As I walked in this morning from gathering eggs in our backyard, I skirted holes and blackberry starts and the tallest of the weeds, and I remembered . . .

We moved to this house with two little boys, a two-year-old and an eight-month-old. The massive backyard spoke to me of bare feet and picnics and playtime. I filled in holes and dug out blackberries, thinking of dirty little feet running pell-mell every which way. I didn’t want anyone tripping in holes or stepping on thistles.

But the two-year-old became a seven-year-old, and the eight-month-old became a six-year-old. Along came a three-year-old, as well as six chickens and a very rowdy dog. And suddenly, the backyard is full of holes again. I haven’t dug out blackberries for a very long time, and they are sprouting up all over the place. The grass is almost perpetually in need of mowing. At any given moment, you’ll find at least one tape dispenser, a scissors or two, bits of string and paper, random toy machines, and who knows what else chewed up, used up, and discarded in the grass.

No one runs around out there barefoot.

But briars and holes and miscellanea aside, it has big beautiful trees and a trampoline and a swing set and the coolest tree house ever. It has chickens and a dog and three little boys who frequent it, and I’m as thankful as the day we moved here to have that big backyard. ...continue reading →