Nothing Special. And Yet.

Lake house series: reflections on love, control, and the chaos of togetherness

This post is part of my Lake House series, reflections from summers spent at the lake where family, food, and memory collide.

Sometimes the moments that feel most ordinary end up holding the most meaning. Tonight wasn’t about milestones or grand gestures. It was about kids jumping in the lake, family lingering at the table, and the gift of being with people who have carried us through the hardest times and still choose to show up for the light ones.

My house is alive tonight.

I just came in from the lake after watching my youngest and his nine-year-old cousin swim. The two of them must have jumped in a thousand times: splashing, giggling, swimming to the ladder, hauling their little bodies back up, and doing it all over again. There was a brief meltdown when my little guy’s new flipper sank to the bottom of the lake. He was inconsolable for about fifteen seconds. And then he remembered. He had more jumping to do.

About thirty minutes into our post-dinner swim, my oldest wandered down to the dock. He brought his usual irreverent humor, part teasing and part hilarity. He stayed just long enough to get a text from his brother, who had been upstairs tightening his Common App essay with his college counselor. The message was simple: “Ready to play Roblox.”

I still don’t fully understand what Roblox is. I just know it’s a ridiculous computer game they’ve been playing since they were little, and they keep it alive now for the nostalgia. They log on, do god knows what, and talk like they’re twelve again. Sometimes they even let their youngest brother watch from the sidelines. He doesn’t care what’s happening on the screen. He just wants to be near them.

That invitation was all it took. My little guy jumped out of the lake, flipper crisis long forgotten. His cousin followed close behind.

When I got back to the house, Husband and his two cousins were still at the dinner table, lingering over the risotto and scallops our oldest had made. When the kids came up, the adults moved inside to clean. So here I am now, sitting at the computer for the first time all day, trying to bottle something that isn’t particularly noteworthy but feels entirely worth holding on to.

We didn’t do anything extraordinary today. Just family, floating in and out of the lake. We watched a ridiculous show called The Junior Baking Show, where kids with questionable baking skills compete for no discernible prize. We made popcorn. We ate an obscene amount of fudge. We watched old videos of our kids. We talked about work, about growing older, about what’s next.

There were no drinks tonight. The adults are working tomorrow. But the air felt light. It was full of people who know each other, like each other, and are exactly where they want to be.

One of those people, one of the cousins at our table, is the same person who once stepped in to care for our older boys when Husband and I had to travel after the plane crash to take care of some truly awful logistics. She rescued us again years later, taking care of our then-toddler so we could attend a three-day family therapy program at our son’s wilderness treatment center. She has been with us in the hardest of times. And now she is here for this: a lovely night, a house full of kids, good food, and an ample amount of laughter.

Even the sibling peace is hard won. When my two oldest were young, they fought constantly. Endlessly. Squabbling, shouting, tattling, interrupting whatever small shred of adult conversation we tried to have. It was relentless. The first time we saw them cooperate was when I offered them ten dollars of Roblox cash, what they call “Robucks”, if they could go a full month without fighting. Questionable parenting? Absolutely. But to all our surprise, it worked. And they never really went back. Somehow, they became partners instead of enemies. The pleasure of seeing them back at Roblox was not lost on me.

If I’m honest, the day didn’t start this way. Husband and I had a hard conversation this morning, and I’m still not thrilled with where we are. But even so, I can feel the good in front of me. I can take it in. I wish I could do that every day. Of course I can’t. That’s not how being human works.

But I can write it down. I can return to it when I need it. And I can share it with you.

One of my favorite things I’ve learned as a psychologist is that positive emotions are amplified when we share them. When someone else sees them, names them, smiles with us. So thank you for being here. I’m sure tomorrow I’ll be back with some reflection on how much I hate my family (🤣). But for now, all is well.