In the evenings, when that large midday sun moves West and the heat lifts just enough, we venture out, as a family, for no particular reason. We function as a cohesive unit by day, of course; Aaron and I alternate on Kaspar-watch, making time and space for work, for appointments, and so on. Meal prep, nap and toddler-tainment shifts are likewise evenly shared (we didn’t really plan it. It just works out this way). We live like this, in this flexible rhythm, coming together for meals and the syncopated changing of the guard, exchanging kisses and updates on when Kaspar last ate, or something funny he did in the pool. Something intriguing we read or thought or saw. Something we need to do later, or now. Adjusting the rhythm accordingly.

But by evening, our business is done. At least there are no more calls to be made, no appointments to appear for (full disclosure: we both frequently work late at night… C’est la vie freelance). Our evening outings aren’t for business, aren’t about functioning. They are solely devoted to play.

We run around in grassy parks, or meet up with close friends at Sno Beach. We linger, we laugh. We chase the babies as they run toward ledges (how do they always go straight for the ledges?), share stories from the week. We pause fully in pauses, and breathe deeply, unhurried.   

And when Kaspar begins yawning, or veering suspiciously to the left, we gather our belongings, part ways with our friends (or the field, or the lake) and make our way—hand-in-hand—home.