Erin Byrne McElroy

I think my definition of luxury has changed.

These days, it looks a lot like having enough to share.

Enough food that nobody has to wonder if there’s more. Extra snacks showing up the morning of because teenage boys can apparently eat indefinitely. Fishing poles ready. Hooks and lures replaced. A fire going. Pizza dough on the counter. Space in the house and room around the table.

And the time and energy to say, come over.

Kellan and his freshman soccer teammates spend a lot of hours together on a field. But I wanted them to have some hours that weren’t about a score, a practice, a classroom or a headset.

Just time together.

Fishing. Football. Pizza. A fire. Foosball. Laughing and wandering around and figuring out what to do next without an adult programming every minute.

Sean and I created the conditions and then intentionally stayed around the edges.

We fed them, helped with the lake and the fishing gear, kept things moving when they needed us — and otherwise tried to let the day belong to them.

I didn’t take many close-up photos. Partly because I didn’t want a bunch of freshman boys worrying that someone’s mom was about to interrupt for a cheesy picture.

And partly because I wanted to be in the day too.

There is something generous about gathering people.

Giving your time. Your energy. Your table. Your backyard. Whatever you have.

Especially at this age, when friendships are still taking shape and the people beside our kids right now may become part of who they are becoming.

I’ll gladly spend on that.

Not because the snacks or fishing lures matter.

Because the hours do.

And maybe that’s part of the privilege of this season of parenting — helping create the space, then stepping back enough to let them fill it.

Sometimes the best view really is from the edges.