Memorial Day

As a parent, I tend to overindulge. Their wish is my command. If they want to go see a new movie on the day it comes out, we're there. If they beg loudly enough for a toy, they usually get it. It's not something I'm proud of, but I'm being honest here. I'm good at going overboard and not good at saying no.

This weekend we didn't have much planned. Eddie's parents were out of town and his sister was getting her kids ready to go to camp, so unlike most of the people crowing Smith's yesterday morning, we didn't have an agenda. I bought a pack of hot dogs and the fixings for s'mores, and figured that we could use the wood that's been sitting in our garage all winter and have a little backyard cookout.

We thought about taking the kids to see Shrek, but ended up instead at Liberty Park, where we walked around the aviary for an hour. When we got home, Eddie built the fire, and we started roasting. We dragged chairs into the backyard from all over the house, dug some paper plates out of the bottom of our plate bin, and started cooking. It wasn't a pretty party or a fancy party, or even much of a party at all. But Maren had this look of complete bliss on her face, and she kept saying, "Thanks for making us a fire, Dad." The kids burned marshmallows and stuffed their faces and didn't fight. With four little kids, it seems like someone is always unhappy, but yesterday, for at least an hour, we found the ever-elusive "Love at Home." I would have taken a picture, but running for the camera was the last thing I wanted to do at that moment, and happiness doesn't always look like much of anything, just a bunch of mismatched chairs, half-eaten hot dogs, and sticky smiles.