This past March, we rented a West Village apartment en route to Long Island for my brother’s wedding. Traveling to NYC with three kids under the age of five was a bit of a gong show, especially when you include a two month old baby nursing every other hour and major excess cargo packed to the hilt with flower girl and wedding attendant attire.
And then once we arrived it was go-go-go, hitting the pavement to see the city with the kids. In my twenties, I thought nothing of abusing my feet on the streets of NYC, wearing whatever shoes I had chosen for work from morning til night, and taking them in to the tailor to be re-heeled on a bi-monthly basis. But the thirty-something parent in me was well aware that we’d be lacing up the sneaks every day and gearing up tourist-style.
Still, three days in, I was aching for a pedicure. The kind you can only get in NYC, with no need to call ahead or sky-high bill attached. And so, while my husband and the youngests napped, I escorted my 4-year-old non-napper to her first mani-pedi.
For a minute I checked myself, wondering if once I opened up this world of indulgence, would there be no turning back? Would Mom, I need a mani-pedi become a repeated, grating request from a child who can’t tie her own shoes?
But I shooed that thought away as we walked into the salon and the nail techs began fawning over Mia and her little feet, painting them hot pink with white daisies. She was quite content to soak it all in. And so I did what I always do: grabbed a stack of magazines and leaned back in for the chair massage.
It was the perfect mother-daughter date.