✎ June 9, 2025
We didn’t make it to Rekinection this year.
The forecast looked rough—rain, storms, mud. And while I can tolerate a lot, soggy toddlers and soaked sleeping bags aren’t my idea of sacred fun.
So I gave the girls a choice:
Muddy festival in the woods, or the dunes and the beach?
They picked Lake Michigan.
We packed up the RV—Juliet, Phoebe, Cucumber the rabbit, and me—and hit the road Thursday night. I drove until 3am while the girls slept, seat-belted in, curled up in their blankets and pillows like little pretzels in the back.
They’ll never know the full weight of what that drive took. But I didn’t either when I was their age. No one tells you your parents were improvising the whole time. Taking 2am coffee shots in gas station parking lots to keep the caravan moving to its final destination.
Warren Dunes was gorgeous.
We parked right by the beach.
The girls built sand castles and chased waves.
And for a few precious minutes, I lay back under the umbrella, listening to the water breathe.
Seven minutes of peace.
That’s what I got. And it was enough.
It has to be.
Cucumber, on the other hand, was not impressed.
Turns out rabbits aren’t born road warriors.
I built him a custom little zone under my bed,
but the poor guy panted like a dog every time that old engine roared.
We’ve got ants in the RV.
Leaks too.
Some battery weirdness I still can’t pin down.
And the whole thing groans like a tanker every time we hit a bump.
It’s not glamorous.
It’s not easy.
But it’s ours.
And despite the exhaustion, despite the way my back feels like a 90-year-old mechanic today, I know these are the moments that matter.
They won’t remember what didn’t work.
They’ll remember the sound of waves,
the taste of ice cream with sunsets,
the rabbit under the bed,
and that their dad kept showing up.
Back home now.
Back to work.
Back to sculpting a life where joy and labor don’t feel like separate tracks.
Trying, every day,
to bring them closer.
Until they touch.
From my fire to yours.