A Mom Walks Into a Spa...
How my fish-out-of-water experience on a press trip with a bunch o' youths made me so very proud to be a mom, PLUS: why Sesame Place is like, the worst park on Earth.
I started this very Substack to prove, mostly to myself, that I’m still a (capital-W!) Writer, even if I spend more time being a mom (and a hotel marketer) on any average day.
While this outlet is certainly serving its purpose, an even better opportunity to prove myself recently showed up in the form of a press trip invitation to none other than the elite and acclaimed (and admittedly ~inacce$$ible~) resort and spa, Miraval Austin. I couldn’t believe my luck—especially when David agreed I should go for three days, graciously volunteering to cover my parenting shifts. (Translation: Three bedtimes! Have I mentioned how much I love my husband?!) Before this trip, I hadn’t flown on a plane without at least one child in tow since becoming a parent. The longest I’d ever been away from my first child was three nights….to give birth to my second. I’d never left my two-year-old daughter for more than 24 hours.
While I knew this was an invitation I couldn’t pass up for literally every single reason, I was worried about flying solo and feeling lonely and disoriented (again!) by so much me-time. Even before I left, I hyped myself up by beginning a retrospective essay in my head about how I could do it, after all: Fearlessly leave my kids behind. Navigate the world successfully without my husband. (Feminists: Go ahead and throw up in your mouths. I’ll wait!)
But then I almost missed my flight out of JFK (whoops…). I didn’t feel lonely thanks to the ample company of other people on the trip, and I found it very easy—too easy!—to fill my days to the brim with fitness classes and lap swimming and spa time. (Do you feel bad for me yet?!)
What struck me was a bunch of very different feelings. But first, let me set the scene: Most of the other press trip attendees were kidless, quite young editors and brand reps whom I could have, perhaps, birthed—or at least I felt like I could have, math be damned. I shared an Uber from the airport with one junior editor who seemed just on the brink of adulthood, planning her wedding with all sorts of drama and big plans to go back to school and hopefully pay for it, someway somehow. I had dinner with a super-fit managing editor who went to great lengths to count her calories burned and macros eaten with not one but two tracking devices for reasons unbeknownst to me. I found myself deep in conversation with another seemingly talented editor who was being absolutely lambasted at work and feeling deeply unappreciated, with alternative options galore but no confidence to take the leap to freelance.
Being around them didn’t make me, a freelancer who’s admittedly lost a bit of hustle and edge since leaving her last full-time media job/ having two kids, feel irrelevant, which was another one of my initial fears. Instead, it made me feel well-seasoned, wiser, better (in the least condescending way possible, if possible!), and grateful to be where I am in live. And considering all of the mom-ing that’s taken so damn much out of me over the past 4.5 years, it was refreshing to realize that motherhood and even aging has been more than depleting.
Not only was I well equipped with sound career advice for the youngs. I had perspective that only comes when you do something—leave your dream job, create a family, take a pay cut, dabble in a new industry—aside from killing yourself at your first or even second job.
In spa land, I outpaced all of the others on taking full advantage of our short time on campus: Any mom who has cleaned their entire house, made dinner, checked their email, folded the laundry and still found 14 minutes to waste on Instagram during a single nap knows what I’m talking about when I say I’m trained in using time wisely. (No joke: I hit two yoga classes, one barre class, one bootcamp, one barre-spin class, two swimming sessions, and a stretch class in two days—in addition to a massage, high-ropes challenge course, and two extra-extra long showers, praise be!) When a young writer on my trip professed to falling asleep in her room one day, I had respond with a sigh.
At the end of each day, I felt the most carefree among us, deeeeeeply appreciative for the opportunity to disconnect in a device-free zone—Miraval prefers guests to be ~present~. Without anyone under 5 going on and on about who hit whom and why they need to wear their sparkly boots not their sneakers, I could finally hear myself think. Although I missed my people, I’ll admit that this was quite nice.
My real come-to-Jesus moment was on the aforementioned challenge course. The best way to describe it to former camp kids is, “a three-story high ropes course” (IYKYK). The best way to describe it to non-camp kids is “a three-story hive-like structure with various paths designed to scare the shit out of, er, challenge you mentally and physically.” Think tight ropes, suspended logs, and a dozen swinging swings you have to walk between super high above the ground, good luck.
For someone who has a distinct distain for heights and may or may not have spent 45 minutes crying at the top of a camp zipline before she was 10, bottlenecking the whole bunk from “on-belay!”ing back to the ground (who me?!), this whole thing posed a particularly…emotional obstacle for me. But it was one of the only required group activities during the press trip, so I grit my teeth, put on a cute top, and stepped into my harness.
When I approached the climbing structure, I realized my kids had actually sort of prepared me. Climbing, swinging, jumping? I tick every one of those boxes chasing them around the playground. (Can you say, “fun mom”?!)
Don’t get me wrong: It was still very difficult and very stressful. When my hands ached from holding onto the suspended cables for dear life, I reminded myself that I’d made two humans; I could hang on for another minute. And when it looked like I could lose my balance or footing, I remembered there are real fears in life, and this—me, recreationally hanging from a super secure harness that would drop me to the actual ground under absolutely no circumstances—was not one of them. When I faltered on an obstacle, feeling too far from the platform, I remembered I had two kids and a husband to get home to, and hurried right along.
I don’t know if it was adrenaline or cortisol but I was super strung out by the time I’d made my way around the top level. Meanwhile, the fit editor had already lapped me a few times, declaring the course boring and easy. After extinguishing early pangs of competitiveness, I saw myself in her shoes a decade earlier as a fitness editor trapezing around Manhattan on a Citibike. I’d race between boutique fitness classes, pooh-poohing each in turn when no challenge seemed like enough for me. Those years were fun, epic even. But on Saturdays after I’d done double workouts, finally finding what I needed—utter exhaustion, achy muscles, a deep feeling of physical accomplishment—I’d felt bored, too. And sort of…empty.
There’s no way to spell this out sans cliché so I’ll just leave it here on this line: Kids, should you choose—and be lucky enough—to have them, give you purpose that never leaves you feeling like that.
But back to however many feet above the ground where sane people remain. The final challenge was to dismount the three-story climbing structure via a free-fall jump off a literal wooden plank. (Can you even!?) The fit editor closed her eyes and ran. Another edged forward and leaped. Another closed her eyes and stepped off into thin air. Standing by, I absolutely cowered.
Knowing I had two munchkins who’d never ever judge me (at least at their ripe ages of 2 and 4!) left me with little to prove to anyone besides, again, myself. So after manufacturing as much anxiety as humanly possible on a warm and cloudless morning in at an elite spa in Texas, in an entirely non-life-threatening situation three flights higher than anyone ever really needs to be, I picked up the water bottles left behind by the youngs, just like I’d collected my own children’s discarded belongings from the park a million times before. And I took off, step by careful step down a staircase that wound around and around until my feet—fucking finally!—touched the ground.
Throughout the rest of the trip, some of the girls coupled off for breakfast or met up at the spa, but I happily stuck to myself. For company by day, I sniffed out other moms—a fitness instructor with a three-year-old, a mother of two grown kids who shared her swim flippers, and two pregnant women just trying to get by on the brink of their third trimesters.
Despite my desperate need to reclaim my ~sense of self~, reach my full potential, and reassert myself as soooo much more than juuuust a mom (in this very medium!), I left feeling proud of what I did and what I didn’t do on the trip. Sure, I said no to a fucking free fall! But also, I didn’t even come close to spiraling with homesickness, insecurity, longing for youth, or career regrets.
When I texted David that I’d had a breakthrough, he asked if I was coming back. After after almost missing my return flight, I did.
When I got home from Miraval I finally gave into David’s pleading to take our kids to Sesame Place Philadelphia for a day trip. Emma loves Elmo, Shay loves everything, David loves making them happy, and I love them all. What could go wrong? So we schlepped 42 pounds of carseats to Avis and drove an hour and a half or so. We accidentally arrived 2 hours before the park opened and stopped at Shady Brook Farm, which—hot tip!—will be a solid North Pole proxy in about a week when their holiday light show opens. When we finally circled back to Sesame Place, our kids were beside themselves with joy. Elmo, Snuffy, Big Bird, Oscar—all of their friends were there! But upon entering the front gates a few things became apparent: Despite the facade, which is indeed designed for photo ops, this place isn’t really optimized for families with young kids…at all.
Hear me out: Sesame Place had a brand with potential and totally shit on it. TL;DR: It’s a branded carnival, save your money.
My main complaints: No sinks or toilets at kid height, insufficient signage to get around, and dissapointingly few interactive features or age-appropriate rides. I guess my expectations were high having recently been to Legoland, which is *chef’s kiss* for any age, with beautiful grounds, the perfect size campus, innovative on-brand rides, an actual Lego room to give the people what they came for, fun musical features, pretty good food, and a massive Lego installation featuring actual city landmarks that is in and of itself worth the trip. My expectations were high having also been to excellent play spaces in and around the city, like the somehow-zen Space Club in Greenpoint, Twinkle Playspace in Williamsburg, and Brooklyn Children’s Museum plus great old-school little-kid parks like Deno’s at Coney Island, Storybook Land in South Jersey, and Fairyland in Oakland, California—all of which, unlike Sesame Place, have rides your toddler can enjoy without a chaperone or like, wetting their pants. But my expectations were especially high since I grew up watching Sesame Street and feel good letting my kids watch it knowing it never fails to deliver legitimate lessons.
At Sesame Place, there was no counting, no letter of the day, no expansion of or behind-the-scenes peek of the friendly world we see on TV—just a tired carousel with cartoonish horses and a Big Bird voice over, a gargantuan roller coaster that had no business being at a park based on a show for 2 to 5-year-olds, a bunch of other branded, but otherwise basic, age-agnostic rides fit for a pop-up parking lot carnival, a mediocre playground, and seventy-two(ish) street carts hawking overpriced off-brand snacks (funnel cake…a turkey leg…where were Cookie’s cookies?!) and other garbage. And I’m not talking about Oscar’s.
To be clear, Sesame Place did nothing wrong to us. Both of my kids loved it even though we showed up off-season, and half the property consists of water rides. The holiday dance party was a high note, with Elmo breaking it down and musical numbers carefully selected to represent Hanukkah and Kwanza. On Oscar’s Wacky Taxi, I got this great photo of me and my kid:
But on our drive home (which included a stop at a Pennsylvania Olive Garden to introduce our kids to proper breadsticks—which were everything I expected…and less, lol) I had to scratch my head and wonder why this park built in 1980 didn’t even try to enter the 21st century? Or even nod to the show’s epic run and storied past? (Perhaps they are leaving that work to American Dream, which just opened a Sesame Street Learn and Play Center that I’ve clearly got very high hopes for.)
Nevertheless, when we got home and David said, “We did right by our kids today,” I wholeheartedly agreed.