I used to rock cocktail parties.
When someone would ask my husband, “What do you do?” he’d start in on his work,
which has something to do with Excel. Attention faded.
Olives were sucked. But as said person was on the verge of the loo excuse,
he’d throw in, “Meet my wife. She’s a travel writer.”
I’d dazzle these new acquaintances with stories of near lore:
Flying over the Great Barrier Reef through a rainstorm, diving for sweet oysters in Croatia,
counting lazy lionesses in a acacia tree, and dining with a Maharaja at his palace in Jaipur.
It was fun. It was thrilling. It was really obnoxious.
Then, something happened (cocktail party karma, you might call it).
On a layover between Vietnam and Myanmar, I found myself in a bathroom stall at the Bangkok Airport,
my little red carry-on in one hand and a Boots-brand pregnancy test in the other.
It was positive.
We were going to have a baby—and I really had to stop taking those Malaria pills.
Yes, travel has changed, and so has my job: I’ve gone from road testing massages at the Mandarin Oriental
to strollers that claim they can fit in the overhead compartment. Friends that once asked me where to honeymoon
now pepper me with questions on flight-with-baby essentials.
But two kids later, I’m not ready to turn in my passport. The fact is, kids are good for travel.
They open up a world of new connections with people and places thanks to their curiosity and spontaneity.
And travel is good for kids. They learn. They grow perspective. They develop a wider worldview.
So now I’ve told you why I travel with kids. Turn to my site to find out how I travel with kids—articles loaded with not only my tips and insights, but expert advice gathered from the friends and professional connections I’ve made writing for magazines like Travel + Leisure, Condé Nast Traveler, Martha Stewart and Money.
Good luck. God speed. And I still recommend you get a massage at the Mandarin Oriental—now more than ever.