I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Hey, girls!” My 10-year-old, Mia, slowly glances up from her tablet. “What’s up?”
“Please turn off the screen and look out the window—we’ve arrived!”
She rolls her eyes, powers down the iPad, pokes her older sister, Ava, in the ribs, and shakes their little sister, Zoe. “We’re here, everyone.”
Zoe protests, “But I’m still watching Ariel!”
Ava sighs, removes her headphones, and shoots me a look that suggests I’ve just asked her to do something ridiculous.
“You can finish later,” I say, trying to keep my voice cheerful instead of annoyed. “Right now, we’re going for a walk. Everyone, grab your coats and boots—it’s chilly outside.”
More grumbling ensues, with Zoe in tears, but I push through. We’ve just reached Mariposa Grove in Yosemite National Park, surrounded by towering sequoias. Even in winter’s chill, there’s no way I’m letting them stay in the car while we’re surrounded by such natural beauty. We’re going to enjoy this moment together, all five of us.
With a 12-year-old, a 10-year-old, and a 3-year-old, coordinating family time feels nearly impossible. I can’t fault Ava and Mia for not wanting to hang out at the kiddie park anymore, and Zoe is too young for activities like shopping, ice skating, or PG-rated films. To minimize complaints, my partner and I often divide and conquer, each taking one or two kids for errands or activities while the other handles a soccer game, playdate, or birthday party. By Sunday evening, I realize I’ve hardly seen my partner, and we’ve both drained our energy without truly connecting as a family.
I daydream about a time when everything aligns perfectly: Ava will quickly fix her hair, Mia will accept that we’re visiting the zoo instead of a theme park, Zoe won’t throw a fit because the dog ate her snack, my partner will stay off work emails, and I won’t stress over whether jackets are packed. We’ll find that sweet spot of togetherness where cherished family memories are created—the kind that lasts. It doesn’t need to happen all the time, but a few more moments like that would be lovely.
After a few chaotic minutes of wrangling hats, zipping jackets, and getting tiny fingers into gloves, we finally emerge from the car. Just two minutes in, Zoe starts crying because she doesn’t want to walk, prompting my partner to scoop her up. Meanwhile, I chase after Ava, who’s already hopped a fence to get a closer look at a “Do Not Enter” area. Mia, in a panic about her sister’s rule-breaking, takes off after her, leaving me behind. We’re scattered along the icy path, weaving in and out of the majestic sequoias, resembling thumbtacks on a world map.
Once again, family time slips through our fingers. “Isn’t this incredible?” I call out, hoping my enthusiasm will bring everyone back together. No one comes running. I lean against a wooden fence protecting the roots of the tallest trees, close my eyes, and tilt my face to the sun. I recognize that my kids are in very different phases of life—the wants and needs of a tween, a nearly teen, and a preschooler rarely align unless ice cream is involved—but this disconnection frustrates me. A twinge of guilt makes me question if I should be doing something different, while a more forgiving part of me suggests embracing our current reality.
I open my eyes and wander off to find my partner and kids. As I round a nearby grove, I spot Ava and Mia leaning against the rugged, rust-colored bark of a huge sequoia. They’re entwined in a half-hug, faces lit up with laughter, eyes sparkling. Each of their outside arms stretches as far as possible, humorously attempting to wrap around the trunk. The sun glistens off the patches of snow below, illuminating their hair. In that moment, they look like angels.
While not the family moment I envisioned, it’s still a moment worth cherishing. Perhaps family time doesn’t always require all five of us to be perfectly in sync. There’s value in the smaller connections, in the spontaneous moments that remind us of our bond. For more insights on navigating family dynamics, you can check out this post or learn about resources for home insemination at Make a Mom. If you’re interested in fertility options, Hopkins Medicine is an excellent source.
In summary, creating family time often feels daunting, especially with varying ages and interests. However, by letting go of the need for perfection and embracing smaller, unplanned moments, we can still foster meaningful connections.