get those sweet, sweet checks in the mail).

So I work, and the boys have evolved from daycare to daycamp. But this year, I decided that I’d leave the first few weeks of summer childcare- and camp-free. Just the three of us, our little pool, our swingset, the kids on the cul-de-sac where we ride our bikes. We’d see what was free at the library, get together with friends for park and beach trips, and eat ice pops with abandon.

I thought the three weeks (four for James, whose pre-K very (in)conveniently ended a week before the district’s public schools) would drag, that I’d be frantic to fill the hours.

Truth be told, I’ve enjoyed it. A lot. More than I expected.

This is not to say that I have not been bored. I have. Kind of like when I was a kid myself; some days dragged, even if the summer itself zoomed as fast as my 6-year-old on his newly-free-of-training-wheels bicycle (Daniel! Slow DOWN! Brakes! Brakes!).

My biggest surprises, and my greatest satisfaction, have come in the small moments.

• Bicycles. My boys are addicted to riding, and we hit the cul-de-sac once or twice a day so they can ride semi-traffic-free. One neighbor there has a couple chairs on his front lawn, and they’ve been away, so I’m not shy about sitting up on their lawn so I can watch the boys in comfort. One day last week, as the boys zoomed an glided and followed a few other kids in figure-eights up and down driveways, I was sort of regretting not having brought reading material. But then I just stopped, and felt the breeze in the lawn’s cool shade, and watched. And remembered just how utterly free I used to feel on my own bike (the sparkly banana-seat bike with the tassels on its handles), as though there were no boundaries to life at all.
  

  Here's Daniel, freshly free of training wheels.

• The planetarium. We nabbed free passes (thank you, for the zillionth time, South Huntington Public Library!) to the American Museum of Natural History in New York, and went in with friends for a day last week, which included a show at the fantastic Hayden Planetarium, part of the newly and breathtakingly refurbished Rose Center for Earth and Space. They can call it anything fancy in the world they like, but it’s a planetarium, and I love planetariums. The round room, the giant, curved ceiling, the high-backed comfy chairs, the dark and the cool. We took a Journey to the Stars, and it was fabulous. So caught up was I in a geeky fascination for the story of the first stars’ birth 13 billion years ago, that I almost forgot to check to see if the boys were scared or bored or doing something they shouldn’t. And when I snuck a sideways glance, I saw their heads tilted back, their eyes wide and fixed on the ceiling, mesmerized by the immensity of the universe.

• Summer haircuts. I’m fairly lazy with the boys’ hair, tending to let it get pretty shaggy before I break down and get their heads barbered. But I find I like it this way, because when they finally get their short summer ‘dos, it’s like I get to see their summery faces emerge, all fresh and (at least for Daniel) summer-freckled. Here they are, freshly shorn by our haircutting neighbor (bless her), Patty:

• Pajama time. Though I always kind of inwardly scoff at other moms I know who look forward to school vacations so they don’t have to get up early and get the kids out the door, there is something to be said for lengthy pajama mornings. My kids are up early regardless, and I never thought it was such a hassle to get them dressed and breakfasted and ready for school. Now that I also don’t have to pack camp lunches and get their camp backpacks sorted out before 8:30 a.m., we are free to see where the morning takes us. OK, truth time here: these so-called leisurely PJ spells are mostly leisurely to them. I use the time to catch up on some work (because, see above, the freelance life doesn’t allow for total vacations, and I have had some deadlines in this so-called “carefree” time), or to do some neglected household chores. But it’s still kind of nice to know that I can be up here in my office, making a quick call or typing up some notes for a story, and hear them downstairs, introducing the cars from the movie “Cars” to their Thomas trains. And isn’t it awesome that the cars and the trains can be friends and share their fictional worlds?

Curmudgeon that I am; mean, time-schedule loving, relentlessly practical mommy that I am, I have to admit: I’ve loved my three-week summer.

But I also love camp! Seven more days …