My family and I spent Thanksgiving week in New York City, enjoying the sights, sounds and, in Husband's case, $25 pastrami sandwiches. Our kids are in those important preteen years, and I want them to appreciate museums, musicals and how to avoid diseases on the subway.
I try to make every vacation a learning experience, so I made up a scavenger hunt for them. The list of items included our Book of Mormon ticket stubs, a Central Park leaf, and those cool zip-tie handcuffs the NYPD are giving away near Wall Street, but they got stuck at "a quiet and polite Yankees fan" and immediately lost interest. I was fine with that, because I realized we all learn more from watching people than from anything else.
For example, parents who try to absorb and reflect during museum visits always have out-of-control kids. Good parents can enjoy exhibits and nude sculptures with children in tow because we've learned to Glance and Grab. We limit ourselves to five seconds with that amazing 19th-century satirical cartoon because if we take all day, Junior will land a misdemeanor charge for groping the naked Venus statue.
Stand outside The Dakota, where John Lennon was murdered, and prepare to be mortified. We didn't allow our children to point or take pictures because something has to separate us from those tourists from Missouri.
Police officers at a pizza joint don't find it funny when you ask to take a picture of them pepper-sprinkling their slice.
We rented a Manhattan apartment and the kids enjoyed city living for a week, despite zero personal space and 25 minutes to get from freezing to lukewarm water. I would have enjoyed the apartment more if my hair had fit inside the guest bathroom.
My mother joined us, as she's always wanted to see the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. She could have saved a few thousand dollars in cab fares and headaches by dancing in the mosh pit at a Suicidal Tendencies concert.
On the morning of the parade, we arrived at the starting point a few hours early. With thousands of spectators already lining the street, we picked a less crowded spot near the subway. We realized quickly why no one had chosen that spot before us. Every 10 minutes, we feared for our lives. Only when one guy plowed through the crowd with a stroller did I feel safe, because the crowd turned on him and left the rest of us alone. Somehow that stroller wound up in the air and landed on a side street. When it fell apart and there was no baby inside, only granola bars and bottled water, I could breathe again.
Two grown men with press badges shared an emotional breakdown. Through tears and buckets of snot, they called their editors and begged to return to Wall Street.
While the crowd crushed us flat against a storefront, Husband loudly announced, "We should have gone one street over where they're giving out free coffee and Book of Mormon tickets."
But these were New Yorkers. They would not be fooled.
When the parade started, the crowd continued to grow. We were surrounded by Iranians, Hispanics, Swiss tourists, and a few folks from Jersey who pushed us at least three miles from where we started. We encountered a real pregnancy scare as a result of that parade.
By some miracle, Husband is not.
We learned there's nothing wrong with watching the parade from a comfortable living room without nervous mothers yelling, "The balloons are coming!"
"So is that homeless guy in the corner," I finally replied to one of them.
I only wish I'd been joking.
When a crowd cheers louder for cars getting towed than for the Kermit balloon, something is wrong. I've never seen two Jewish kids happier to see Santa Claus than my sons at the end of the parade.
After the week was up, we made it home safe and sound, disease-free and with newfound respect for suburbia.
I know what you're wondering.
Yes, The Book of Mormon rocked. And my mom is still speaking to us.
