Ahhh, the sweet sound of silence. No tiny voice yelling, “Mom, can you get me this?” every 3 minutes—no one treating my body like a jungle gym. Just me, my husband, and New York City—said in a dramatic Matt Berry voice. (IYKYK)
While Miles was living his absolute best life with my mom (aka Binki, queen of snacks and spoiling), Mike and I were out roaming NYC like carefree twenty-somethings—just biding time until Jack’s Mannequin could come emotionally wreck me in the most beautiful way possible.
Sure, Eminem’s “8 Mile” (lol) lit the spark that got me writing, but it was Andrew McMahon who truly shaped my voice. At 16, I was pouring my teenage heart into journals with Something Corporate and Jack’s Mannequin playing on repeat. Every lyric felt like it was written just for me—and in many ways, those songs helped build the writer I am today. So naturally, I made the 2.5 bus ride to NYC to hear Jack’s Mannequin play.
Let me hit you with some cold, hard truth: NYC is not for the weak… or for out-of-shape thirtysomethings like me. Every staircase felt like Everest. I was winded just walking to the next block. Add in the slow walkers, the people who stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk like it’s a group therapy session, and the lower back pain from simply existing—and you’ve got the whole NYC experience. Still, what a dream. It has always been my favorite city.
Side note: I saw a giant rat on the subway platform eating moldy pizza, and my heart could not have been happier.
New York City made me forget I was a parent. Sure, I texted my mom occasionally to confirm that no one had set the house on fire or died—but otherwise? I was FREE. The kind of free where you briefly consider getting a new tattoo and starting fresh under a new name.
I ignored the lower back pain and soaked in the chaos of the city. Being there with Mike, kid-free was everything. We needed this break. No milk demands, no Goldfish crumbs, no tiny dictator yelling for more snacks. Just us. And the best part? Zero mom guilt.
In the early days of parenthood, I had a PhD in mom guilt. Leaving the house without my kid? Cue the internal spiral. A solo Target run felt like I was abandoning ship. But after some much-needed therapy (shoutout to my therapist for being MVP), I finally got it: taking care of me is part of taking care of him. Stepping away for a few hours doesn’t make me a bad mom — it makes me a better one. And sometimes, Mom needs to sit in silence and drink a cup of coffee while it’s still hot. Revolutionary, I know.
Anyway, it was a Saturday in New York — which, of course, meant rain. But I wasn’t about to let a little drizzle ruin my main character moment. We walked (and walked), grabbed some top-tier bagels, walked even more, and finally crashed at the hotel for a quick breather before the show. Feet: angry. Spirits: high. Bagels: worth it.
Finally, it was time to stay up past my bedtime and scream-sing every Andrew McMahon lyric like I wasn’t someone who owns a heating pad and complains about late dinners. Being in that crowd, belting out songs I’ve known by heart since my teenage angst era? Actual magic. Even standing in a surprise downpour felt worth it. (Frizzy hair, don’t care.)
The night flew by in the blink of an eye — one minute, I was emotionally unwell during “Dark Blue,” and the next, we were power-walking back to the hotel in soggy shoes to binge Seinfeld until I fell asleep.
The next morning, we grabbed breakfast, hopped on the bus, and headed straight back to Parent Land — where no one listens, everything is sticky, and someone’s always yelling about something.
Was 24 hours kid-free enough? Absolutely not. But getting tackled with a big hug by my Pokémon-obsessed little guy almost made it worth it.
Almost.
Cut to a few hours later: he refused to brush his teeth, and I was mentally planning our next child-free weekend away.
Leave a comment