My littlest boy squealed with delight as he walked past the garden by our front door. “PINK FLOWERS! Look, Mommy! Look!” We walk past these knockout rose bushes almost everyday together, but for whatever reason on this particular day, they caught his eye. The little bush he was admiring was actually drowning in weeds and grass that had jumped the border, and I realized it had become quite smaller than the other ones. “Operation Save the Shrimpy Rose Bush” had officially begun, as I grabbed my gardening gloves and old kitchen trash can I use to collect my scraps and trimmings in, and got to plucking.

We sold our house of ten years last December, and moved five humans and all of their things out the week before Christmas. My in-laws graciously made space for us in their home while we are currently awaiting our new house to be finished, and we’ve been bunking in JoJo’s old bedroom in a real full-circle kind of way. January is typically a month of fresh starts for most people, but for us it felt like we were just trying to get our footing underneath our bodies and back on the ground again. For me personally, it has felt like I’ve been in a holding pattern of sorts for months now, able to move forward in some things but generally feeling stuck in most.

I don’t care how old my kids get, I therefor and hitherto solemnly swear and publicly proclaim that from this point forward and forever more we will always read picture books aloud together.

Ok, maybe that is an ambitious vow, but I DO hope we always keep that deep-seeded love for the classic, snuggled-up, tuck-my-toes-under-the-blanket-next-to-yours kind of book reading. I’ve always had a tender spot for a good story, since it’s one of the most lasting and powerful ways we connect to each other as people, and it helps us to understand things and ideas far greater than us. Over the years, we’ve read our share of books together as a homeschool family, and there have been a few that have stuck with me as real treasures that we will occasionally wander back to and recommend quite often to folks we know (and even to some we don’t).

Every summer, we visit the same beach in the Florida panhandle with a mix of family and friends. The place we stay has a large river canal that feeds into the ocean behind our condo, which our crew always refers to as “the little beach”. It has a small sandy beach next to a long dock, it’s full of hermit crabs and little darting fish, and the traffic of boats or sometimes even barges that blast their long horns for the kids on the shore will pass. The kids became restless playing on the shore, so they began jumping off the dock into the water, and after that lost its novelty, they began to jump off the upper platform of the pontoon boat tied to the pier. They were testing their limits, busting out the flips, and making some waves of their own.

Watching for the roots and rocks alongside the mountain stream as we went up, we dipped in and out of conversation, taking our time and lots of breaks since the hike in was pretty steep and the air was thinner than we were used to. It was the first time in a long while that we had gotten to spend some one-on-one time together, without a tornado of children or a slew of family around. I love these rare gems with my Dad, because it’s here I get to see more of who he is, who he was, what he thinks about and dreams about. Sometimes as I learn more about him, it seems like he’s lived so many lives in different places and with different people. I’m lucky that I’ve gotten to be one of them.