In Italy, Jenna Bush Hager realized that traveling with young children isn’t about orchestrating flawless days; it’s about loosening your grip. Under the vast ceilings of the Vatican, as Hal’s head grew heavy on her shoulder, she watched him fight sleep with a stubborn need to witness everything. His drooping eyes, then sudden bursts of wonder, became a mirror of what it means to be alive in a new place: overwhelmed, exhausted, yet unwilling to let the magic slip by.
Back home, his tiny voice echoing “Grazie mille! Buongiorno!” through their familiar rooms carried more weight than any postcard. Those words were proof that even in the mess—missed naps, frayed patience, hurried meals—something lasting had taken root. Italy was no longer just a destination; it had woven itself into her son’s language, his memories, his sense of the world. For a fleeting moment, an entire country felt like it belonged to him.
