Okay, I need to get this off my chest. I’m not a mother. Whew! In fact, I don’t even have a child. In fact, I’m not even a woman. I’m a displaced Detroiter now living in NYC. Why am I writing this? Because I secretly want to be a mother? At 22, not quite. Two weeks ago, my aunt, uncle and little cousins visited me—a wonderful bill of a three-year-old, six and seven-year-olds, aunt, and uncle. An adventure was in store.
As resident New Yorker in my family, they, of course, wanted me to entertain them for an afternoon. We could walk through Central Park, maybe visit an art museum, and hit Little Italy for dinner. Ambitious plans, but it could be fun, right?
Reality set in. When has a museum ever been enjoyable to children? I vividly recalled when I had visited the Sistine Chapel at twelve. My only thoughts were, Is this almost over? Are we almost done? Really, ARE WE LEAVING SOON?! I had hated it, and this was at twelve. Imagine to ADHD six and seven-year-olds trying to grab a Van Gogh. Imagine a three-year-old girl walking for longer than half-an-hour. Imagine settling down a group of feisty, hungry, and tired children, convincing them of art’s importance—this isn’t homemade finger-painting.
Since I know virtually nothing about child-friendly activities in the city (I can’t take them to a karaoke bar, can I?), I researched an alternate route. Instead of playing in a cold, partially snow-laden Central Park, or meandering around MOMA for a few hours, we were going to do something active. The kids needed an activity—anything. The adults needed to not worry about their children getting railed by a car…or bicyclist…or walker. It may not be a stereotypical New York experience, but it’d be something the kids, and even adults, could enjoy.
After extensive googling, I stumbled upon an NYC booking platform, Vimbly, and reserved seats for a glassblowing workshop. I’m kidding. It was a beginner’s painting course.
Here, the kids could occupy their creative juices for a few hours, and the adults could release some inner-tension through Pollack-like brush strokes—and a glass of wine.
The idea proved to be successful. Joey and Anthony (six and seven-years-old, respectively) each painted themselves, which eerily resembled “The Scream”—I guess they subconsciously visited MOMA.
Although the kids missed a few “traditional” NYC sights (not that they’d remember, anyways), they had fun. Isn’t that what vacations should be?