When my children were young, I found myself subconsciously trying to replicate some of the experiences of my own childhood. Funny, I don’t seem to remember vacations being as much work as they turned out to be for me, the adult.
Instead of a two-week vacation, I was taking my sons for one week through Southern Indiana, Kentucky and Tennessee. We would drive halfway and check into a hotel in Bowling Green.
My boys were 11 and nine.
When I was one of the children, I was nine and my brothers were 11 and eight. That trip was through the Smokey Mountains. Luxury hotel meant hot and cold running water and a restaurant or small grocery store “just down the road.”