Rick and I had been standing on a hot Amsterdam tram through thirteen stops, using our wide stances to stabilize ourselves and our hips to stabilize our luggage.  When the doors opened, there was Henrik, our Norwegian son-in-law, to carry our suitcases.  He lifted them off the tram like they were clutch purses, and proceeded to roll them to our hotel and carry them up the stairs.  This was the beginning of our ten-day trip with our children and their partners, proceeding from Amsterdam to the Mosel Valley to Munich and finally Oslo.

What was quickly evident was how competent these thirty-somethings were. Our older daughter, Stacey, had planned the entire trip and had a red folder containing tickets, reservations, and recommendations.  Our younger daughter, Allison, seemed to have an internal compass, enabling her to find tiny restaurants where she had dined years ago.  Not only could the boys (and even the girls) do the heavy lifting, but all four youngsters knew how to do everything!   They knew how to buy tickets for every imaginable mode of public transportation, transferring from one vehicle to another like seasoned locals.   They could read a map and plot a course, even in Amsterdam’s confusing canal district.  They mentally converted dollars to Euros and miles to kilometers and Fahrenheit to Celsius.   It seemed that they could order any alcoholic beverage with no language barrier whatsoever.

In short, Rick and I have raised brilliant children who have selected brilliant partners.  They were strong and had the stamina of youth, enabling them to out-walk, out-eat, and out-drink Rick and me.

Van Gogh

Peaceful Valley Dude Ranch, Colorado, 1991

It was so easy to let go and let them take charge.  We let them carry stuff, order stuff, plan stuff, figure stuff out.  I felt a tiny bit guilty but, after all, we’d carried, ordered, and planned stuff  for dozens  of their childhood vacations, including a road trip up the East coast and two across the U.S. in our Ford Econoline conversion van. We packed their clothes and the van, and we did most of the luggage lugging.  Stacey and Allison sat in their captain seats, munching on snacks I’d prepared, reading Sweet Valley High and The Baby Sitters Club, and watching all the Cosby shows we’d videotaped.  (I’m sorry, but he was the beloved Cliff Huxtable then).  We did this without cell phones, Internet, or GPS.  We used the telephone and U.S. mail.  So maybe it was our turn to take it easy.

Stacey and Nathan and Allison and Henrik gave up their seats for us on trams, subways, and buses.  They helped me up from a sitting position.  They nodded sympathetically when we said we needed to go back to the hotel to rest.  They patiently repeated instructions and directions.  This felt wonderful, like payback time.

After a while, though, it seemed that they believed we couldn’t do stuff, not that we had gladly relinquished power.

Stacey loved fries at Chipsy King in Amsterdam.

My first hint of this was when we were sitting in the English Gardens in Munich.  We were all sitting at a picnic table with German-sized portions of spaetzli, sauerkraut, and potato salad, as well as every variation on pork.  I had just polished off my pig knuckle, and I sighed.  It was a contented sigh, the kind that comes from eating toothsome, fat-laden food.  Stacey, who really should have known better, thought I was overwhelmed by all there was left to eat.  She said, sweetly, “Mom, you don’t have to finish it all.”  My daughter had just given me permission not to clean my plate.

When we went to the Haufbrauhaus, Allison had decided that I couldn’t handle a real beer, so she ordered me the beer/lemonade combination known as Radler in Germany.  She handed me one of those iconic one-liter Haufbrauhaus  mugs and told me to use two hands to hold it.  She cautioned me to drink it slowly.

When the evening was over for Rick and me (the young ones still had fuel in their tanks and would go on partying for hours), we asked for confirmation of the subway station nearest to the Haufbrauhaus.  Allison was worried about us and insistent that we should take a cab.  “Really, Sweetheart, we’ve got this,” I said.  “We have traveled before . . . like to every continent.”

One evening we stopped at a Mexican cantina (because that’s what you do in Germany, right?) for a drink, because we hadn’t had one for 12 minutes.  It was quite warm, so when the pitcher of Margaritas came, I gulped one tiny glass of it.  When I reached for the pitcher to pour another, the children all looked sideways at each other.  “Mom,” one whippersnapper said, “you better take it easy.  There’s alcohol in that.”  Seriously?  There is alcohol in a Margarita?  Who knew?  When I went to pour a third glass (really, they were tiny glasses, more like communion cups), one of the guys said, “Whoa, you’re going to feel that!”

On our last night together, we went to a fabulous outdoor Italian restaurant (yep, now Italian cuisine in Germany).  By the time the waiter finally got around to asking my order, I couldn’t remember that word, “Radler,” and I had to search the menu for the name of the entrée I wanted.  Allison grabbed my menu and said, “She’ll have a Radler and the Spaghetti Bolognese.”  She thought I didn’t notice when she told the waiter to bring me a bib and crayons.

Stacey and Nathan said their goodbyes and headed to Pamplona, Spain, to run with the

Ready to run with the bulls!

bulls.  (My children are competent, but crazy.)  The remaining four travelers flew to Oslo where Allison and Henrik live.

One of the days, Rick and I explored on our own.  We rode trams and a Hop-On Hop-Off bus.  Admittedly, we did miss a tram stop, maybe even two, but we did what we did when we got in a jam on each and every continent in the world: we backtracked, asked questions, or modified our itinerary.  We mentioned our mishaps when we reunited with the kids later in the day, which made Allison concerned about our journey to the airport the next day.

On our departure day, Rick and I had to take the tram to the train, and the train to the airport.  Allison drew a detailed map of all the stops.  She was obviously worried and fretting for us, like she was sending us to scout camp.  We assured her we’d be fine, and, of course, we were.

There was something so familiar about this reversal of roles, but all through the trip, I couldn’t put my finger on it.  When we were taxiing out of Oslo, I finally figured it out.  My kids were treating us just like we treated my parents when we traveled with them.

I shared this experience with several girlfriends, and it is apparently a common phenomenon.  We discussed how we felt about this role reversal.  Some were annoyed or insulted; I was neither, just amused, but admittedly there had been a subtle, unsettling shift.

I recognized my children’s solicitousness as courtesy and respect, but it was something else, too.  When you travel with your parents, you see up close how they’re changing and aging, and their mortality hits you square in the eye.   You want to protect them and make things easier for them. You want them to know they can pass the baton whenever they’re ready.

While we could have managed without their help, I have to admit that things are harder for us than they were twenty years ago.  Neither of us see, hear, move, lift, remember, comprehend, or digest as well.  We’ve adapted, resting a bit more, taking easier modes of transportation, double-checking our itineraries (and each other), eating dinner earlier.  I suspect the ways we’ve changed are even more obvious to our offspring than to us.    I am so gratified that they care enough to notice.  They are darn good kids.

“Being a grownup means assuming responsibility for yourself, for your children, and – here’s the big curve – for your parents.” ~ Wendy Wasserstein

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