This weekend we went on what I think was our tenth (I'm having trouble with the math--and also the passing of time) annual camping trip to Hermit Island on the coast of Maine.
After all this time, each beach and rock and tree and campsite and outhouse has become a storehouse of memories.
And let me tell you, it's a little bit bittersweet, remembering the chubby cheeks and legs running in the sand, the worn-out toddlers sleeping on the beach, the big little boys helping set up camp.
But I'm not gonna lie, it's also pretty awesome to have kids that can disappear to the beach or ride around the campground on their bikes for hours and to not even have to worry or think about where they are or what they're doing--let alone run around in a frenzy when one of them toddles off alone, like E did once when he was three.
Not even a wave in the ocean.
We camped with two sets of good friends who made the good times even better.
I did a lot of sitting around talking, a little bit of reading, and a fair amount of sleeping late.
My camera spent most of the trip in the car, and my field guides and nature journal never once came out (the binoculars did make an appearance or two--the warblers were amazing just around our site, and we even had a resident cardinal pair)
E and Z and their friend built an enormous edifice on the beach the last day, while the grownups hiked the north end of the island. Sadly, we had to leave before they could see the water overtake their structure. Like every year, we ended the weekend wishing we could stay for a week.