When the Backstreet Boys announced their Las Vegas residency at the Sphere this past February, I was 26 weeks pregnant with my fourth kid. Within minutes, my two college friends with whom I’d spent countless days and nights belting out karaoke versions of “The Call,” dropped the news into our group chat. “When are we booking?” they asked.
They were right, of course. We had to go. Not just because it was the Backstreet Boys, though they were the soundtrack to so many of our college and post-collegiate experiences, but because it was the Sphere, a new futuristic arena that everyone was buzzing about.
Still, with shows scheduled for July and August, I knew it would be nearly impossible for me to get there. By then, my baby would be just 2 months old. Add him to my three other children, the oldest only 6, and the thought of leaving felt borderline ridiculous. Even with my mom and nanny helping, I couldn’t imagine asking my husband to manage it all alone.
To his credit, my husband was mostly okay with it. “Go,” he said when I mentioned the idea. He wasn’t exactly enthusiastic; it was more of a pragmatic “I don’t get the appeal, but don’t skip it because of us. I can handle it.” But still, he gave me the green light.
Planning the trip was a lot
The logistics were daunting. The shows were only scheduled Friday through Sunday, which clashed with my observance of Shabbat. That left Sunday night, which would mean flying out in the morning, dragging myself to the concert exhausted, and asking my nanny to work her usual day off. Add in my hesitation to commit before giving birth — part superstition, part maternal guilt — and I kept letting go of my potential plan.
Then May arrived. I gave birth and, though I started circling potential weekends, I still held back. The baby was tiny, I was breastfeeding, and I wanted to wait as long as possible to see if anything would change.
By late summer, however, it seemed the Backstreet Boys had taken over my algorithm. Clips of the show flooded my social media feeds. My friends kept sending me videos of fans in white, losing their minds at the Sphere. One meme in particular lodged itself in my brain: a mom boarding a plane to Vegas, captioned, “Me: a 40-year-old mom on my way to the Baskstreet Boys concert that I paid for with my own adult money. But I still had to ask my mom’s permission to go.” I’d never felt so seen.
I went for it
In July, I cracked. “I’m ready,” I messaged my friends. Within hours, three of us booked a round-trip ticket from New York’s JFK to Harry Reid International Airport: out Sunday morning, back on the red-eye Monday, just in time for Tuesday’s camp drop-off.
The tickets for the concert, though, were another story. Prices had surged with the show’s popularity, and I ended up paying more than $500 for my ticket. I told myself it was worth it for a memory that would last a lifetime. Still, when I clicked purchase, my hands shook.
It was 100% worth it
The trip lasted exactly 48 hours, but it felt like a pilgrimage. A millennial rite of passage that didn’t involve children but somehow connected me back to them, because the band I flew across the country to see was the same one that defined my own adolescence. For a weekend, I was not just a mother of four but the girl who once choreographed dorm-room routines to “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back).”
Two moments, in particular, crystallized everything. The first was the walk from our hotel, the Wynn, to the Sphere. The hotel had mapped out a route for the flood of fans: through the convention center, across an elevated bridge to the Venetian, then on to the Sphere. At each turn, more fans — all dressed in white, humming along to Backstreet Boys songs blaring overhead — merged into the stream. By the time we reached the glowing orb, we were a sea of white, exhausted but euphoric. That’s when it truly felt like a pilgrimage.
The second was inside, when Brian, AJ, Kevin, Nick, and Howie launched into “Get Down.” I hadn’t danced like that in so long, and neither had, apparently, the 20,000 other people around me. It was no longer a concert; it had become a giant dance party, an unforgettable experience.
Of course, the trip wouldn’t have been possible without my husband holding things down at home. But I can’t help but also think of what would happen if the roles were reversed. Before leaving, I had to write down lists and make calls to make space for my absence, plus pre-cook meals, lay out outfits, arrange carpools, pack snacks, and orchestrate all the small details of family life that are part of my everyday.
The truth is that in our household, like so many others, the invisible labor often falls on me, the mother. Which is why it felt so monumental to reclaim a weekend, even just two days, for myself.
While there were men at the concert, it was undeniably a female-led affair. It wasn’t just about boy-band nostalgia. It was about women in this stage of life reclaiming the pieces of themselves that existed before partners, careers, and children.
I left Vegas tired but renewed, reminded of the importance of joy and friendship. Because if there’s one thing I want my kids to learn from me — besides how to cook chicken cutlets in advance — it’s to seek out joy, and protect it. Sometimes that means singing your heart out in a giant blue orb in the middle of the desert.
And here’s the kicker: given the overwhelming success of their past residency shows, the Backstreet Boys will be back at the Sphere this month during Christmas and New Year’s and then again in February. This time, you’ll find me at home with my four kids, cheering on any other woman who decides to leave real life behind for a night of nostalgia-fueled, larger-than-life (see what I did there?) joy.
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