"Nice."

It's half past four on Friday afternoon, the day before our big euro summer adventure begins. After having spent the last year building the trip and the last two weeks tightening it; searching amazon reviews for the most engaging workbooks for 5 year olds, ferociously tracking last minute additional lewks from Net-a-Porter that had just gone on sale and a kid friendly emergency kit — I even sent flowers to the concierge that helped us score an impossible reservation at the storied El Olivo — I wondered how long I could resist nagging my husband to forward me the check-in email for our flights. We were set to depart at 4:30pm the next day and these emails always arrive exactly 24 hours in advance. Naturally I was eager for my chance to check our two-pieces of luggage, download the boarding passes and secure our seating arrangements before the dinner and bedtime routine ensued. I had a laundry list of tasks to do the following morning, such as a bikini wax at 8am (which was as bad as it sounds), pickup the final alteration at the tailor who of course couldn't get it right the first time and somehow find a mani/pedi that could start before 10am. In addition to the final touches on our pack list, that sound machine always goes in last unfortunately, oh and I also wanted to get a really good night of sleep before taking off.

The clock struck 4:47pm. Major sigh, before I kindly nudged him, "hey, can you forward me the check-in email?" to which he followed with, "yeah I can't find it. Maybe let's just check-in at the airport."

Several hours on the phone later, I uncovered the real problem which was that a ten minute flight departure delay set our trip into the "must rebook" category as the connection time would now be too short, an issue I had flagged initially when we booked, however, we had already compromised on a later departure time, for which I had heavily advocated to avoid jet lag.

After a long and stressful call with British Airways we were of course rebooked, made our flight on time and made it to Mallorca.

Once landed on the island, rental car packed to the brim and all our luggage brought up to our suite, we finally got to take a seat at a tapas bar in a quaint little square our hotel room balcony perched over. My husband then smiled at me and said "nice."

Nice, for him.

About 9 canva slides worth of outfits, booking references and revised itineraries for me. About one full year of research, flight tracking, hotel research and a last minute emergency dose of Norethisterone to delay my period for the best "vacay vibes." Three close call amazon hauls, a final run to CVS and several loads of pre-trip laundry. A plane ticket crisis averted the evening before, sinus scare on the long flight and endless immigration line we thankfully cut as a family and voilà!

We have arrived at nice.

Somehow getting this trip together felt more like a long awaited thesis presentation than a scene in a romantic comedy that magically came together. Yet the more and more I plan these trips, parties and holidays the more I realize how much goes into making something appear smooth. Considering timelines and budgets and preferences, this is an actual art and one many people make careers out of as a result. It's something I truly enjoy doing, despite working a full-time job outside the home. Somehow I still always muster the desire to make these things happen and I see other women doing the same.

It's the mental load, in the business of making memories for their loved ones. It's an extension of the most highly prized feminine quality, nurturing. The act of considering others' needs and prioritizing them. It's taking on the emotional and physical wellbeing of those closest to us. Seeing the world from their vantage point and making decisions with that regard.

Nurturing isn't exclusive to women. But in a man it's a bonus feature — praised, remarked upon. In a woman it's the baseline, noticed only when it's missing. From how we dress, to how we feed our babies, how we keep the home we share with others, whether or not people think we're nice.

Nice.

Nice is the polish that sits on top of the labor of everything we do. Like I always remind the couples I see in therapy, consistency of time together is what allows for those magical moments to unfold. We must create the circumstances for something wonderful to happen. This is what women silently do, and often without hesitation. In fact, I mostly find joy in doing so — in putting together a killer outfit I "just threw on" but that really took several versions to pop, a candlelit dinner for family or friends straight out of a Nancy Meyers movie in which you didn't see the crew and vision boards required to set up, an invitation that looks simple yet excites people and took me countless small hours adjusting the line spacing to mimic handwritten calligraphy.

Martha Stewart didn't just appear with her festive pinecones. She hosted a daily television show teaching us how to make them, published over 100 books on the art of homemaking itself, and scaled her company's valuation to $2 billion. Martha's work was not only seen, but quite literally, valued. Most of us women do it every day, for free.

In this moment I couldn't help but feel a bit small in my efforts — aside from a $2 billion valuation, I just wanted to feel valued.

And I love the small details, I think it's art and it's love and it's time you spent thinking about yourself and others all together and that is beautiful. I often joke that I do these things solely for myself and that is not untrue — I love making small moments special, pushing the bounds of my creativity, memorializing life. However, living is never about one person, we are in many ways just as happy as the company we keep and it's always reciprocal. We want to see our loved ones possess joy, be comfortable, feel seen. For many women like me this is not just an obligation, it's sort of the whole point.

As I watch my husband sitting comfortably in the quaint town square, looking around with amusement, enjoying his Spanish cerveza and the array of well-priced tapas laid out in front of him, our son entertained by the commotion of the square and the acrobatic street performers — I remain conflicted. On one hand, I'm exhausted and a touch annoyed to have done all that work only to land — literally and figuratively — on nice. On the other, I feel I see it more clearly than he does. Because of the work I put into designing this trip, I also understand this trip. I see the value in having chosen our hotel over the tourist trap next door; I bask in the quiet pride of having scored this seat at this particular table. I am honestly proud of myself.

I realize these events aren't happening to me — I chose them, for considered reasons. Perhaps this is the joyful part of control. Autonomy, if I reframe it. A choice I actually got to make. Perhaps I remain here, within the tension of my conflict between being seen for my work and holding its significance all for myself. Perhaps I might even bask for bit, within it.

More to come on Mallorca, xx

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