18 PUNCHMAGAZINE.COM {sloane citron} on a grandparent trip. “No problem,” I thought. “We’ll do it next year.” Then, somehow, the summers and years flew by. The kids started high school, learned to drive and suddenly were filling out college applications. Almost before I realized it, they were grown. Too old, too uninterested, too late to go traipsing around in an RV with their parents. The years passed before I realized they were gone. Sometimes, lying awake at night now, I think about that trip—the adventure I planned so carefully and wanted so badly. I can still picture the RV. I can still see the bunk beds, each child with a space of his own. I can still imagine the six of us driving through deserts, mountains and small towns across the American West. I always thought that there would be another summer. When you’re raising children, you think time moves slowly. The days can certainly feel long enough. But the years disappear and then it is too late and over and done, as there is no turning back time, no way to recapture your kids’ (and your own) youth. One moment you’re planning an adventure for a family with four young children. The next, those children are adults with houses full of their own bustling children. So, here’s what I want you to know: Don’t wait. Take the trip. Go now. One day you’ll look up and discover that the season of life that made the dream possible has passed. And then, like me, you may find yourself reminiscing about an adventure that never happened, wishing you had understood how precious and temporary those years really were. W hen my four children were young, I became enamored with the idea of taking an extended summer road trip across America. For a couple of months, we would travel the country together in an RV, exploring its many landscapes, quirky attractions and small towns. I wanted my children to see firsthand how fortunate they were to live in such a wonderful country. At the time, my oldest son, Josh, was about twelve. His younger brother, Coby (Jacob), was five. Between them were my daughters, Arielle, ten, and Talia, seven. The vision came easily. I could see us rolling down the great highways of the West and then veering off onto forgotten roads in search of scenic beauty, ghost towns and unexpected adventures. More than anything, I wanted to create memories. In fact, the more I thought about the trip, the more enthusiastic I became. There is an excitement that only a road trip brings, the tingling anticipation of hitting the highway with the next adventure around the corner. I sent away for brochures for RVs that featured a parents’ bed and two sets of bunkbeds for the children. After the kids had gone to bed, I’d sit at the kitchen table studying the brochures, turning page after page, studying floor plans and photographs. Planning the route was more exciting than shopping for the trailer. I bought atlases, visited AAA for maps and spread everything across the dining room table. We would begin in Yosemite, cross Nevada’s vast Great Basin country and then head on to southern Utah, with stops at Bryce Canyon and Zion. Then to Colorado, where we’d visit Mesa Verde’s ancient cliff dwellings and ride the historic Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad. Then we’d head north to Denver to spend time with my brother Dan and then to Amarillo, where my father still lived. After that, we’d continue to Santa Fe before heading west to the Petrified Forest National Park and finally the Grand Canyon. I had everything figured out. The RV. The route. The campgrounds. The attractions. The dream was ready. But plans for that summer started filling up with camps, family obligations, work commitments. We decided to postpone the trip for a year. The following summer—after I had everything reorganized and replanned—also began filling up. One child wanted to go to camp, another wanted to go take the trip
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