New York City at Christmastime. If they could bottle and sell it--and they've probably tried--it might just be priceless. Sparkling lights, chestnuts roasting, strangers exchanging pleasantries and parting with a warm "happy holidays!" It's an experience I've been wanting to share with my son since before he was born, exactly four years ago today. Last weekend, I finally had my chance.

My birthday gift to Declan was this trip--a phantasmagoria of holiday joy dreamed up by one of the biggest kids out there: his 37-year-old mother. My holiday gift to you: some of my best tips for roasting up some delicious memories with your loved and little ones in the happy event that you're headed to New York this season. And, for those of you who haven't planned an NYC trip this December, I hope a glimpse into our yuletide jaunt will inspire you to plan one next year. I promise: you and your family will never forget it. (Unless your child is only four, in which case he will forget it--so you actually have to do the whole thing over again. Many times. Meanwhile, take a lot of pictures to prove that you were a great mom back in the dark ages of your child's life.)

"All I want for Christmas is my long-term memory."

And now, without further ado: my favorite moments and best tips from the trip!

Santa at Macy's Herald Square
If you've ever seen the movie Miracle on 34th Street, then you know that the Santa at Macy's is the closest you'll ever come to the real thing. Either he is actually Santa, or, to use Catholic parlance, he's some sort of Pope of Santa Clauses--Santa's closest mortal officiant; the one with the most direct line to the man himself.

In the time since I was a child, and since David Sedaris dutifully served as an elf in the chaos of Macy's erstwhile Santaland, Macy's has really upped its game. Whereas once you were forced to snake through a lackluster roped-off line while hanging off your parents' arms and whining, the waiting experience is now a fairly fantastic (to a child) visual journey to Santa's throne in the North Pole.

As of 2017, this journey starts with reservations. The (very, surreally) friendly elves direct you to kiosks in a room guarded by giant nutcrackers, where computers allow you to reserve your half-hour slot with the Claus. Declan and I were able to make a same-moment appointment--though keep in mind that we visited Santa on Thursday, November 30, when most sane people are still eating Thanksgiving leftovers. To ensure that you get your preferred slot with Old Santa, book your time early and here.

Transportation-wise, we arrived at Herald Square on the F train; Herald Square is highly accessible via subway from all areas of the city. Once inside the store, Santa can be found on the 8th floor, surrounded by the fantastic sights and people in the photos below. (Note: the fact that Macy's is able to get corporate sponsors for the queue leading up to Santa speaks to their brilliance in capitalizing on the whole experience. I didn't even feel Scroogey about it. If Domino Sugar helped facilitate this whole thing, then thank you, Domino!)

Overall, I highly recommend this experience for children of all ages, for several reasons. First: there is usually a wait to see any Santa in the country, and I can't imagine anyone making the wait more entertaining than Macy's. Second: their Santa looks great. He might have stepped right off the glistening surface of a vintage Coca Cola bottle--for that is where our modern conception of Santa comes from. Really, he is just that picturesque. But above all: this Santa was loving and kind and really seemed like Santa on a soul level. Rather than prodding Declan to talk about his (considerable, specific) material desires, Macy's' Santa emphasized that, more than anything else, "Santa loves you with all his heart." I was deeply touched by his sincerity, and I could tell Declan was, too.

Hearty Breakfasts
As adults, we have become accustomed to making breakfast as lackluster an affair as possible. Toaster waffles, Clif bars, a handful of almonds; we are either counting macros and starving or forgetting to eat until mid-afternoon, when Gina in Marketing trots out the free cookies from some vendor and we all head to the trough in a hunger panic.

But guess who never forgets to eat? A four-year-old. And even the most harried, bloated, pre-menstrual woman in the world cannot match the hanger of a child who has been denied his breakfast. This is why you must feed your child a giant breakfast during your New York City trip. Let that serotonin rip through his system and relax him, preparing him for all the wonders you have in store. To ensure that he will actually eat the breakfast you provide, you must make it a delicious one. This is not the time to pack those homemade quinoa protein bites that you found on Pinterest. Even if your child has Celiac disease, you know he deserves better than that. TAKE HIM TO BREAKFAST!

Our favorites this trip were Balthazar--where Declan actually received applause for finishing two giant slices of brioche french toast--and Clinton Street Baking Company. I promise you, the one morning when he didn't like his breakfast touched off the most behaviorally challenging day of my life. So get out your Yelp app and find someplace delightful. Your life might just depend on it.

(Fun fact: the above two photos of me are the first (normal ones) that Declan has ever taken. But they won't be the last, now that I'm doing this blog. Bwa ha ha ha!)

Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular
In some senses, this was my main gift to Declan for his birthday. The tickets were pricey at $250 each, but it turned out that I had inadvertently put us in the fourth row, so it needn't be quite so expensive. That said: I figured excellent seats wouldn't be wasted on such a small child, who might otherwise lose interest at seeing everything from a great distance.

Of course, before the show even started, Declan was saying he didn't want to go. He had no idea what to expect, so, in the absence of knowledge, he chose rejection. I found it so satisfying, because I knew how overwhelmed and delighted he would be, but he was totally playing it cool.

The show itself was truly phenomenal; they have really kept it fresh. My only gripe is that the Rockettes didn't wear their little Santa outfits, but they had plenty of other cool costumes, and all the great moves for which they are known. Besides which there was snowfall and confetti and a 3D vignette and live animals on stage and a real nativity, and they weren't afraid to talk about Christmas and even read from the Biblical story, which was nice and not creepy and really beautifully done.

After Radio City, we were well-positioned to do a little touring on Fifth Avenue.

Saks Fifth Avenue and Rockefeller Center
Oh, the windows at Saks. Usually they are filled with wares that lure me from righteousness, dashing my budget-ship on the rocks below their siren song. Thank God they take all that stuff out during the Christmas season and fill it with kid stuff.

This year the theme is Snow White. On the occasion of the film's 80th anniversary, the windows take you through the story of the sweet princess who catapulted Disney into the animated-feature stratosphere. Declan loved it. Unfortunately, he was less enamored with the inside of the store, where Mommy was hoping to browse the designer handbag section. I should go shopping with Declan more often; that budget ship would be straight and sound.

We also visited the Lego Store and Rockefeller Center. We didn't spend much time at either, as we planned to skate at the Bryant Park rink later in the weekend, and I'm a one-skating-excursion-per-season kind of girl. As for the Lego Store, they do a great job of setting you up for temptation without letting any actual playing happen--a scenario to which I will allow you to draw and redraw your own adult-world comparisons. If you're wondering how I handled the frequent requests for me to buy Declan things throughout the city: about 10 percent of the time I bought him the thing, and the rest of the time I urged him to put it on his list for Santa. The Santa's list thing works surprisingly well, especially if you can manage to deliver it convincingly. (Note: tantrums cannot be prevented on all occasions. Tantrums will occur, no matter what you do. Nevertheless, you cannot avoid going into the Lego Store, so don't even try to escape.)

By this point, Declan was absolutely and unequivocally starving. This is the day when he rejected the breakfast I offered him, because we didn't have time to eat at a restaurant and, apparently, if he couldn't have pancakes, french toast, or waffles, he sure as shit wasn't settling for a blueberry muffin. After an abortive attempt to eat at Bouchon in Rockefeller Center--more crowded per square foot than anywhere we went on this trip--I took us somewhere even better: the basement food hall at the Plaza.

Lunch at The Plaza
Declan has not yet latched onto the Eloise books, but, when he does, the experience will take on a new layer of significance. For now, we love the basement at the Plaza because of the variety of food purveyors, and for the novelty of being in a food court that is more glamorous than most restaurants. We settled on Epicerie Boulud and dug into our selections: for me, an outrageously sumptuous vegetable panini and, for Declan, a buttery baguette and a bag of potato chips. We split a chocolate chip cookie, and Mommy had a glass of chardonnay. I'm quite certain I've earned it.

Believe it or not, our day didn't stop there. And why should it, when we were in such close proximity to one of Declan's favorite memories from our last New York trip: the Central Park horse-and-carriage rides. (I just realized--he remembered something from six months ago! Maybe there is hope after all.)

Carriage Ride in Central Park
I was amused that the tour hawkers bordering the Park tried to convince us to take a cycle rickshaw tour in lieu of the horse-drawn carriage. They went on and on about how wonderful the rickshaw is by comparison, and how little the carriage lets you see of the wonderful park. At the earliest possible interval, I interrupted and said, "You're wasting your time. If it's not pulled by a horse, he's not interested."

One of the men bent down and made his face look joyful. "Don't you want to see the entire park, Buddy? The fountains? The sailboats? Don't you want to ride behind that man with the cool bike?"

"Horse," Declan responded coolly.

See? Wasting their time.

He's in it for the horse; I'm in it for the snuggles. And you can be in it, too--for three dollars a minute.

A note to my father, who is no doubt reading this post with disapproval, wondering why I didn't negotiate a lower price for the 20-minute ride: negotiation is no longer possible, now that all the horses are owned by the same guy, who tracks everyone's movements via GPS and makes sure every cent has been accounted for. Dad will be mollified to know, however, that the guy is Italian. So at least we're being extorted by our own people; there's a certain solace in that.

Soho and Bryant Park
As we passed the halfway point, it occurred to me that I hadn't done anything adult-oriented the entire trip. This works perfectly for me, because I'm not really an adult. But I thought it would be good for Declan to experience a little hardship and lack--so while he napped in his stroller on Saturday, my best friend Noraan and I went shopping in Soho. She almost bought a bag in Balmain, I almost bought a bag in Louis Vuitton, and Declan almost bought the farm when he fell out of the stroller and into the street, all while remaining dead asleep. I would have taken a picture, but it seemed a little untoward to photograph your child laying face down on Prince Street.

A surfboard-headed mannequin in Fendi. How avant garde!

When Declan awoke, we immediately hightailed it to Bryant Park, lest this child should spend a single moment un-entertained. At Bryant Park, we navigated considerable crowds at the holiday market, rode the carousel, and distracted Declan from the ice skating rink by promising to find him a very special toy at one of the kiosks. (Note: we did not find a very special toy. Don't promise this!)

The carousel was delightful, the crowds were horrible, and we had grand plans to hit Little Italy for dinner, so we didn't spend too much time at Bryant Park on Saturday. But I returned with him alone on Sunday and spent two precious hours watching my child learn how to ice skate. I wish I had a picture of his smile on that second day, but I was, for once, too busy laughing and living to even think about my iPhone. This alone was worth the $70 price of admission. (OK, so this New York City Christmas thing really adds up. But it's worth it!)

Little Italy
Little Italy, or "Yittle Itta-yee", as Declan calls it, was the birthplace of my father's father, Vincent Esposito, in the 1930s. On Mulberry Street, my young grandfather could look out his window and absorb the sounds and smells of the American dream. Eighty years later, his great-grandchild, whom he never met, could enjoy a giant plate of spaghetti, four meatballs, and a great time in the Christmas souvenir store begging for more special toys.

We dined at family favorite Il Cortile, which is run by the Esposito family--no relation; Esposito is like the Smith of southern Italy. Try the rigatoni alla vodka or the phenomenal veal special, unless you object (as I do) to the mistreatment of baby cows, in which case just ask them to pour the veal sauce in a bathtub and jump on in.

Of course, no trip to Little Italy is complete without lying down in the gum- and cigarette-strewn streets of the city. Unfortunately, what could never be depicted in these or any photos was the fact that we walked home pushing Declan in the stroller and singing Christmas carols at the top of our lungs while passersby smiled and cheered us on. I'm telling you, this place is so g-damned magical!

Declan's 4th Birthday Party at Pizza Beach
On our final day in New York, we had a small family (and close friend) birthday party for Declan at Pizza Beach in the Lower East Side. The restaurant is highly Insta-worthy, the food is delicious (Pink Vodka Pizza!), and the staff and patrons all rolled with a bunch of loud Italians taking over an entire side of the restaurant. To make it extra festive for my little pea, I bought a balloon bouquet from Balloon Saloon in Tribeca, who accommodated a same-day request for a pirate bouquet and delivered it to me in less than two hours for the bargain price of $180. But it totally made the party and I'm not sorry at all that I spent the money, because nothing I give Declan this year (or ever) will equal the look on his face when he saw those balloons.

The birthday cake came from Baked NYC--one of my favorite bakeries, and they did not disappoint. Although Declan insisted on a plain vanilla-on-vanilla cake (despite my cajoling, "Doesn't this banana peanut butter cake sound interesting? What do you think of apple spice cake, YUM!"), I couldn't have been happier with his choice. The cake was understated and flavorful, not overpowered by too much sugar or underwhelmed by too little depth. If I had any energy left after the trip, I would have baked one for Declan's in-class birthday celebration today. But I spent last night soaking in pink Himalayan sea salts, so the kids will have to deal with Publix cupcakes--and there ain't nothin' wrong with that.

Final Morning
Leaving New York City was a little hard for us. First, we had all those balloons. After tantrums, and much deliberation, I decided to deflate the foil balloons and take them with us in our suitcase to be reinflated at home. Turns out you can do this by shoving a very sharp chopstick up the balloon's glory hole, popping the seal, and then sitting on it until it's empty. I was able to distract Declan out of his balloon-related tantrum by sucking down some helium and using helium-voice, too. Bonus!

At the airport, we were forced to say goodbye to New York--and to the mylar balloons we brought with us in the Uber. Honestly, this whole balloon thing is not for the weak of spirit.

On a very happy note, the balloons did reinflate when we got back to Miami Beach--yielding one very happy four year old and one very relieved mommy.