New York City was home to my husband and me for six years before we had kids and moved to Asheville, and it will forever be a place that holds so much for us. That’s why when the timing, cost, and opportunity aligned for our family of four to vacation there for a week recently, I was chomping at the bit to return, enthusiastic at the prospect of sharing this colossal, important place with our 4- and 6-year-old daughters.
It was easy to have high expectations for a trip down memory lane, but the reality is that any trip with kids will be what it will be, and we can only hope that something along the way — a bump in the road, a detour, a singalong — cements into their memories and crystallizes into sentimental gemstones that they turn over and over in their minds with time.
I created a full itinerary for our trip
Leading up to departure, I planned a weeklong itinerary with suggestions for each day on where to go, what to eat, who to see, and what to do. Knowing my kids would need some rest and recovery, I built in plenty of downtime — or so I thought. Still, as with all things parenting, I was rudely reminded that even with my experience and expertise as Mom, I could not foresee every breakdown.
By midweek, my daughters hit a physical, mental, and emotional wall. I had planned to take them to the Met, but instead, I was met with loud, convincing pleas to spend a couple of hours in the hotel room. Crestfallen, I agreed. They didn’t know about the daydreams I’d had of walking them through the museum to see the Temple of Dendur, the Medieval Sculpture Hall, and rooms where Degas’s ballerinas, Monet’s water lilies, or Van Gogh’s self-portrait lived. Sigh. I’m an art lover — I enjoy meandering through vast halls and admiring human creativity and intellect. It brings me great peace and joy.
I was disappointed that we didn’t go to any museums
A few days later, I found myself in the same situation at the Whitney. My generally agreeable kids protested once again, so we switched gears. We took a stroll on the High Line, grabbed pizza from Chelsea Market, and landed at the Diller — von Furstenberg Sundeck & Water Feature between 14th and 15th Streets. There, they were all smiles — delighting in the sun, in the relief of cool water, barefoot, holding up their dresses, splashing, squealing, happy.
My kids are still young — 4 and 6 — and have only experienced small art museums. They don’t even know what they’re missing! So, naturally, when it was clear that we weren’t going to visit any art museums, reality stung. This is one of the painful aspects of parenting: accepting that the things you really want to do just don’t happen for one reason or another. Of course, you could force your child to do what you’d like to, but what memory does that create? What good does that serve?
However, I realized that there would be other trips and was grateful for the time we had
I let out another deep sigh and told myself, It’s OK. There’s always next time — hopefully. I smiled, thinking about the next time, and I began to daydream once again. All was well. What mattered most to me on this trip was visiting the place we once called home and introducing it to our girls — acquainting them with the place their mother and father made countless memories, befriended incredible people, grew stronger in their marriage, became parents during a pandemic, and tearfully bid adieu.
Parenting continues to be one wide and winding journey, where I’m constantly toeing the line between curating memories and allowing memories to make themselves in the most ordinary of places: on the 32nd floor of a hotel room, on a playground in Central Park, on a Subway train, on a city bus, on an airplane in the clouds.
In addition, I’m still learning that parenting is mostly a selfless act. Yes, there are moments we get to share with our kids that allow them to see what fills us up as human beings, but it’s often an unwieldy and imperfect balance.
Many of the decisions we make come at a cost, and, for this trip (and future trips), I’d rather the cost be one that I pay — not them. Their joy is my joy. And, in this chapter of life, it’s bigger, grander, more powerful than any selfish indulgence that life has ever afforded me, and, honestly, I’m here for it. I’m grateful.
