How We Go To Great Wolf Lodge: A Story About Stretching Safely

It all started with a simple question, from me to my three kids: “What’s one thing you want to do this summer?”

All three said the same thing: Great Wolf Lodge.

Great Wolf Lodge is an indoor waterpark chain in the United States with a hotel, pools, massive slides, restaurants, and tons of indoor activities available. It’s an experience, y’all. We’ve been several times before, but each time is a stretch.

Still. That answer alone was a win. Having a shared desire, feeling a spark of hope. I don’t take these things for granted. It speaks to how far we’ve come—from a time when the question itself would have been too overwhelming, too demanding, too much to even imagine. But we’ve practiced back-and-forth discernment conversations hundreds of times over hundreds of tiny wonderings (“do you want pizza or chicken tenders?” “do you want to keep wrestling or do you want to stop?” “should I keep your door open or closed?”) to the point that shared conversations and shared discernment is safe. We can wonder and talk together. Amazing.

But that shared desire to go to Great Wolf Lodge still lived inside a reality full of caution and fear. Would there be mold? (I have a severe mold sensitivity) Will they sleep in an unfamiliar bed? Will they eat in a chaotic and new place? What about noise, crowds, wet clothes, unpredictability, car rides? The simple fact is that leaving the house together in one car is still a stretch for our family. 

And that’s also part of what made this Great Wolf Lodge dream so beautiful—because what they wanted wasn’t just the water slides and scavenger hunts. They wanted us to do it together, as a family. And we wanted to try.

But, can we even do this?

That’s the first question every low demand family learns to ask.

Not in a pessimistic way. Not in a catastrophizing way. Just a grounded, honest scan: Can we do this—and at what cost?

For me, that meant scoping out mold-safe rooms (which, spoiler, didn’t quite work), bringing air purifiers, bracing for the possibility that I might have a chronic illness crash. For my husband, it meant rearranging work schedules and preparing to be on full-time co-regulation duty. For the kids, it meant talking through fears, hopes, and unknowns.

Toggling Between Safety and Sparkle

Here’s the thing about PDAers: novelty can be a lifeline and a landmine.

If we go somewhere too familiar, it starts to feel like a demand. Monotony turns into pressure. Expectations settle in like a weighted blanket that’s just too heavy, claustrophobic instead of comforting. But if we go somewhere too new? That same nervous system lights up with panic. 

So we aimed for the middle.

A different Great Wolf Lodge than the one they know—something new, but still predictable. We watched video walkthroughs of the new location so they could see that their favorite things would still be there: Dunkin’ Donuts in the lobby, crispy chicken tenders, their beloved water slide. We clicked pause. We named fears. We traced the route.

There was a time when pre-trip waiting and anticipation was the hardest part. Waiting for something good to come used to feel like holding our breath for weeks—tense, edgy, too much to manage. In those seasons, we made paper chains to count down the days, and each morning one link would get ripped off and shredded into confetti-sized pieces by anxious hands. (When we couldn’t share one paper chain, we created three). That ritual of destruction made perfect sense to me. It was sensory. It was physical. It gave shape to the formless agony of waiting. We’ve spent years learning how to carry the intensity of good things ahead. Right now, we’re in a season where anticipation doesn’t spiral into aggression and dysregulation, and for that I’m so deeply grateful. Phew. Progress. But I keenly remember the years when it did. When the build-up to something good could knock us off our feet before we even got there. So I honor that past, hand over my heart in compassionate witness, even as I notice the growth—and breathe a little easier.

The Packing and Prep

I packed like a low demand pro. When I was a kid, my dad was the designated car packer, and he called his approach “The Scientific Packing Technique” (and with a smirk, he warned us that we were not to interfere!) I am also a scientific packer. 

Snacks and safe foods. Extra swimsuits and clothes for every imaginable scenario. Waterproof bedding, beloved stuffies, tech, goggles, sunscreen, even water shoes for the one kid who finally felt ready. And when he couldn’t go to the store because I’d accidentally asked if he was ready one too many times? My husband went and bought three possible pairs. We tried them at home. (Crocs for the win.)

Everyone brought their own tech—Switch, tablets, VR headset. One kid has a VR game streak he desperately didn’t want to break. And instead of fighting it or moaning about how this is vacation, not time for video games, we made space for his VR gear. He checked in once a day for five minutes. That’s it. But knowing he could kept him regulated and feeling safe.

We brought games, fidgets, goggles, and dive toys from home. We requested a high-up room. We braced for what might go wrong, and we padded every corner with softness and preparation.

And yes, it’s a special kind of exhausting to be so prepared, to imagine every dark and twisty thing that could happen and try to prepare in advance to mitigate the pain. And no, you’re not making it up when you feel like vacation is way harder than regular life. That the idea that this is supposed to be “restful” makes your belly laugh with dark mirth. It’s all real. 

What We Dropped

We dropped the idea that one food stop on the drive there was enough. In fact, on our 3 hour journey to Great Wolf Lodge, we hit up two different fast food restaurants because that’s what our kids needed. We dropped the idea of jumping straight into the fun. Instead, my husband took the kids on a wander and get comfortable in their space while I checked in. They often need to explore spaces thoroughly before they can engage with those places. Just looking, just exploring. We didn’t bring bags in right away. We didn’t stand in line. We just let them land.

We dropped the fantasy that the room situation would be easy. The fight over beds was rough. They melted down. We hadn’t preassigned sleeping spots, and that was on us. But we stayed flexible. My husband and I said we were willing to split up and sleep with kids if needed. Eventually, everyone figured it out. No one wanted the top bunk because there was a cartoon mouse painted up there and that was scary and weird. Totally fair.

We dropped the expectation that because we were at the water park, we had to be in the water park. One kid barely got wet the entire visit. Another spent the whole time on the indoor scavenger hunt. One kid went in and out, resting often. Everyone did their own thing.

And that’s what made it work for our family.

Because for my kids “have to” quickly becomes “can’t” (and sounds like "I won't, you can’t make me, I hate you!”).

The Hardest Moments

That first fight over beds was brutal. We’d barely arrived and already things felt like they were falling apart. All those parental thoughts came up: Don’t you know how lucky you are? Don’t you know how much we sacrificed to be here?

But they don’t. Not in the way we want them to.

Gratitude can’t be forced. Dysregulation doesn’t care about our intentions. And the truth is, it made total sense that they were overwhelmed. I don’t look at the hardest moments to determine whether they are growing, whether they are grateful, whether they are loving. None of us want to be judged by our worst moments. Instead, we gave them and ourselves loads of soft, gentle understanding that hard stuff is just hard. No one did anything wrong. No one is at fault. It wasn’t my failure to figure out sleeping arrangements proactively (even if that might’ve helped) because I know I can’t be proactive about everything. Mistakes are part of being human. They makes us tender and real and vulnerable. They open up the potential for compromise and repair. 

The Great Bed Meltdown sucked, but it was also OK. We got through it, and found a plan, and all was well.

The Sweetest Wins

There wasn’t a single moment where all five of us were in the same place doing the same thing. No photo with all 5 of us in it. No shared meal with all 5 of us around a table. No collective memories of being at the waterpark together or jumping over the waves in the wavepool or even playing a shared game of Uno on the floor of the hotel room. 

And honestly that is okay.

Because there was a moment when all five of us were in the room together. Kids were in their beds, watching their shows. Me and my husband on the balcony, reading our books. No one needed anything. It was quiet. It was calm. We smiled at each other, wonder and confusion and delight in our eyes. 

We are really not used to any measure of ease. We are not used to being able to slow down and trust. We are not used to people taking care of themselves.

It was weird. In the best possible way.

We’re not used to peace. We’re used to vigilance. So when ease showed up, it felt foreign. But it was real. And beautiful. And I’d love to get a bit more used to it.

A few practical tools

If you're planning a trip like this, here are a few things that helped us:

Packing for a pool or waterpark vacation (especially with sensory needs in mind):

• Extra swimsuits (like, more than you think, especially if your kids, like mine, can’t put on a slightly damp swimsuit)
• Water shoes that actually feel good (we brought 3 pairs to try at home)
• Your own towels (sometimes hotel ones are scratchy or tiny)
• Special goggles, sunscreen, or floaties from home
• Multiple changes of clothes for each day—wet things get ick fast
• Waterproof pads or bedding, if you have nighttime needs
• Stuffed animals, blankets, and even mattress toppers to make unfamiliar beds feel familiar
• Portable air purifier and masks (helpful for reducing mold concerns! I even slept in my mask, something I’ve never done before, but really helped)
• Headphones, ear plugs or sound-reducing earmuffs (helpful for sound-sensitive adults, even if the kids can’t access them)
• All the devices—tablets, phones, chargers, Switch, VR headset and the mat
• Safe snacks and comfort foods (Domino’s > lobby pizza every time)
• Board and card games, just in case there's a moment for shared play
• Your own cups, plates, or water bottles if certain textures matter
  
  

A set of discernment questions before you go:
When I’m not sure if a big trip is worth the cost, I wonder…

• I wonder what each child’s “too hard” might be right now (noting that it could be different than the last time you tried something like this)
• Is there anything I can bring or prepare for that would make this more doable? (it’s important to think about dropping demands and raising supports).
• I wonder what truly matters most in our family life right now, and what we could drop from the plan without losing our what matters.
• What might I need in order to feel resourced enough to go? (parents matter too!!)
• Is there a way for every kid to be able to say “no” at any point?
• Have we built in enough buffer time for rest - before, during and after?
• How might we know when it’s time to say, “That’s enough for today”?
• I wonder what tools will help us re-regulate after a meltdown, conflict, or tense moment.
  
  

Journaling prompts for finding the tender wins afterward:

1. What surprised me about this experience?
2. When did I feel most connected to myself? To any other adults present? To my kid(s)?
3. What did I let go of—and what happened when I did? Did I let go proactive, or in the moment?
4. What did I learn about each kid? What did I learn about myself?
5. Where did we feel most like us?
   
   

Because sometimes the win isn’t in the perfect moment, the classic photo, or the tender memory—it’s in the way we kept circling back to connection, in the way we did it our way, in the peace, joy, or excitement that peeked through.

Takeaways

Getting five unique, mostly-neurodivergent people to say yes to the same thing, in the same place, at the same time? Not our thing. Not our goal.

No matching t-shirts. No family selfies. No group meals. No waterpark photo of us going down the slide together.

But you know what we did have?

• Every kid doing what they loved.
• Space to say no.
• Room to rest.
• A rhythm that felt like us.

We stretched. And we returned to safety. And we came home with the memory of doing something hard, in a way that actually worked.

That’s a low demand win.

That’s family vacation, our way.