Summer Interlude: Pooh Sticks

A few weeks ago, we were standing on a little bridge with our campers when someone suggested we play Pooh Sticks. There wasn't a plan or an activity guide. We simply noticed the bridge, the creek flowing beneath it, and the sticks scattered nearby. We each searched for the perfect one, counted to three, dropped them into the water, and hurried to the other side to see whose stick would appear first. The laughter started almost immediately. It didn't matter whose stick won or lost. For a few precious minutes, everyone—adults included—forgot about schedules and simply played.

Watching our campers reminded me that children don't need elaborate entertainment or carefully planned activities. Give them a stream, a handful of sticks, and permission to wonder, and they'll create a memory that lasts forever. Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, many of us forget that joy can be that uncomplicated. We begin to think memorable moments have to be expensive, scheduled, or extraordinary, when often they are waiting in the most ordinary places.

Standing there on that bridge, I found myself thinking about Pooh. Not just Pooh Sticks, but Winnie the Pooh himself and the way he has quietly walked alongside my family for generations.

I can still remember my mom singing Winnie the Pooh to me when I was little. I didn't realize then that she was giving me something that would stay with me for the rest of my life. Years later, I found myself singing those same words to my daughters as I rocked them to sleep. Mollie adored Tigger with all of his bouncing energy, while Katie was always drawn to Pooh—gentle, thoughtful, and content with life's simple pleasures. Somehow, those characters became part of our family story.

When the boys were born, we didn't live just down the road. I couldn't be there for a bedtime or every rocking chair moment, and that was hard on this Mimi's heart. So I bought each of them a stuffed animal and tucked a tiny recorder inside. Before I mailed them, I recorded myself singing Winnie the Pooh. It wasn't the same as holding them in my arms, but I hoped that whenever they squeezed those little bears, they would hear my voice and know how deeply they were loved.

That's what I love most about family traditions. We don't always realize we're creating them while they're happening. A song becomes a memory. A favorite stuffed animal becomes a keepsake. A simple game played on a bridge becomes something worth carrying home. These little moments quietly become part of the fabric of a family.

This summer has been full in every sense of the word. We've crossed thousands of miles, spent our days in some of the most beautiful places in the country, learned alongside remarkable park rangers, and shared unforgettable experiences with educators, campers, and families. I wouldn't trade any of it. It is a privilege to do this work, and I know how fortunate we are.

This week will be especially meaningful. We will welcome 51 family campers to STEAM in the PARK at Rocky Mountain National Park. Instead of simply teaching educators, we'll have the opportunity to watch parents, grandparents, and children discover these experiences together. We'll play Pooh Sticks, gather around campfires, hike trails, tell stories, read books together, laugh often, and hopefully remind a few families that some of the very best memories don't require expensive vacations or elaborate plans. They simply require being fully present with the people you love. We'll share the traditions that have made STEAM in the PARK so special over the years, and then we'll step back and watch those families make them their own.

As wonderful as this season has been, I've found myself thinking more and more about home. By the time we fly into O'Hare on August 23 and make our way back to our condo, I won't be thinking about airports, rental cars, or even the next national park. I'll be thinking about Oliver, Lincoln, and Tony. I'll be thinking about Katie, Mollie, and Nic, and all the sweet moments waiting to be made together.

I can't wait to find a little bridge somewhere, gather up a handful of sticks, and say, "Ready? One...two...three!" I can't wait to hear the laughter, the squeals, and the inevitable debate over whose stick made it through first. I can't wait to sing Winnie the Pooh again, not because the boys are babies anymore, but because some songs never really belong to a certain age. They belong to families.

The older I get, the more I believe childhood isn't something we're supposed to outgrow. It's something we're supposed to protect. Wonder deserves to be nurtured. Imagination deserves room to breathe. The world will always teach our children how to hurry, compete, and accomplish. It is up to us to make sure they also know how to play, how to notice, and how to delight in ordinary things.

Perhaps Winnie the Pooh had it right all along. The very best adventures aren't always the grand ones. They're the ones shared with the people you love—a little bridge, a handful of sticks, a familiar song, and just enough time to watch it all float gently downstream together.