When my daughter was eleven years old, her classmates and their families went skiiing in Switzerland during Spring break.
As someone who'd spit the congealed globs of melted wax from the containers of chocolate milk heated on the radiator at Patrick Hamilton Elementary School each morning after walking a mile to school in a blinding blizzard, the question, "What are we doing for Spring Break?" seemed ludicrous.
I said, "The same thing we do every year. You stay home and call me every ten minutes to tell me you're bored."
"I'm calling Grandpa," was her reply.
Dad called later that day.
"You're going to Paris."
"It's a one-star hotel."
"Dad," I said, "I'm really grateful, but I'm a middle-aged woman visiting Paris with an eleven year-old child. I don't want to share a bathroom. I sincerely appreciate your generosity, but I'll gladly pay the difference for a private bath."
He called back a few minutes later. "I upgraded you to a two-star. It cost $20. "
"Twenty bucks a day is nothing, Daddy," I said. "Thank you so much."
"Twenty bucks for the whole 10-day trip," he said. "I covered it."
Thank you, Dad . . .