From Gummy Bears to Neighborhood Bears

We came upstairs to a kitchen already in motion. Pancakes were mostly gone, and Sara was kneeling in front of the youngest with a wet napkin, cleaning the last of the syrup off his face while he stood there, patient for about two seconds before wriggling free.

The race around the island was just getting started, both boys back on their ride-on toys, feet pushing off the hardwood like they'd never stopped.

Diana: The oldest's legs were getting long for that train. Another lap or two and his knees would be up by his ears. He'll outgrow it before the next trip up here, and I had a feeling mom had already noticed too.

Mom and Dad got their coffee while the boys ran their laps. The races lasted just long enough for the coffee to stay warm. Then it was time for the playlist.

The older boy called out his favorite song to Alexa and started jumping before the first note even hit. Mom scooped up the youngest for twirls and upside-down giggles. Dad started shuffling, then spinning the older one across the floor. Somewhere in the middle of it the conversation had drifted to songs from when Diana and I were in college, which is how the gummy bear song entered the chat and detonated whatever was left of everyone's morning energy. The hardwood floor became a dance floor. Nobody was thinking about breakfast anymore.

The boys ended up in a heap on the bench by the fireplace afterward, still half-wound-up, the older one laughing while his brother face-planted into the cushion beside him. It took a few minutes, but the energy finally burned itself out the way it always does. The youngest climbed up into mom's lap by the fireplace, and for a few minutes the whole cabin felt like it had exhaled. Out on the deck, the older boy ran his bubble machine and watched the wind carry everything toward the trees.

It didn't last. Sunday mornings at a cabin rarely do, and the family had one more thing they wanted to show us before we left.

The boys found their shoes. Helmets went on, with help. The youngest climbed onto his balance bike and the older one onto his razor scooter, and the whole group headed out for the walk up toward the main road, the lake showing through the trees in pieces.

Getting the bikes from the gravel path next to the cabin onto the asphalt took a minute, and the older brother was right there making sure his little brother's wheels cleared the edge before they got going. That competitive streak showed up fast once they were actually moving, though.

The older brother kept trying to get his brother to race. The younger one was not interested. He rode at his own pace, speeding up when something caught his attention and coasting when it didn't, completely unbothered by his brother's competitive energy. Along the way the boys told us about the neighborhood's other residents, black bears that show up often enough that everyone keeps half an eye out, mentioned the way you'd mention a neighbor who keeps odd hours. The older one also called out a Cat and a snow plow parked along the road, correctly, which impressed all of us more than he probably realized.

At one point Diana got ahead of the group to catch the boys coming around a bend, the older one looping back to stay close, the younger one's feet paddling steadily along the asphalt behind him.

Somewhere on that walk, Mom and Dad mentioned this was the first year both boys had been independent enough to do this. Ride ahead, find their own pace, come back around. They said it with the kind of pride that has a little worry folded into it, the sense that the kids are getting older in a way that's wonderful and a little fast all at once.

The way down was a different story. Gravity, which had been working against the boys on the way up, was suddenly on their side. Feet came off the pedals. Everyone kept an eye on speed.

We made it back to the cabin without incident. The boys were already talking about another trip to Incline Beach. We said our goodbyes, loaded up the car, and started the long drive back to San Diego.