Last weekend, I went on my first baby-free vacation with three of my best friends to New York. After 15 and a half months of being within boob-shot of my son at all times, I was really looking forward to some "Me" time.
Time to shop. Time to drink wine. Time to dance.
Time to literally, let my hair down — because no one was going to pull it. Or puke in it!
Hmm... On second thought, both of those things still could happen depending on how hard we decided to party. Regardless, you get my point...
So at 7:55am on Friday morning, we boarded our small plane at Porter airport in Toronto. We were giddy with excitement, despite the heavy bags under our eyes (who books a flight this early anyway? Someone after a good seat sale price, that's who) But it didn't matter. We ordered white wine instead of orange juice and our adventure began.
I'll use a few pictures to illustrate our weekend. It looked something like this:
It was pretty much a perfect weekend.
Except for the two hours we spent at Central Park. That sucked because everyone was there with their babies and families and I didn't have any wine or shoes to distract myself. I might have cried a little beneath my sunglasses. Those two hours at Central Park made me miss my baby boy more than I could have imagined. I wished in that instant I could close my eyes and open them again having the magical powers to blink him into my arms. I wanted so badly to smell his sweaty-sunscreened-little dirt-infused head.
There I was in one of the most amazing and vibrant cities in the world and I was longing to be back in Whitby, Ontario — going down a tunnel slide with my son sitting on my lap. I checked the time. 24 hours until that could be my reality.
I took a deep breath, and decided to focus on the present and enjoy the rest of my time in New York. So we promptly left the park, and went home to nap (bliss) and then got ready for our last night out in the city.
This is what happened:
Yep. I let my freshly cut hair down, and danced on a bar (and despite my natural love of the spotlight— it was NOT my idea to get up there!) But, if you yell loud enough into a megaphone (like the bartender did) and single me out (like the bartender did) then I will carefully climb onto the bar in my heels and shake my ass like I'm told to, purely out of fear.
It was a fun night.
It was a perfect weekend.
And as much as I truly missed my son — I know it was good for both of us to have a bit of space. Cole had time to bond with his Dad, and I had time to...shake my ass on a bar. It's sort of the same thing, right?
If you'd like to hear more about my life's adventures, you can read about my 30th Birthday celebration...when I peed my pants.