The Goody Bag Strategy

A surprising thing for a parent, at least for this one, is all the little plans and contingencies you have to make and consider when going about normal human life. Even more surprising, particularly as one who takes little joy in having things planned out, is that I often make these plans instinctively.

A few weeks before going on vacation, my daughter started to walk. Immediately, her world expanded. She was a late bloomer, as I’ve said before, and I think what really got her going is that she finally realized crawling would only get her so far. On feet, she could explore the world, or at least her grandparents’ backyard. And their house. And our apartment. And try to sneak off and run down the street like a freed hamster when we’re not looking. Whenever she gets bored, she comes to me, grabs at my hand, and, in a voice so precious that you don’t quite realize it’s a command, says, “walk.” It’s what I get for repeating the word over and over again when actually teaching her the deed. We walk, hand in hand, down the street or to the raspberry bushes (she’s going to be disappointed when we get back to see how they’re out of season) or to visit the goats that live behind the retirement home. It happens often, which means my daughter gets bored often. She gets bored, now that she knows there is a vast world to explore on two legs.

So, when packing, the thought struck my wife and I that we need to ease boredom in our Ferienwohnung, which, with one bedroom, is smaller than our apartment and much smaller than Oma and Opa’s house. That’s where I came up with the goody bag strategy.

The goody bag strategy is to fill up a small duffle bag with (based on my observation) her favorite toys and books. I won’t allow her to know that the bag contains all of the treasures. Rather, on each day throughout our vacation, I reintroduce her to one of her prized possessions. It’s worked fairly well. She squeals with recognition when it’s a toy she particularly likes. For example, she has a teddy bear with a tag that says “Charly” but whom she simply refers to as “Bear” (note to toymaker: please don’t name your toys. It’s more satisfying when children come up with their own names, even at 18 months). Showing her Bear, after a few days’ absence, was a delight for both of us. “Bear!” she cried and embraced her old friend. Now, my wife and I can steal a few moments of vacation reading (or writing) while she puts Bear “night night” (by stuffing him through the bars of the crib) or has Bear eat “nyum nyums” (by seating him in her high chair).

Books are effective too, though not always for buying us a break. I’m trying to raise my daughter to love books, and I’ve made a point to read to her well before comprehension (which is what all the parenting books say to do, anyway). It worked, but now she’s old enough to try to dictate when she gets read to, which cuts into those wonderful moments I refer to as "me time." I will be there, sitting on the sofa, in view of the Alps out my window, newspaper or one of my three vacation books before me. My daughter will pick one of her own books and, with an expression of sweet expectation, look at me and say, “book.” Once again, it’s a command, not a request. To break it would risk tears, tantrums and a pitiful look of unadulterated heartbreak that could melt granite. Hey, what are vacations for, other than catching up on my Dr. Seuss or Richard Scarry?