When I was a teenager, I was in love with Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights.

Thank God I never married him.

I kept reading the book over and over, thinking that maybe my Heathcliff would appear at my doorstep some blustery night. But in suburban Long Beach where I grew up, there weren’t any moors to depressingly walk across with my wet-from-English-rain skirts stuck to my legs. And he was too grumpy, overbearing and brooding anyway.

Heathcliff didn’t have a sense of humor.

I did marry Chad, who was strikingly casual with a better sense of humor than anyone I’d ever known before him. He was nothing like Heathcliff. He was funny and crude and anything but proper. He absolutely adored me and he’s taught me, in the last 16 or so years, how to laugh at myself.

Sometimes what we need is completely different than what we might think we want.

As soon as I met him, I knew we were meant for each other. He quickly replaced any ideas of my future husband that I’d fashioned from nights spent reading gothic novels or watching too many classic movies.

Because God knew I needed a man who would teach me to laugh. A man who would scoop up our children every night after work and tickle them before dinner. God knew I needed a partner who wouldn’t take me as seriously as I took myself. One who would inject lightheartedness into my soul.

God knew exactly what I needed which turned out to be so different than what I thought I’d wanted. So different and yet so perfect for me.

Put it down.

Put down your phone. Or your book. Put down the TV remote or the magazine.

Just drop it.

Pay attention to the three-year-old who has been asking for the past 2 days for you to read the same Curious George book. Sit down and read it to her. Then linger and play Cooking with her in her bedroom. Lay on the floor next to her and see what she wants to do next.

Clear your schedule for the seven-year-old who has been asking for the last month to have a Mom-and-Me day. Take her to get her nails painted in the morning and swimming in the afternoon. Focus on her without having to run around after her little sister. Get your hair wet in the pool and play made-up games with a volleyball and water guns.

Let the sweeping wait until after they’ve gone to bed. Leave the clean laundry unfolded for another day.

Stop doing the dishes and make time for him when he asks you to listen to the song he’s figured out on the guitar. That is more important than having a conversation about the mortgage.

You don’t need to be doing something keep you engaged. Instead, engage yourself with the physical presence of those around you.

Be with your husband.
Watch your children.
Let them have you, and not the sum of what you do.

I’ve spent the last couple days with friends.

Which is different for me. Because my normal days are spent driving kids to gymnastics, bribing first graders to finish homework without whining and fixing dinner for a husband who comes home too late eat it. And even though I live with my favorite people, somehow I miss the friendship in the midst of the chaos.

So Friday I spent all day with with my best friends: My mom and dad, my girls and my husband. We spent all day in Yosemite Valley, hiking through the Mariposa Grove of Sequoias, walking up to the bases of the waterfalls, and taking the kids on the free tram around the valley. We walked through the Native American Village behind the visitor center, had ice cream at the lodge and got really bad coffee in Curry Village.

I watched my three-year-old dance on the top of a tree stump to the music in her head and my seven-year-old skip laughing down a forest path after she claimed she hated hiking. I held hands with my husband and talked with him about all the things I’ve been saving up for a few weeks.

I guess this is what vacation is. Spending time with the same people you normally spend time with, but seeing them in a different light. And sitting next to each other and not having to say anything at all.

Its learning how to become friends again.