Issue #50: Leaving my kid — but not my parenthood — at home
72 hours in San Francisco with Sam & without Jude
Edited by
.When Jude was nine months old, Sam and I left him with my parents so we could spend a few days away together.
We had the perfect plan: Fly to Denver, get brunch with Sam’s childhood friend, then drive a few hours to an A-frame Airbnb with a hot tub nestled into the base of the Rocky Mountains.
I pictured us waking up at seven, throwing granola bars and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into our backpacks, and climbing a mountain. Before Jude, this was how we traveled — a ten-day road trip in a van through New Zealand, a multi-day trek to Machu Picchu, a weekend of hiking in Shenandoah.
But by the time we got to the Airbnb, all we wanted to think about was which movie to watch. We unenthusiastically talked about setting an alarm for the next morning, but couldn’t stomach it, knowing this weekend was a rare reprieve from early morning wake-up calls.
The following day, after a leisurely breakfast of coffee and eggs, we found a three(ish)-mile out-and-back hike with stunning panorama views of the Rocky Mountains. I drew in air greedily, feeling the altitude — and when we got back, tossed my hiking boots in the trunk and sank back gratefully into the couch. The rest of the day passed quickly — a dip in the hot tub, dinner at the Airbnb, and an early bedtime.
When the next morning dawned, we talked about finding another hike or driving into a neighboring town to explore its museums and shops — but we were both apathetic, going through the motions. One hour of reading and listening to music slid by, and then two, and then five, the quiet of the A-frame and the sudden dropping away of all schedule and routine a balm.
The last morning, we packed and got back in our rental car. I was uncoiled, some essential inner part of me renewed, and feeling closer to Sam in the way that several hours of unstructured, undistracted time together — especially in new places — always made us. But when Aja asked how the trip had gone and what we’d done, I felt a bit uneasy, wondering if she sensed my disappointment when I said, “We mostly hung out at the Airbnb.” Without knowing it, I’d flown to Colorado without our son in part to remind myself of who I was — who Sam and I were — without him. But he’d irrevocably changed me, us. He wasn’t with us, but so much about us had changed.
Without knowing it, I’d flown to Colorado without our son in part to remind myself of who I was — who Sam and I were — without him.
Earlier this month, as I boarded a flight to San Francisco to meet Sam after a conference — our first child-free vacation since Colorado — I knew to adjust my expectations.
I keep a postcard on my fridge that says:
“You can’t waste time it’s impossible you’re doing what you’re doing and that’s just what’s happenin’ baby.”
Day 1: I felt giddy alone.
After a crack-of-dawn flight, I arrived at our hotel exhausted. I’d been up late the night before packing for myself, Jude, and our dog Oliver. Rather than immediately exploring the city, I sank into the hotel bed — and let one hour luxuriously drift away, then another.
Finally, once I noticed myself beginning to pace the room — peering down to the street from our narrow window view — I left the hotel and took the train to Noe Valley, where I slowly walked towards Mission Dolores Park, wandering in and out of shops (Needles and Pens; so many sweet baby stores) and bookstores (Dog Eared Books) and admiring the architecture and colorful murals.
On a previous trip, I would have tried to meet up with at least one friend. But this time, I’d intentionally told almost no one that we were coming. I felt giddy alone — anonymous, unencumbered. I laid back in the grass at the edge of the park and read, boisterous twenty-somethings and smitten couples dotting the park around me and palm trees punctuating the blue sky.
That evening, Sam, my friend, her husband, and I ordered Mediterranean food to their apartment. We talked about Jude’s recent swim classes and the new words like chicken he’d added to his vocabulary… and then everything else — my new job, Caitlin Clark, the latest Ringer podcast...
Day 2: We saw Jude everywhere.
Even thousands of miles away from Jude, we saw him everywhere: a little boy with croissant crumbs scattered across his lap, a toddler waddling alongside the family dog. Sam and I nudged each other every time a child did something that reminded us of Jude, often realizing we’d been watching the same one.
The Farmer’s Market at the Ferry Building was teeming with children. On the bus ride back to our hotel, we met a two-year-old named Owen. His dad told us their morning activity was riding the bus. Owen smiled at us, then turned away coyly in the way I’ve seen Jude do with strangers.
In the last few weeks, Jude had begun inviting me to read a book or put our shoes on with a gentle patting motion. I’d felt connected to — aware of — his personhood in a new way, and the thought of leaving him for several days had made me apprehensive.
But as Sam and I meandered our way through the market, catching each others’ hands, laughing at a toddler walking away from her parents, my body relaxed — the ease of not, for a brief time, being responsible and accountable for another little body, or the cups and diapers and bags and stroller that come with them.
In the afternoon, we met up with our friends to walk through Golden Gate Park, eat beef dumplings and superstar noodle salad at Burma Superstar, and visit the local toy shop across the street (where we purchased a harmonica to bring home to Jude).
On the way home, we stopped at Land’s End; it was a perfectly clear day, and we marveled at the view of the Golden Gate Bridge along the short trail, before heading back to our friends’ neighborhood for tacos and Smitten ice cream. We were in bed by 10.
Day 3: I’d vowed to come back.
The next day, our last full one, we drove across the bridge into Marin and parked in Point Reyes National Seashore. I’d visited a similar spot in my twenties with my friend Keren and — overcome by its beauty, the almost surreal tree and cliff formations — vowed to come back with Sam.
As Sam, our friends, and I hiked along the cliffs, I realized I was relieved not to be carrying a child on my back.
We picnicked on a remote beach, then got oysters down the coast, finally stopping for soft serve before driving back to the city.
This trip was slower than it would’ve been pre-Jude, the mornings beginning later and the nights ending earlier — even if the same yearning for adventure was still there. Maybe my younger self would’ve been disappointed knowing her days of waiting in line for a popular bar or seeing as many people as possible had an expiration date, or at least a pause. But this time, coming home, the contentment of the trip wasn’t marred by guilt or regret. I didn’t need to have a different kind of vacation to prove to myself — or anyone else — it was okay to leave at Jude at home.
On Monday night, Sam and I sped home from the airport to catch him before bedtime. “Shhh, he’s in the back reading with Dad,” my mother-in-law said as she welcomed us at the front door.
When we walked into the room, Jude erupted into a joyful giggle unlike anything I’d heard from him before. “Mama! Dada!” he exclaimed. I scooped him up into my arms and felt his tiny arms clenching mine as he leaned into my chest.
Further Reading:
Here are some of the writers and mothers inspiring me recently with their reflections on nostalgia, traveling, and personhood — I think you’ll like them, too.
Travel journalist
writes about the transition from hard partying to wellness-minded reporting trips. “Staying healthy is intoxicating,” she writes. “If we’re lucky, we get the chance to have many life phases and keep growing and changing.”
Writer and new mom
brilliantly encapsulates the pressure to capture memories while staying present. “When I imagine that my memories aren’t so important, that the point of life, or parenthood, is not to recollect it later, but to experience it as it happens, and accept the heart-wrenching price of being alive,” she says, “I feel terrifyingly free.”
Writer and mom of twins
reflects on why she’s bringing her sons into a multi-faceted version of her life. This quote especially resonated with me: “After my sons were born my instant impulse was to shield them from anything about me that wasn’t directly about them. It’s a strange impulse really… I’ve since changed my thinking to want to expose them to pieces of my life that might not be about them.”
More from the Platonic Love archives:
Ask Me Anything:
While working on this essay, there were so many details and decisions I thought about weaving in — how we decided if (and when) we were ready to leave Jude, why this particular vacation felt so nostalgic, whether we FaceTime while we’re away, etc.
These topics didn’t quite fit, but if you have questions about the trip and related topics, I’d love to hear from you.
Submit your questions below (anything goes!), and Aja and I will record the responses to share with you next week. I can’t wait to hear from you!
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this is so great! I really think that having time away from your kids is so important--and it might be easier to start doing it when they're little, the way you did, so everyone gets used to it.
I'm so curious where you landed on the Facetime question! (I/we don't generally call or facetime when I'm/we're away--it's always seemed easier to just be *away* and reconnect on return.)
This was a lovely, evocative post!
Having traveled with (and without) my almost-1-year-old --including a solo birthday trip to SF-- this was extra resonant. Being able to enter your own rhythm while traveling is both luxurious and occasionally wistful.