I had all the hallmarks of a Type A parent, particularly when it came to vacationing with my family. In the days leading up to our first trip abroad, I orchestrated every detail like a conductor preparing for a grand performance. I spent an entire morning baking frittatas that would keep without refrigeration for the flight. I curated bespoke travel packs for our children, each containing an assortment of “lucky dips” to distract them from boredom, wrapped individually for maximum intrigue. I pieced together an iron-clad itinerary that mapped out not just destinations and activities, but snack breaks, bathroom stops, and buffer times. I even arranged for the cab driver to pick us up a full four hours before our flight, convinced that a wide margin of safety was the secret to avoiding chaos.
On paper, I was armed with everything a mother could need for a first family trip abroad. In reality, there was one crucial element I hadn’t packed: wriggle room. Not the kind you need to stretch your legs in a cramped airplane seat, though heaven knows that’s in short supply in economy. I mean the emotional kind—the space to adjust, pivot, and even embrace moments when the plan slides sideways. The kind that allows you to see not just the cracks in your perfect plan, but the unexpected light that seeps through them.
I didn’t know it yet, but what I really needed was a dose of Type C parenting.
Labeling parenting styles is hardly a new sport. We’ve been introduced to tiger moms, helicopter parents, koala moms, and free-range caregivers. But the emerging concept of the Type C parent feels different. It’s not an extreme; it’s the middle ground between the rigid, highly organized Type A and the laid-back, wing-it Type B. Type C parents still value structure, but they also know when to let it bend. They can set up a clean, tidy room for their children yet not flinch if toys spill out onto the floor. They can design a learning activity, but also let curiosity lead the way into unplanned messes.
The term has been gaining attention thanks to creators like Ashleigh Surratt, who shows in her social media videos that Type C parents blend preparedness with an acceptance of imperfection. According to a Skylight survey of more than 3,000 parents, about 35 percent say they lean toward Type C approaches—loosening screen time rules when needed, bribing with a smile if it gets the job done, or swapping careful planning for spontaneous adventure.
I didn’t go looking for a new parenting philosophy on this trip, but somewhere along the way, I stumbled into it. It began on the plane, 35,000 feet above the Atlantic, somewhere between the second toddler lap run and the third request for juice. My four-year-old son was cross-legged on his seat, earphones askew, giggling at a tablet he almost never gets to use. Every so often he glanced out the window, smiling at the endless parade of clouds. My 18-month-old daughter wriggled in and out of my lap, delighted each time she managed to spot a glimmer of sunlight on the wing.
Beneath their seats sat the backpacks I’d so carefully assembled, stuffed with coloring sheets, stickers, magnetic tiles, Lego pieces, and pre-cut crafts. They’d been dipped into briefly, then set aside without ceremony. The “lucky dips” had held their attention for all of five minutes. The frittatas? One lick each before being squashed back into snack bags.
This was my first hint that my meticulous preparation, while comforting in the planning stages, wasn’t going to be the centerpiece of this holiday. My instinct was to push the plan—to remind the kids of the fun activities I’d brought, to make sure my “hard work” was used. But something in their calm, contented faces stopped me. They were already happy, entertained by the simplest things: a moving map on the seatback screen, a pack of airline crackers, a game of peek-a-boo with the passenger in the row behind. My plans were insurance, not the main event.
By the time we reached our destination, a subtle shift had begun. I still appreciated the structure I’d built, but I was starting to let go of the pressure to follow it exactly. The real breakthrough came a few nights into the trip, when jet lag had us all in a strange rhythm. We’d managed a relatively early bedtime for the kids, but by four in the morning, both were wide awake. My Type A reflex told me to coax them back to sleep. My mind conjured visions of sleep-deprived meltdowns later in the day. But instead of resisting, I found myself embracing the moment.
“What’s for breakfast, Mom?” they asked.
A stricter version of me might have reached for the apron and attempted healthy pancakes. A more relaxed, Type B impulse might have sent them off to amuse themselves. But the emerging Type C in me simply reached for the bag of local chips I’d bought the night before, poured them into a bowl, and declared it a “chip party.” We curled up in bed together, salty fingers and all, talking about the day ahead. It wasn’t picture-perfect parenting, but it was perfect for us in that moment.
Later in the trip, another test came. A beach walk we’d planned with friends was derailed by sudden rain. My initial reaction was frustration—after all, we’d been looking forward to it for weeks. Sleep debt had piled up, the apartment was strewn with clothes and laundry, and the food supplies were dwindling. In my old mindset, this would have been a crisis in need of immediate fixing. But instead, we invited our friends over, grabbed crackers and dips from the corner store, and turned it into a cozy afternoon indoors. The laundry was shoved into a corner, clothes tumbled out of their neat rolls, and bedtime slipped later than usual. The result? A warm, laughter-filled evening that none of us would have traded for the original plan.
That’s the thing about vacations with kids—plans are just scaffolding. They give you something to hold onto, but the real structure is built in the moment. Type C parenting gave me permission to treat the itinerary as a suggestion rather than a mandate. It reminded me that the point of this trip wasn’t to execute a flawless schedule but to be present in the experience, messy and unpredictable as it was.
There’s a certain kind of overwhelm that comes with planning family travel. We imagine the serenity, the smiles, the picture-perfect sunsets, and we work ourselves into knots trying to engineer them. The truth is, the most memorable parts are often the ones that appear unplanned, in the spaces left open by flexibility. Type C parenting doesn’t mean abandoning structure—it means giving yourself permission to step outside of it when life nudges you in another direction.
By the final week of our month away, I could see how this balance between preparation and spontaneity was changing not just my stress levels but the way we all engaged with each other. My children were more relaxed because I was more relaxed. I wasn’t constantly steering them toward an activity I’d planned; instead, I was following their curiosity, whether that meant stopping to watch a street musician or detouring into a tiny bookshop. We still had anchor points—train tickets booked, museum slots reserved—but the space between them was left open to discovery.
Coming home, I realized the lesson wasn’t limited to travel. This Type C mindset could live in our daily life too. At home, it might mean planning meals for the week but leaving one or two “wing it” nights. It could mean setting a bedtime but allowing for a spontaneous movie if the mood strikes. It’s the art of making room for joy without losing the grounding of structure.
Vacations are a magnifying glass for family dynamics. They show you where your systems shine and where they strain. Mine revealed that my need for control was sometimes crowding out the possibility of connection. By holding the plan lightly, I could make space for both. The beauty of Type C parenting is that it doesn’t ask you to give up who you are—it just asks you to flex.
Somewhere between the frittatas that no one ate and the rain-soaked afternoon that became one of our favorite memories, I learned that the magic of a family trip isn’t in the flawless execution. It’s in the moments that feel easy because you’ve stopped fighting the flow. It’s in the confidence that you can meet the day as it comes, with enough structure to feel secure and enough freedom to feel alive.
In the end, my preparation still mattered—it gave me the resources and confidence to pivot when plans went sideways. But it was the willingness to let go, to pour chips into a bowl at 4 a.m., to welcome friends into a messy apartment, that turned our vacation into something unforgettable. That’s the quiet power of Type C parenting. It doesn’t demand perfection. It trusts that if you show up with warmth, flexibility, and just enough planning, the rest will take care of itself.
And maybe that’s the secret not just to traveling with kids, but to living with them. Plans give us direction, but it’s the space around them—the wriggle room—that lets us breathe.
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