There’s something almost rebellious about booking a one-night staycation when you have three kids under six—especially when it’s not a “big” trip, just a quick overnight in your own city. It feels like giving yourself permission to step off the treadmill of routines, schedules, practices and school drop-offs without having to board a plane or plan your entire life around it.
I was invited to review the Goodnight Moon Suite at the Sheraton Boston, the hotel’s new limited-edition room inspired by the 1947 children’s book so many of us grew up on—and somehow, we ended up being the very first family to stay in it.
The stay wasn’t magical in a “fairytale” way, but in a very real, very relatable way: our kids were excited. We were excited. And that alone is rare. There was something grounding about doing something special without making it complicated and something comforting about staying in a space that felt both familiar and new.
Stepping into that suite—being the first ones to see it, to touch it, to let our kids run wild in it—added this unexpected layer of “wow, this is actually really cool” for all of us. It wasn’t precious or overly curated. It just felt fun, warm and nostalgic.
From the second we walked in, it didn’t feel like we were trying to escape our life. It felt like we were stepping into a slightly brighter, slightly slower version of it. And for one night, that was enough.
Walking Into a Childhood Classic
Before we checked in, I had seen the press photo—the green walls, the red carpet, the fireplace, the famous red balloon—but seeing it online is one thing and walking into it with your actual children is something else entirely.
The second we opened the door, all three kids took off like someone pressed “go.” And Leo… Leo reacted in a way I wish I could bottle. He spotted the tiny mouse from the book and immediately started yelling, “THE MOUSE! THE KITTIES! MOM! LOOK! THE BALLOON!” with this pure, unfiltered excitement that reminded me why saying yes to these things matters.
And honestly? It really did look like the book had been rebuilt in real life! It had the same green, same artwork, same quirky little details that make the story so beloved. Even the bowl of “mush” was sitting there. Dan looked around, took a breath and said, “This is exactly what my brain remembers this room looking like.” For a moment, he looked like a kid too—and that felt unexpectedly sweet.
What struck me most was that the room didn’t feel gimmicky or like the hotel was trying too hard. It felt thoughtful, familiar and even a little nostalgic in the way things from your childhood can be without trying.
And yes—this suite is absolutely for kids—but it’s also very much for parents who grew up reading this book in a dark bedroom at 7 p.m., trying not to lose the bookmark.
The Great Green Room, Reimagined
Eli ran straight toward the plush bunny that was waiting for him on the bed and hugged it immediately, which set the tone for the rest of the night. Mila claimed the queen bed in the Great Green Room within seconds, bouncing on it like it was her personal trampoline.
The layout itself was perfect for families: the full “Great Green Room” setup for the kids…and then a completely separate king bedroom for the adults. If you’ve ever tried to get multiple kids to fall asleep in the same space without someone crying, rolling off something, kicking someone else or announcing that they “aren’t tired,” then you understand why this is a massive win.
That night, we read Goodnight Moon inside the room that looks exactly like the one on the pages. I didn’t expect it to affect me, but it did. There was something grounding about being in that space with my kids tucked around me, listening to the same lines I heard when I was their age. It wasn’t dramatic or sentimental—it just felt…full-circle in a way parenting rarely gives you time to notice.
Dinner That Felt Like a Date Night (But With Kids)
That evening, we bundled up and walked over to OAK Long Bar + Kitchen inside the Fairmont Copley Plaza. It was one of those perfect Boston nights where the air is cool but not cold, and the city feels alive in a way that makes you glad you left the house.
Stepping into OAK was an immediate vibe-shift. The whole place has this warm, golden glow—dark wood, high ceilings, vintage details and that hum of conversation that feels comforting rather than overwhelming. It’s sophisticated, but not the kind of sophisticated that makes you regret bringing kids. More like, Yes, we can belong here too.
I always hold my breath a little when we take our kids to a nice restaurant, because you never know which version of them you’re going to get. But somehow they were shockingly well-behaved to the point where Dan and I kept making eye contact like, Are we… okay? Is this really happening? Did we crack some code we won’t be able to replicate ever again?
The food was next-level. We ordered the rosemary-infused bread, which came out warm and pillowy, and honestly could have been the entire meal for me. The pasta was fresh, the cocktails were the kind that go down a little too easily, and the kids actually ate—which felt like its own parenting miracle.
In the middle of it, the couple sitting next to us leaned over with that knowing look only seasoned parents have. The man smiled at our (miraculously calm) table and said, “We love the noise. It reminds us of the good years with our young kids.”
At first, I felt that tiny flicker of defensiveness—the voice that wants to say, “Yes, but living inside it is exhausting.” But then I caught the way she looked at our kids: soft, fond, remembering something, and it hit me that someday we’ll be those parents, too—sitting in a restaurant, hearing a toddler drop a fork or a four-year-old ask the same question for the tenth time, and feeling nostalgic instead of tired.
There was something grounding about that moment—a reminder that even when these years are loud and messy and fueled by someone always demanding more butter, they’re also fleeting, and that this one random Saturday night dinner, in a restaurant full of clinking glasses and conversations, was exactly the kind of memory we’ll look back on and think, Those were the days.
Dan squeezed my leg under the table at one point—our universal signal for this is nice… this is working… let’s stay in this moment for a minute, and he was right. It felt unbelievably good to have a dinner out where we weren’t simply surviving—we were enjoying it. All of us.
The Softest Kind of Morning
The next morning was one of those rare mom mornings where everything just… worked. No one woke up crying. No one demanded a snack before I’d even opened my eyes. No one fought about who got to push the elevator button. The Sheraton has this warm, bright, indoor heated pool—a total jackpot for parents of young kids—so Dan took the big two down as soon as they finished breakfast, and I took Eli for a slow wander through the Prudential Center.
There’s something underrated about pushing a stroller through a quiet mall on a Sunday morning. The shops were just opening, the floors were shiny in that freshly-cleaned way, people were trickling in holding their own coffees, moving slowly, minding their business. I grabbed a latte and just walked—no agenda, no destination, no toddler tantrums sweeping us off schedule.
Eli was relaxed, half-kicking his little feet, half-dozing in that way babies do when the hum of a building soothes them. I found myself in this small pocket of peace that I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I felt. Not “vacation” peace—that usually comes with a side of stress—but the kind you get when you step outside your real life just enough to see it clearly again.
Meanwhile, Dan texted me photos of the kids splashing in the pool: huge smiles, goggles too tight on their faces, water everywhere. I could practically hear their little shrieks through the screen. Instead of feeling guilty for not being down there, I just felt… grateful. Grateful we could divide and conquer. Grateful they were having fun. Grateful I got a moment that was mine.
Leaving With Full Hearts
By the time Eli and I made our way back to the room and Dan wrangled the big kids out of the pool, everyone had that flushed, happy, slightly waterlogged glow that only a good hotel swim can deliver. The room smelled faintly like sunscreen and damp towels, and the kids were buzzing with stories about who splashed who and who “won” their imaginary race. It was the kind of chaotic, joyful energy that feels manageable because you know you don’t have anywhere else to be.
We packed slowly, which is rare for us. Usually, hotel departures feel like a mad dash with someone always missing a shoe or crying about leaving. But this time, the kids kept wandering back into the Great Green Room, pointing out details we’d somehow missed the night before. Leo checked on the tiny mouse one last time. Mila insisted on straightening the bowl of mush. Eli toddled from bed to chair to fireplace like he was making mental notes of his favorite spots.
No one was in a hurry to go, and honestly, neither was I. It struck me how nice it felt to be in a hotel room and not feel that frantic “Okay, let’s just get home” urgency that usually hits by morning. Instead, there was this collective softness—a sense that we’d slipped into a slower pace for just long enough to remember what it feels like to actually enjoy being together.
As we zipped the final bag, Leo asked if we could come back “every single weekend forever,” which made Dan laugh and made me weirdly emotional. Eli waved at literally every object in the room as if saying goodbye personally. For a moment, I wished we’d booked a second night.
Walking out of the suite, I realized what the past 24 hours had really given us: not a vacation, not an escape, not some curated “experience”—but a pause. A reset. A tiny pocket of time where everything felt easier, lighter, more manageable; where we actually saw each other in the middle of all the noise.
The Goodnight Moon Suite is only available for a limited time, and if you’re anywhere near Boston—or even if you aren’t—it’s one of those rare family experiences that doesn’t require you to be a hero to enjoy it. It’s low-lift and high-reward, taps into something familiar for you and wildly new for your kids and it leaves you with these small, specific memories you didn’t realize you needed until you were already making them.
We checked out with three tired, happy kids, a stuffy that now belongs to Eli, and that quiet, satisfying feeling you get when something simple turns out to be exactly what your family needed.
Sometimes one night is enough. This one was.
