When Is A Vacation Not A Vacation?

When you go with your kids, that’s when.

I recently travelled to New York City with my sons. Jack, at 9, is a veteran of more trips to the Big Apple than I can count. This was only Ben’s second trip there. My mother and stepfather live in Manhattan; my brother and his family live out on Long Island. This would be the first time my mom would have both of her kids and all of her grandkids in one place at the same time, and we were all excited about it.

But first, we had to get there.

Fortunately, our flight was on time. My boys are usually well-behaved and get along, but get them up at 5am and make them hustle a little and their dark sides come out. Why is it our kids choose to have public meltdowns at the most inappropriate times? We do our best to handle it, but the looks you get from other people when your 5-year-old is screaming at airport security just increases the stress you’re already dealing with. Ben didn’t want to take off his shoes, like everyone else does. Jack and I tried to explain calmly that EVERYONE has to do that, but Ben literally dug in his heels and adamantly refused. He was holding up the line. People are not overly patient early in the morning when they have a flight to catch. Finally, I was forced to enlist the help of a rather large security officer. One look from him and Ben said, “Okay, okay, I’ll do it!”

Once we reached New York, it was more like a forced march than a vacation. Kids crave constant stimulation. I lost count of how many times the kids asked, “What are we doing after this?” It seemed like we never stopped moving. I mean, we had some amazingly lovely experiences. We went to the beach with my sister-in-law and my nieces, who are 5 and 2. Jack and Ben loved playing in the waves, and it was a bit of a flashback to my childhood in New Jersey, when going to the beach was something we did all the time in the summer. We hit several playgrounds in Central Park, ate fantastic pizza in Soho and brought in my favorite bagels. Mom and I took Ben on the Staten Island Ferry while Jack and my stepdad explored other parts of the city. We met up with my mom’s cousins and had a blast with them. We took long walks along the Hudson River at sunset. The boys had a fantastic time, but there wasn’t a day where we just sat around and chilled.

This is what I consider a real vacation: planting myself on a beach chair under an umbrella, with a stack of magazines and no clocks. That’s where I mentally take myself when life becomes overwhelming. When the kids have driven me crazy (which we know happens to everyone), when I’ve been working a lot, when I feel almost claustrophobic because I have too much going on, I shut the door to my room and take a mental vacation. I turn off the lights, turn off my phone, and then turn off my brain. I don’t think about work, kids, cleaning the house, what’s for dinner…I just imagine myself on a white beach next to the bluest water in the world. I pretend I can smell the salty air and hear the waves crashing on the shore. And within minutes, I feel a sense of calm that can’t be overstated. While I know there won’t be an island vacation for me anytime soon, I can at least visit one in my mind.

Sometimes, a mental vacation is better than a real one. After all, there’s no jet lag, no rushing to make a flight, and no chance of losing your luggage (or your mind). It’s 100% free, and better yet, it’ll free your mind. And the rest will follow.