First Overseas Family Trip With Kids: Why I’m Already Stressed (And What I’m Doing About It)
I’m sitting at my kitchen table at 9 p.m., after the kids are in bed, surrounded by half-folded t-shirts, a crumpled printout of flight times, and a ring of coffee stain on the printed itinerary. My 4-year-old drew a purple dinosaur across the bottom of the customs form, and there’s a sticky note on my laptop that just says “don’t forget EpiPen” in my messy handwriting—the EpiPen my 7-year-old Leo needs for his nut allergy, that I almost forgot to renew last month. This is our first family trip overseas, and I’m already stressed.
We saved for this trip for two years. It’s not a fancy resort vacation—we’re crashing on my little sister’s pull-out couch in Edinburgh, so we can afford to go. Leo is 7, Mia is 4. I’ve been planning every detail for six months: I checked UK car seat regulations for cabs three times, I made a list of gluten-free cafes within a mile of my sister’s flat, I even ordered a pocket guide to Scottish castles for Leo, who’s been obsessed with all things medieval for a year. Two nights ago, I sat Leo down to gush about the castle we’d visit, and he just frowned and said, “But I’ll miss soccer practice. And my bed. I don’t want to go.”
I snapped. I said we’d worked so hard for this, that it was going to be the best trip ever, that he should be excited. He stormed off to his room, and I stood in the hallway scrolling through Instagram, seeing all those perfectly curated family travel posts of kids grinning in front of landmarks, and my chest felt tight. That night I laid awake running through every worst-case scenario: Leo would have a sensory meltdown mid-flight, Mia would wander off in the airport, we’d lose our passports, someone would get sick, the whole trip would be a waste of all that time and money.
I used to teach second grade, so I know better than most that big changes are hard for kids. But somehow I forgot that lesson when it came to my own kids and this trip. I’d bought into the idea that international travel with kids is this incredible educational experience, that they’ll come back more open, more curious, with all these new core memories. I was so focused on making that perfect experience happen that I’d stacked so much expectation on everything—on the kids, on me, on the trip—that I was already stressed before we even left the driveway.
So I started cutting things back, one small concrete step at a time. First, I pulled out our carry-on bag this morning and took out half the stuff I’d packed for “learning.” The castle activity book, the Scottish history flashcards, the fancy sketchbook I bought for Leo to draw his daily observations in. All that went back in the closet. In their place, I put Leo’s beat-up T-Rex and Triceratops figurines he’s had since he was 3, his faded blue blanket that he only sleeps with, and an extra box of his favorite goldfish crackers that I’d originally left behind to save space. I packed Mia’s one-eyed stuffed rabbit, even though it takes up more room than I’d like.
Next, I crossed out three-quarters of my itinerary. I’d had one big activity planned for every single day: Edinburgh Castle, the National Museum, a hike up Arthur’s Seat, a day trip to Stirling, the zoo. I crossed all but one big activity a week off the list, and wrote down the names and addresses of three playgrounds within 10 minutes of my sister’s flat, all with sandboxes and swings. I also looked up the nearest grocery store that sells the same gluten-free bread Leo eats at home, so I don’t have to scramble if he refuses to eat anything else for three days straight.
Then I went to Leo’s room after school yesterday, sat down on his bed next to his dinosaur collection, and said what I should have said the first time: “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said. It’s okay to be scared about going somewhere new. Everything will be different, and that can feel yucky. I’m a little scared too.” I didn’t push how fun it would be. I just said, “We’re bringing all your favorite things, and we’ll still have 30 minutes of quiet time every afternoon just like we do at home. If you don’t want to go to the castle one day, we can go to the playground instead. No one will be mad.” He nodded, poked his T-Rex, and said, “Can we bring extra goldfish?” I said yes.
What I’ve figured out this week is that the stress doesn’t just come from all the logistics. It comes from this unspoken rule that we have to give our kids these perfect, life-changing experiences, and if it goes off-script, we failed. But as a former teacher, I know that kids don’t learn the good stuff from the planned activities anyway. They learn from eating a popsicle on a park bench and noticing that dogs there run and bark just like dogs at home, that people talk differently but laugh the same way. They don’t need a flashcard to learn that; they just need to be comfortable enough to slow down and notice.
I still check the passport drawer three times a day. I still lie awake sometimes worrying about the 10-hour flight, about mid-trip meltdowns, about rain that ruins the one castle trip I kept on the schedule. I’m still stressed, just less tangled up in it than I was a week ago. We leave day after tomorrow. The suitcases are still half open on the living room floor, there’s a purple dinosaur doodle on our customs form, and we’re packing three extra boxes of goldfish crackers. That’s enough, for now. We’ll see what happens when we get there.
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