As I sit in the car, I feel a familiar tension rise. “Kids!” My 10-year-old daughter, Zoe, reluctantly pulls her gaze from her tablet. “What is it?”
“Please turn off the device and take a look outside—we’ve arrived!”
With a dramatic eye roll, she switches off her iPad, nudging her older sister, Mia, and shaking her little sister, Lily. “We’re here, everyone!”
Three-year-old Lily protests, “But I’m not done watching Ariel!”
Mia, aged 12, sighs, removing her headphones, her expression suggesting that I’ve just requested something unreasonable.
“You can finish later,” I reply, attempting to mask my irritation with enthusiasm. “Right now, we’re going for a walk. Coats and boots on; it’s chilly out there.”
Despite some grumbling and Lily’s tears, I remain resolute. We’ve just arrived at Mariposa Grove in Yosemite National Park, surrounded by towering ancient sequoias. It’s winter and freezing, but there’s no way they’re staying in the car while we’re enveloped in such natural beauty. We will experience this wonder together. All five of us.
With a 12-year-old, a 10-year-old, and a 3-year-old, coordinating family activities that satisfy everyone is like trying to solve an intricate puzzle. I understand why Mia and Zoe may not want to spend time at the kiddie park anymore, while Lily is too young for outings suited for her older siblings, such as mall visits or ice skating. To minimize whining, my husband, Tom, and I often divide our efforts—one of us takes one or two girls to run errands while the other shuttles another to a soccer game, a friend’s house, or a birthday party. By Sunday evening, I’ve hardly seen Tom, we are both drained, and we haven’t shared any quality family time.
I fantasize about a day when everything will align perfectly. Mia will sort out her hair quickly, Zoe will accept the zoo outing instead of Six Flags, and Lily won’t have a meltdown over her snack. Tom will resist checking work emails, and I’ll stop worrying about whether everyone brought jackets just in case. We’ll find ourselves in that perfect moment of togetherness where cherished family memories can flourish. I realize that this doesn’t have to happen all the time, but a bit more frequently would certainly be welcome.
After what feels like an eternity searching for hats, zipping jackets, and wrangling little fingers into gloves, we finally emerge from the car. Just two minutes in, Lily begins to cry, stating she doesn’t want to walk, prompting Tom to scoop her up. Meanwhile, I rush after Mia, who has dashed off to explore a restricted area, while Zoe, distressed about her sister’s defiance, runs off to find her. We are scattered along the icy trail, weaving in and out of the majestic sequoias like pushpins on a map of the world.
Once again, family time seems to slip through our fingers.
“Isn’t this incredible?” I call out, hoping my enthusiasm will unite us. No one comes. Leaning against a wooden fence that protects the fragile roots of the tallest trees, I close my eyes and tilt my face toward the winter sun. I understand that my children are in different developmental phases—the wants and needs of a tween, a preteen, and a preschooler rarely harmonize unless ice cream is involved. This disconnection frustrates me. A nagging guilt makes me question if I should be doing something differently, while a more compassionate part of me urges me to appreciate our current situation.
Opening my eyes, I venture off to locate Tom and the kids. As I round a nearby cluster of trees, I catch sight of Mia and Zoe leaning against the sturdy, rust-colored bark of a grand sequoia. They are intertwined in a half-hug, their faces lit up with laughter, their eyes sparkling. Each stretches their outside arm, humorously attempting to encircle the tree trunk. The sunlight glimmers off the patches of snow surrounding them, illuminating their hair. They look like angels.
This may not be the moment I envisioned, but it is undeniably a moment. Perhaps family time doesn’t always require all five of us to be together, with our varied desires and needs. There is significance and connection in the smaller bonds, too, in those lovely, spontaneous instances.
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Summary
Creating family time requires patience and flexibility, especially with children of different ages. Moments of connection can arise unexpectedly, and appreciating these instances can lead to meaningful family experiences. Embrace the journey, and remember that even smaller interactions can foster unity and joy.