The Invisible Work Behind the Memories
A few weekends ago, I packed up the car and headed to Atlanta to visit my in-laws, my sister-in-law, and my brother-in-law. It was a short trip, but I somehow managed to fill it to the brim with activities.
Tickets were bought weeks in advance. I coordinated schedules with my sister-in-law so we could fit in both the Georgia Aquarium and my cousin’s soccer game. I remembered sideline chairs, sunscreen, snacks, small toys for the kids, and little gifts for family. I even got a few grumbles when I announced our departure time—7:45 a.m.—so we could make it to the aquarium by 8:45, fifteen minutes before opening.
But the payoff? We breezed through everyone’s favorite exhibits before the crowds poured in, snagged tickets to both the dolphin and sea lion shows, and even squeezed in a gift shop stop before heading to the soccer match. On our way out—wading against the incoming wave of people—there was a newfound appreciation for that early start.
My son watching the sharks at the Georgia Aquarium
Growing up, I was lucky. My grandfather, the patriarch of our small maternal side of the family, was a master planner. Every few years he organized a big trip—usually a cruise, though once we all went to Germany. These adventures are some of my most treasured memories. He often told me that life is really about experiences, not just about work, accomplishments, or productivity hacks. Looking back, I see that what he was really giving me wasn’t just a vacation — it was a wider view of the world, and a deeper connection to the people in it.
Now, as an adult, I realize how much work it takes to gather a group of people with busy schedules, varying personalities, and competing priorities. In the podcast Best Laid Plans, Sarah Hart Unger calls it “Planner Privilege.” And in my family, that role falls squarely on me. I juggle schedules, navigate last-minute cancellations, and accommodate everyone’s dietary quirks. There are times it’s frustrating to be the only one taking on the mental load of making things happen. But I also recognize that it’s a gift — one I can give to both sides of our family and, most importantly, to my son.
He’s gaining more than just fun weekends. He’s building a bank of memories, learning about new perspectives and cultures, and slowly broadening his view of the world. And when I see his pure, unfiltered joy as a dolphin splashes him from 15 feet away, I’m reminded of my grandfather’s words — it’s these moments, not the to-do lists, that truly matter.
