Like many young children, my 6-year-old son, Henrik Schleisman, doesn't like to travel. Sure, he appreciates that the waves on Hawaii's Big Island grab his knees with a force that Cedar Lake's gentle tugs could never muster. Henrik still talks about the medieval spears and maces displayed in Salzburg's Hohensalzburg Fortress and the August evening when his older brother spotted a coyote loping through Yellowstone's Lamar Valley.

But he also remembers weeping in the Honolulu airport when the time change caught up with him, and the daily -- hourly? -- disappointment that swamped him every time he passed a souvenir stand at the Hilton Waikoloa Village and wasn't allowed to buy a stuffed dolphin, whale key chain, T-shirt, puca shell necklace, plastic volcano or packet of Skittles.

When I told Henrik last summer that our family was leaving in a few weeks for a vacation in the colonial town of San Miguel de Allende in Mexico, his eyes narrowed and his shoulders slumped. "I hate going places," he insisted. That was his way of telling me what I already knew to be true: The constant transitions that are the essence of travel overwhelm him.

That's tough when your mother is a travel writer and your parents' marriage is founded on a shared passion for exploring. My husband and I have tried a variety of approaches to help Henrik adjust more easily to new surroundings.

We've shown him online photos of our upcoming destinations, drawn flow charts of each day's events and created incentives in the hope that they would motivate him to hold it together. What we never did was ask Henrik what he thought would help him enjoy our family vacations.

One morning in San Miguel, Henrik and I were finishing our churros and hot chocolate when he reached across the table for my camera.

"Can I take some pictures?" he asked. My camera was a major investment; my instinct was to tell him no. But for some reason -- perhaps I'd settled into the holiday flow -- I said yes. He clicked away at the baskets hanging from the cafe's ceiling and checked them on the digital screen. For the first time since we arrived, his entire body relaxed. As I watched him peer through the lens, I realized that he was framing the experience for himself. For a kid, traveling often means that your parents call all the shots. Henrik clearly needed a way to control even a tiny slice of the experience.

I let Henrik carry the camera when we went out on to the street. He snapped cobblestones, pigeons, the wheels of the ATVs that some residents use to navigate their town. As he took photos, we talked. He asked me why a few people we passed asked for money and when I told him the answer, he approached an old woman and handed her some pesos. He wondered why the churches were so quiet on the inside. When I asked if he was enjoying our vacation, he nodded.

"I like Mexico just a tiny bit less than Minnesota," he said. A ringing endorsement if there ever was one.

•••

We rounded the corner and unexpectedly bumped into the Artisan Market. If the Hilton Waikoloa is an obstacle course of impulse purchases, this enormous collection of colorfully decked-out stalls is the Olympics. Stocked with every kind of toy -- from maracas to soccer balls to the superheroish masks worn by Mexican wrestlers -- it's a scene I'd hoped to avoid with Henrik in tow.

He raced ahead and stopped in front of a toy stand. When I said no to his request for a plastic gun that looked like a semi-automatic rifle, he stomped his feet.

"The wooden sword you bought me could hurt someone a lot worse than the gun," he said.

I wasn't sure what course this interaction would take. Would I have to carry him out of the market?

Instead, I asked if he'd like to photograph the toys. Henrik focused the lens on a wall of brightly colored plastic trucks.

Later that night I downloaded Henrik's photos into my computer. I know I'm biased, but they were beautiful. When you are under 4 feet tall, you have a unique view of the world around you. Henrik's photos helped me learn more about my son. They also made me see Mexico from a new perspective.

Elizabeth Larsen • 612-673-7110