The Motzaei Shabbos before the scheduled trip, you pop a few Mel-O-Chews, because you can’t very well accompany your daughter on an all-day trip — even if you will be lounging in the passenger seat next to your rookie driver for most of that time — without getting a good night’s rest.

To be honest, a sliver of hope does poke its way through your shield of determination, as you fantasize that maybe your daughter will knock on your door before you go to bed and tell you she’d rather go out for ice cream, after all.

But, no, turns out she’s even more determined than you are.

“Are you sure you’re up for the trip?” she asks benevolently before you close your bedroom door for the fourth time.

“Of course!” you reply smiling, as you replace your eye mask and ear plugs.

The next morning dawns bright and chilly and you leap out of bed to throw in the first load of laundry. You load your backpack (the one that makes your daughter cringe) with nuts and dried fruit and fresh fruit and water bottles and all the healthy snacks you can find in the pantry, plus an extra set of clothing, just in case.

Your daughter brings an extra-large bag of pretzels and a water bottle.

You kiss all the younger ones goodbye, peel the toddlers off your skirt, and tell your husband to wish you luck as you make your way to the car with your backpack — to which you’ve added an extra hoodie, a few magazines, the parenting book you hope to finally finish, and the essential notebook and pen. You figure you may as well accomplish something during the long car ride to the historic Strasburg Rail Road, the one item on the agenda, and you know your daughter will be listening to music the whole time anyway.

But then a funny thing happens; she forgets to turn on the music. For the very first time.

And you talk and listen and talk and listen, while the magazines and parenting book and notebook and pen all sit in quiet company.

Sooner than later, the Strasburg Rail Road appears before your eyes, but there’s no time for the requisite souvenir shopping because the ride begins at noon and the town clock reads 11:57.

You wonder, as you ascend the old-fashioned train and settle yourselves into the cushioned benches, if you are the only Jews around for miles, and contemplate what a sobering responsibility that is.

The conversations around you feature assorted accents, and more than two sets of eyes do a double take when seeing the tichel upon your head.

But your own eyes are drawn to your lovely daughter, who is gulping down the sights of Lancaster farmland showered in fall foliage, and you cherish the smile broadening across her face.

The train chugs its way along the tracks, picture book-worthy views gliding across the glass panes, but all too soon it stops and the engine is brought to the other end of the train and, surprisingly, you return the same way you came.

You see the same black-and-white cows, the same hay-munching horses, the same endless fields.

When the 45-minute ride ends, you make your way together with your glowing daughter to the gift shop, where you spend another hour deliberating over which souvenirs to buy for the kids, something useful that won’t end up in the garbage three days later. Hemming and hawing, you finally decide upon a 500-piece puzzle for the big ones and jump ropes for the little ones.

Oh, and three overpriced magnetic train cars so your kids will finally use the wooden train tracks at home that have been sadly trainless for the last three kids.

On the way back to the highway, you spot a TJ Maxx and run inside. I mean, if they serve the Amish, they must have tzniyus stuff, right?

Wait, don’t the Amish make their own clothing?

Maybe, but which frum lady passes up a good metziah?

So you try on four sweaters and a plush robe your daughter hands you while you admire the anti-wrinkle creams, and finally walk out of the store empty-handed. Oh, except for the robe, because your daughter says you simply must replace the stringy monstrosity you bought for the hospital stay when you gave birth to her 18 years ago.

The ride home begins with sun and ends with moon and an empty bag of pretzels.

And a backpack still full of nuts and dried fruit and fresh fruit and all the healthy snacks you’d found that morning in the pantry.  And the books.

It’s good to be home.

But as you haul in the souvenir bag with the TJ Maxx bag hiding inside it and respond to your little ones’ enthusiastic greetings, you steal a peek at your newly adult daughter.

And you know, you just know, you’ll have to do this again.

Without the backpack.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 912)