My daughter started packing for a trip to Washington, D.C. and Maryland the day after school closed a few weeks ago. She had eight long days of waiting, which meant I was suffering too. She washed and ironed clothes, texted friends about getting together, grumbled about how time seemed to slow down.

She reluctantly did the homework assignment I gave her, to read about Niagara Falls and the role of the Underground Railroad there. She was going to travel with her former Girl Scout troop to visit the area and I’ve always felt that it’s important to know about a place being visited to fully appreciate the experience. My daughter calls it vacation homework. Over the years, I’ve also asked her to write  essays about her summer experiences, all in an effort to keep her skills sharp when she’s out of school.

We’ve been in Charlotte for nearly a year and the adjustment to the ways of the south has been tough for my 15-year-old daughter. She was thrilled to be able to join her Girl Scout buddies and to visit other friends during a 10-day visit. I didn’t tell her this but I was  excited, too: I was getting my annual summer break, from mothering every day. Do I need to say more? I turned on the stove only one day. There was no blaring teenage hip-hop music drowning out my jazz and blues. The house was peaceful and quiet. 

Anyway,  I arranged for my daughter to travel to Washington on the train with one of my sisters, who lives there and timed a visit to our mother so that my daughter could go back with her. After a day-long ride, my daughter called me, reporting that it had been a good trip.

“I’m back,” she said, “in the city I love.”

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