to what feels possible

All three boys have the same enormous dairy cow eyes, shiny and trusting. They have watched us cut grapes into a million unchokable pieces, watched us blow on their scrambled eggs and carefully trim their fingernails and circle around trying to find a parking spot.

When we told them that we were moving their focus adjusted, like the lens of a camera. In the past, the surest way to get their undivided attention like that was to sit down and look comfortable.

There is nothing perfect about the bungalow we bought. The 1940s structure is showing its age and the interior layout feels too cramped for our family. But the location seems ideal :: The house is on a double lot, adjacent to a wooded park that will provide way more outdoor play space. It's less than two blocks from our old house, still within walking distance from the library and the pool, close to the main streets and the lively downtown area, and nearby lots of neighborhood friends.

We're not really sure what we've gotten into. Someday the boys may be shocked to learn that adulthood is not synonymous with certitude. Like so many things in parenting, and in life, all we can do is commit ourselves to what feels possible and beneficial, and hope that it all works out.

Demolition began yesterday, two dumpsters full already.
The boys laid claim to the woods quickly, and have solid plans for a treehouse. They occasionally check in to grab snacks and tell us about the discoveries they've made, big eyes sparkling.
We're hoping the value of the renovation lies less in the scale of the work and more in the potential satisfaction that might come as a result of committing to the quality of their lives.