The wedding was on the idyllic grounds of a home in Grass Valley. It was the kind of place my kids will never forget. If they write stories in the future, the setting will be this home. I don’t care if it’s set in Antarctica, behind a Venezuelan waterfall, or 1625 Belgium. There were rope swings, tire swings, a swinging bed suspended over a small creek, little bridges, a yurt with a secret staircase leading up to the top and a plank to walk to a suspended bed under an open roof 20 feet above the floor.

I don’t think I’ve seen my kids dirtier or happier or more exhilerated than when we had to drag them away late Sunday night with promises we’d return for the real wedding the next day.

Beatrix, channeling her inner pirate with a little help from a brownie dessert:

My niece, Evangeline, all curls and cheek:

Sam, taking a break on the one of the chairs the kids commandeered for The Swing Show, which they implored the adults to watch:

Every girl stuck a daisy behind her ear:

Flying Joel:

Flying Tommy: