A Summer of Us

So here’s the wild thing — this summer isn’t just about surviving.

It’s not just logistics, snack management, and sunblock.

It’s an invitation.

Three weeks with each of them. One-on-one.

Three little chapters. Three strange, glorious, chaotic, possibly sticky journeys into who they are now. Who they’re becoming. Who I get to be, not just as a “parent,” but as a co-adventurer. Witness. Chaos coordinator.

Builder of sandcastles and buyer of overpriced churros.

And yeah, I could just let it all happen naturally. But my brain likes a framework. A soft sketch. A gentle, flexible, here’s-what-we-could-do outline that I can crumble up and start fresh when we’re all too tired to function.

So, here’s how I imagine it. A rhythm. A pattern. Not a rigid schedule, but a beat to dance to.

The Average Day (whatever that means)

Wake up slowly.

Cartoons or quiet time. Toast. Fruit. Something warm to hold in our hands.

Go outside early — before the sun gets too bold.

Library? Park? Errands that turn into scavenger hunts? Doesn’t matter as long as we’re moving and laughing and not on a screen (yet).

Midday crash = indoor time. Books, crafts, LEGOs, GAMES.

Lunch is a group effort. Sandwiches shaped like stars or dragons, if we’re feeling it. Plain PB&J if we’re not.

Afternoon: a walk. A drive, maybe. Just lying on the floor next to each other, talking about weird dreams and YouTube rabbit holes.

Dinner: something simple or ordered in. Or we could make a full-on fake restaurant experience for fun. Who’s the waiter? Who’s the critic? Who’s just here for the bread?

Evening == wind down. A movie. A dance party. A slow stretch. A flashlight story under the covers.

Bedtime == cuddles (if they still want them). Gratitude check-in. Weird questions. Hugs that last a little longer than usual.

The Average Week (built on vibes and naps)

One big adventure: zoo, museum, ferry ride, indoor trampoline park, beach picnic, and train ride to nowhere.

Two or three medium-sized activities: a farmer’s market, a hiking trail, a bookstore crawl, or a random public art hunt.

A rest day. A total loaf day. Pajamas ‘til noon, cereal for dinner, nobody is Doing Anything unless they really want to.

A project day: make something. Build something. Bake something. Film something.

An errand with a treat: Target + Slurpee. Groceries + flowers. Post office + secret toy aisle moment.

A night walk with flashlights. A morning stretch in the park. A dance party before breakfast.

The Three-Week Shape (for each kid)

Week 1 = settling in.

Feeling the shape of the space, our rhythm together, the California version of home. Letting them know that it’s OK to miss their dad. It’s OK to love this too. We can hold all of it.

Week 2 = adventure mode.

This is when we go big. Disneyland. Something splashy. Something that makes them feel like this time matters, like it’s not just a break from the usual but a core memory.

Week 3 = winding down.

Back to chill. Back to familiar. Back to baking cookies, packing bags, cuddling close, and talking about what the best part was. Letting them ease back out the same way they eased in.

And through it all — every day, every week, every wave of emotion — I get to see them. Who they are when they’re not competing for attention. When they’re not filtered through sibling dynamics, school chaos, or distance.

Just us.
One on one.
In real time.

And yeah, it won’t all go to plan.

They’ll get grumpy.
I’ll get tired.

Stromps will probably try to overthrow the regime.

But underneath all of it is play.

This summer is not a performance.

It’s a playground.

And I get to build it with them.

One moment at a time.