Wrong Turns

For the most part, I hate surprises. It makes sense given that I’m an anxious perfectionist who likes preparation and control. Steve knows this, which is why I was surprised when he decided to surprise me with a weekend getaway with my best friend from college. This might be the one surprise that immediately brought me immense joy and excitement. We both knew I desperately needed a reset.

I also needed to celebrate. I wanted to celebrate my officially being done with breastfeeding, my surviving Bub’s first year in school, and my first time being away as a mom of two.

It was a glorious weekend with a dear friend who has known me since I was in my teens. Eating delicious food, walking around Chicago on an absolutely gorgeous Saturday, and having soulful conversations. We made memories I want to relive over and over again in my head.

Throughout the weekend, a theme continued to pop up. I kept taking turns that I initially thought were wrong but were ultimately the right ones to take. Taking a wrong turn out of my own neighborhood when I left to pick her up from the airport, my Google Maps losing reception while in the trenches of Lower Wacker Drive, missing an exit on my way home – they all felt like mistakes at the time. Mistakes I immediately beat myself up about out of habit.

But. The wrong turn out of my own neighborhood ended up getting me to the airport at the exact time she was walking out. My Google Maps losing reception forced me to trust my gut and lead us out of the belly of the beast. Missing my exit led me down the scenic route – one that I’ve always wondered about but never took the time to take.

Wrong turns aren’t really wrong turns. They’re where we’re supposed to be and we just don’t know it at the time. There are no mistakes in life, only learnings.

48 hours away from the mental load of being a mother, a wife, a worker. I was reminded that I am more than these labels. I am more than my right and wrong turns. This weekend, I took a breath. I reset, caught up and now, I feel whole again. I finally feel like my life is headed in the right direction.

NYC Getaway

This trip was a chance for me to quite literally get away from the mundanity and complacency of my life at home. After two back-to-back weeks of Steve traveling and me watching Bub on my own, I needed a break to rejuvenate my soul.

Deep down, I fear a banal existence. I crave creativity, progress, and originality. I seek diversity and difference. Things I miss when I’m living the motherhood routine day in and day out in the ‘burbs. I struggle to incorporate these values into mine and Bub’s life, especially when I’m serving up the same meals and activities everyday.

I knew NYC was the right place for me to get away. I’ve written about my love for NYC before. There’s something about this city that revitalizes me. The array of cuisines, the unique boutiques, the insane museums, the ease of getting to it all by subway. I’ve always found New Yorkers so kind and welcoming. Somehow, I feel at home.

A bit ironic when my very goal is to get away from the word.

This trip, I ate where my heart desired. Fluffy blueberry pancakes with melted maple butter at Clinton St. Baking Company. Hot dog with onions, sauerkraut, and mustard from The Hot Dog King. Sushi at Sugarfish. I pampered myself with a prenatal massage and facial and felt like a queen. I perused secondhand stores with all the time in the world.

I made a point to visit the Crossings exhibit at the Met, where Robert Colescott’s and Kara Walker’s versions of Washington Crossing the Delaware made me excited about art again. I found inspiration in the early 20th century American paintings of our natural landscapes. A reminder of the abuse we’ve inflicted on our environment, wildlife, and indigenous communities in just a short century. I imagined how different the world would be had colonizers learned from them instead of conquering them. Before I left the museum, I stopped and stared at John Brown storming into the frame with abolitionism. For the first time that I can remember, I went to the art museum and breezed by the European exhibits and instead, spent more time in the American ones. For someone who once wanted to major in art history and move to Europe, this was a significant moment for me - symbolic of my recent resolutions in life.

I used to dream about being a mom in the city. Glamorously pushing my baby in a stroller while crossing Fifth Ave - my long hair waving in the wind. Walking through Central Park with my toddler, stopping at the zoo. Discussing fine art with my 10-year old as we ponder a Van Gogh at the Guggenheim. Skipping to a date night dinner with Steve at Gramercy Tavern. Riding the subway on weekends with the whole family.

Then, I had a kid and intense postpartum anxiety. Triggered by cigarette smoke and carbon exhaust, terrified of construction sites and congested places, my dreams of having a family in the city were dashed.

But this trip, I saw tons of children, seemingly everywhere. I saw parents pushing strollers with multiple kids - in narrow restaurants on Lexington, on the subway, in the chaos of SoHo, through the crowds at Chelsea Market, and at 8:30 pm at the Met. I saw parents walk down the street with their kids without batting an eye at the smoker or noticing at all the truck that sped by. These parents appeared to stroll with ease. These parents are my heroes. And guess what, I tell myself, their kids are thriving.

Someday, maybe someday, I’ll bring my kids to New York City. But for now, I’m going to keep it to myself and enjoy it as much as I can.