I’ll never forget the first time we decided to take a “real” family trip. Bags half-zipped, snacks forgotten, shoes mismatched, and stress levels through the roof—I looked at Squish’s excited little face and realized something important: this wasn’t about doing it perfectly, it was about doing it together.

That moment shifted everything for me. Family travel isn’t about flawless itineraries or packing everything “just right.” It’s about memories—messy, beautiful, unforgettable memories. And I want to share a few lessons we learned the hard way, so maybe your first trip can start a little smoother than ours did.

The other day, Squish and I took a walk down a street we’d passed a hundred times but never really explored. He noticed a tiny crack in the sidewalk where grass pushed through, and then pointed out the way the sunlight made the leaves look like they were glowing. I’ll be honest—I was in “get it done” mode, thinking about dinner, emails, and laundry. But Squish slowed me down. His curiosity reminded me that exploring doesn’t always mean packing bags or planning trips. It can be as simple as walking outside together, paying attention, and letting him lead.

What I realized in that moment was powerful: these little explorations aren’t just fun—they’re shaping how Squish learns empathy, problem-solving, and awareness. In other words, they’re building his emotional intelligence (EQ)—the set of skills that helps kids understand themselves, manage emotions, and connect with others.

And the best part? Exploring together doesn’t take tons of money or time. It’s about presence, curiosity, and connection.

Last week, I walked into the kitchen and saw last night’s dishes still in the sink, laundry waiting to be folded, and a grocery list that was… well… not even started.

Before my coffee, I was already thinking: I’m falling behind again.

But then, I heard little footsteps padding down the hall. Squish looked up at me with a sleepy smile and said, “Morning, Mama.”

And in that moment, I realized something:
He didn’t care about the dishes. He didn’t care about the laundry.

He cared that I was there.

That I smiled back.
That I hugged him.
That I asked, “How’d you sleep?”

We measure ourselves by what’s left undone. Our kids measure us by the