No Woman is an Island
Children: great for people who hate vacationing alone.
I exist primarily within a tiny, predictable, all-consuming world of work, parent, sleep, repeat like many, but I spend an inordinate amount of time with my immediate family. (My husband is obsessed with me.) We are together for days on end, and there is literally no escaping one another in our house. It’s safe, it’s full, it’s a bit of a grind, and yet, it’s intoxicating. But after weeks of uninterrupted monotony, I start to feel like I’m morphing into a Gmail-addicted-human-shaped meal dispenser. At that point, I need a break. I crave the return of my own time. The kind of time that belongs to me. Time to think, time to create, time to do literally anything that does not involve a small squabble over weather-appropriate sartorial decisions. Boundless time in my bubble makes me feel like I’m constantly spinning plates, like routine is the only thing keeping me grounded. It’s a rhythm I know so well that any deviation feels like stepping into quicksand. I find it’s easier to nurture my rigidity than to challenge it.
An invitation from my parents for a week in Antigua was timely after so much togetherness, but honestly, I didn’t trust I would know what to do with myself. Adults seem to universally yearn for aspirational boredom, and children are plagued by it. Childhood boredom pervades my household, and I’ve lost count of the times I’ve muttered, “It’s good to be bored.” But I have scarcely practiced what I preach, mainly because boredom is a luxury few of us possess.
As I touched down in Antigua, I had grand plans for reorientation – you know, reconnecting with myself, embracing freedom away from the constant demands. Except, plot twist: my child was with me. Instead of the peaceful, solo reawakening I had envisioned, I found myself trying to balance the bliss of “me-time” with the reality of my daughter’s constant stream of needs. It turns out, freedom and responsibility make for strange bedfellows. Children: great for people who hate vacationing alone.
Antigua is a place near and dear to my heart; it’s a place I visited annually growing up but to which I had not returned in adulthood. I never want to recommend it to anyone because a.) I am selfish and b.) because you have to get it, and if you don’t get it, you won’t get it. It’s like if Dirty Dancing was set at The Dunmore minus the aesthetics and nothing has been updated since the eighties and everyone is English. It’s going to sound like I’m trying to sell you on this place, but I can assure you I am not. Get your own place.
The topic of returning after all these years has been a hot one within my family. Will it be changed? Are our memories distorted reality? Will the new family members get it? (It would serve as a litmus test for whether my brother’s new fiancee would be able to hang. Spoiler alert: she passed.) Some of my fondest memories are from my time as an adolescent on the island, and I will go to extreme lengths in the pursuit of nostalgia. Gone are the days of sunset swims with British teenagers and bottomless rum punches, and in their place stand never-ending games of Uno and SPF one million and early nights. As it turns out, both experiences are sweet, and I am pleased that my favorite place has made an indelible impression on the newbies.
To decompress (kidding!), we took our third annual, swore-we-weren’t-going-to-do-it-again, child-in-tow, New York Christmas trip. I am a firm believer that these trips and experiences inform the person I am raising: that the exposure to cultures and places and foods and people is infused into her little molecules and becomes her foundation, regardless of whether she remembers any of this. And as insufferable as it may be to schlep a six year old wearing three layers of leggings down the sidewalks of Fifth Avenue to see an ill-fated tall tree, I would not give it up for anything. I can do this trip with my eyes closed at this point. It’s comforting. It’s chaotic. It’s never boring. That’s parenthood, right?
It feels untimely, but should you find yourself awaiting Santa’s arrival poolside at Round Hill, allow me to recommend this leather-trimmed woven bag (on sale) that I used as my airplane personal item and beach bag, this market tote that folds into itself and I take on every warm weather trip, easy eyelet shorts and a linen tank, and sandals for day and night (I have them in cream).
And several recent things I sincerely enjoyed:
Taco Cat Goat Cheese Pizza is an absurdly named card game that is able to entertain everyone in my family ranging in ages from six to sixty. It would make a great stocking stuffer.
A baked salad so excellent it earned a spot on my Christmas Eve dinner menu.
I don’t understand the sorcery behind this color-shifting CC cream, but it’s the only makeup I’ve worn the last few weeks. Also a great stocking stuffer?
Donni kick flare pants are soft enough for lounging and tailored enough for work. I already owned the navy and espresso colorways, but the rouge are my newest and most reached for pair.
Parenting hack: stock pile these $5 holiday crafts and whip them out during pull-your-hair-out moments over holiday break.
Claire Saffitz recreating Mallomars is the ideal combination of two of my best-loved things: Claire’s incredible talent for elevating classic recipes, and the nostalgic comfort of Mallomars themselves. Watching her take on my impossible-to-find, favorite boxed treat is like a dream come true for anyone who loves both baking and indulgent childhood snacks.
If you can get past the corny Kill Bill-esque fight scenes, Black Doves is welcome reprieve between viewings of Little Women (1994) and Little Women (2019). To celebrate the season in the newly released Netflix series, Keira Knightley and Ben Whishaw are tearing through London, murdering and trying to make sense of Keira’s character’s ex-lover’s mysterious death, all in the name of espionage.
Wishing you and yours the happiest of holiday seasons xx