Reactions vary from funny to downright ignorant and pathetic when I tell people about my travel adventures with my kids. They either think that I am crazy (perhaps), that I somehow got gifted with three quiet, obedient robotic children (HA! Not quite) or that I am torturing my kids by dragging them along by obligation on what they think are ‘my’ travels.
I’ve meandered through the Amazon with my daughters when they were just four and six. I went on a girl surf trip with my middle daughter in Uruguay, where we both happily got our butts kicked by the ocean. I swam with both penguins and sharks with my son in Galapagos. We all did an Andes crossing on foot from Argentina to Chile. I think the hardest for me, though, was enduring a purse and shoe shopping trip with my eldest daughter in Buenos Aires. Future plans involve a culinary trip to Ethiopia, an Antarctic expedition, and climbing Aconcagua with my son. It’s going to be difficult to convince me that traveling with kids sucks. Honestly, adventuring with them has been my favorite part of raising them.