There’s something magical about the woods — the kind of magic that doesn’t need Wi-Fi, screens, or even a plan. Just trees, sky, and the sound of little feet crunching through leaves.
Last Saturday, after a long week of school runs, snack negotiations, and a laundry pile that seemed to multiply when I looked away, I decided we needed to escape. So I packed up a thermos of hot chocolate, a few jam sandwiches, and my sanity (barely) — and off we went, into the woods.
My three children are each delightfully different in how they experience the outdoors. Ellie is my little explorer, part birdwatcher, part fairy-hunter. James is more of a mud connoisseur. If there is a puddle, he will find it. And Sophie? She’s still small, but determined to do absolutely everything the older two are doing — in her own pink, sparkly boots, of course.
We chose the same trail we often visit — a gentle loop through a nearby forest that’s just the right distance for little legs. The moment we stepped out of the car, the kids burst into action. Ellie took the lead with a stick she declared was her “walking staff,” shouting things like “This way, adventurers!” as if we were on a quest.
James made a beeline for a patch of mud, immediately sinking both hands into it with the kind of glee only a five-year-old can muster. Sophie toddled behind, already distracted by a pinecone she’d decided was her “pet.”
The woods were still damp from the rain the day before, and the air smelled like moss and wet leaves. I trailed behind them with my backpack bouncing, half-referee, half-porter. Every few minutes someone needed a tissue, or a snack, or help with a too-big stick. But honestly? It was bliss.
At one point, we stumbled upon a fallen log that had been completely taken over by moss and mushrooms. Ellie immediately started building a fairy house, carefully arranging tiny twigs into furniture and using acorn caps for dishes. James tried to convince me the mushrooms were “giant alien brains,” and Sophie mostly stomped through the whole scene in her boots, oblivious but cheerful.
We stopped for a snack break on a large rock that caught a bit of the sun peeking through the trees. The hot chocolate was still warm, and we passed around little metal cups while I handed out the jam sandwiches. It’s funny how much better food tastes outside. The kids sat for almost ten full minutes — a miracle — sipping and munching while I just breathed it all in. The quiet, the sun on my face, their rosy cheeks. It was one of those rare, golden pauses in the chaos of motherhood.
Of course, the calm didn’t last long.
After snack time, the chase began. Ellie and James found a “monster cave” (it was really just a hollow under a tree) and took turns pretending to be creatures jumping out and scaring each other. Sophie kept yelling “ROAR!” and trying to join in, which only made them laugh harder. There was running. There was shrieking. There were at least two minor falls and one muddy bottom, but no tears — just howls of laughter and squeaky boots.
I sometimes worry that in the whirlwind of school and screens and schedules, they’ll miss out on the kind of childhood where trees are castles and mud is magic. But in moments like this, I know we’re doing okay.
Eventually, as little legs got tired and tempers began to fray, we turned back toward the car. James declared he was “so tired he might die,” which was quickly forgotten when he spotted a squirrel and sprinted after it. Ellie picked wildflowers (carefully, we always try to leave some for the bees), and Sophie insisted on being carried, then walking, then being carried again. You know, toddler rules.
By the time we got back to the car, all three kids had dirty faces, scraped knees, and wild hair — but they also had wide smiles and armfuls of treasures: pinecones, feathers, “magic” rocks, and one very squished dandelion.
As I buckled them into their seats, I felt that lovely, weary kind of tired that comes from a day spent outside. The kind that fills your lungs and your heart at the same time. We weren’t out for long — just a couple of hours — but it was enough. Enough to reconnect. Enough to reset.
When we got home, I let them each choose one nature treasure to keep on our “season shelf” — a little tray near the dining table where we collect bits and pieces from our outings. It’s nothing fancy, but it reminds us to notice the world outside our window.
Later that evening, after baths and stories and the usual bedtime chaos, I found a bit of moss in my pocket and a tiny stick figure Ellie had made for the fairies. I smiled, tucked them into a little glass jar, and added them to the shelf.
It wasn’t a perfect day — someone cried over a dropped snack, someone else got a bit too close to a stinging nettle — but it was ours. Real, messy, joyful. And in the heart of the woods, surrounded by trees and laughter and mud-splattered boots, I felt something settle. A reminder, maybe, that the best moments often come with muddy knees and a cup of hot chocolate in the wild.
