It always takes a little convincing to get my husband on a plane. He's far more practical than I am when it comes to taking time off to trek across the country or over an ocean. But when he saw my heart break when my girls left this summer, and he caught wind of Danielle and I not so secretly and very strategically planning a getaway in New York at Christmas time that just so happened to fall on the weekend the Seahawks played the Giants, he really didn't stand a chance. The man loves his team.
And thankfully for me, he loves me a whole lot, too.
We packed our bags, sent our kids to some very generous grandparents, and hopped on a plane with our little Ivah to fly to NYC through the night. Groggy and excited, we waited for Danielle and Caleb and their sweet baby boy to pick us up at Newark, make our way into the city, and let the love fest begin.
We had brunch at Balthazar, take out from Blue Smoke, burgers at Shake Shack, grilled cheese at the Spotted Pig, mini cheesecakes from Magnolia, gnocchi and ravioli and pizza at Eataly, breakfast at Sarabeth's, macarons in Bryant Park.
We sipped lattes and gimlets and wine. We sat in cozy bars and a giant cathedral, a tiny apartment in Midtown, crowded subway cars, packed into taxis, an itty bitty theater, and the smallest elevator you've ever seen. We walked cobblestone streets and Fifth Avenue. We stood in the sun, we shivered in the snow, we ran from the rain. We held each others babies and talked about life and dreams, our children, our faith, our hopes.
New York will always have a little piece of my heart - it's noise and lights and magic.
Danielle and Caleb, they'll have our hearts, too. But in a bigger, deeper, walk through life together way.
I could not be more thankful for the gift that this weekend was for both of us.
Maybe the best Christmas present ever.