Five Kids in London, Alone
The Art of Making it Work
I’m still unsure if the folks at Chabad were incredibly friendly… or just stunned. After all, it’s not every day that an American woman shows up solo to a Shabbat dinner in London with five kids under 12 in tow.
Podcast listeners already know: I recently took my five older kids to London. Just me and them. I didn’t tell many people ahead of time. I casually mentioned it to my father-in-law, who I’m pretty sure thought I was joking until I posted a photo of the kids holding hands on the Underground.
Last year, I took my oldest three to Paris on a whim, and it was hands-down one of the best weeks of our lives. I wanted to recreate some of that magic, but this time, leaving my 3-year-old behind for a week wasn’t an option—he’s basically Velcroed to me. I couldn’t just bring kids 1, 2, 3, and 5… so I brought along my (wildly energetic) fourth. And suddenly, I was booking six tickets to London—five for them, one for me. My husband Seth stayed home with our two-year-old. I may be bold, but I’m not insane.
To be fair, I’ve been doing “crazy” trips with my kids for years. I once drove 1,000 miles solo with three kids under three to visit Seth’s elderly grandmother in North Carolina. At a bathroom stop in rural Virginia, I walked into an Applebee’s and—yes, really—handed the baby to a friendly drunk guy at the bar so I could pee. The bartender had an eye on him, too, I promise.
Another time, driving from New Jersey to D.C. with three kids, I found out the hard way that a low tire will eventually blow out—right on the highway, going 70 mph. In Colonial Williamsburg, I spent a night horrifically ill while newly pregnant and worried I wouldn’t be able to drive home. I recovered… only for my daughter to slice open her foot while swimming the next day. Yom Kippur was starting that night, so we wrapped it up and hoped for the best.
The point is: things go wrong. But I’ve learned that even when they do, we’re usually okay. If you stay calm and keep moving forward, everything tends to fall into place.
One of the best lessons I’ve learned about travel came from my friend Mary Katharine. We’ve done a bunch of trips together, and she taught me the art of the spontaneous vacation. I used to plan down to the minute—every museum, every mealtime, on a spreadsheet. Now, I make a list of the things we’d like to do and group them by location. For example, in London, we paired Westminster Abbey with the Churchill War Rooms. But I’ve stopped stressing over hitting every item on the list.
In London, we saw the National Gallery, the Tower of London, the British Museum, and the Transport Museum, to name a few. We missed Buckingham Palace, Paddington Station, the Harry Potter experience, and even riding a double-decker bus. But we spent hours at the Princess Diana Memorial Playground and a full day at Warwick Castle, which was, frankly, the highlight of the trip.
I found Warwick thanks to ChatGPT. No, seriously. I prompted it with a request for a six-day itinerary for a kosher, Shabbat-observant family with young kids who love history. After a few edits to my prompts, changing things up a bit, Warwick popped up. And it was magical. We stayed in a cabin on site, watched falconry shows, and the kids got sword-fighting lessons from “knights.” The castle even has a playground themed around Zog—one of our favorite Julia Donaldson characters.
We planned to end our castle adventure back at the Zog playground—but when we showed up, it was already closed. My 3-year-old, who had spent the whole day asking when we could return, was heartbroken. But here’s the part I’ll never forget: he didn’t melt down. No fit, no tears—unlike just about every other kid we saw leaving.
My kids have heard the same phrase on nearly every trip we’ve done: “This only works because you make it work.” They’re sick of it. But I mean it. When we saw kids losing it at the castle gates, I pointed out the difference: it’s not that our plans always succeed. It’s that we push through when they don’t.
I reminded them of that Shabbat dinner, when every adult in the room looked at me like I had lost my mind—five little kids, across the ocean, no husband or other adult in sight. And the answer to how I do it is simple: because they make it possible. They know the trip depends on them stepping up—and even the 3-year-old takes that seriously.
Yes, we’ve had flat tires, foot injuries, vomit, exhaustion beyond description and disappointment. But tantrums? Those, we leave behind. We make it work—together.
I’m taking recommendations for next year’s crazy trip.
