Today is my first Father’s Day and rather than feeling the focus on me, I feel even more thoughtful about my own father.  I was blessed with the wonderfully rare example of a strong and sensitive man who let his children really know him. So many fathers, including his own before him, were distant—bringing home the bread, but not delighting in the sharing of it.  

I could wrangle out specifics, but I most want to acknowledge the gift he has given me as a fledging father. Because of his example I already know how I hope to navigate a host of child challenges.  I know I won’t be perfect and I’m sure I’ll repeat some of his mistakes (and invent new ones), but those are small worries in a world of more important concerns. Thanks Dad.

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Today also marks the beginning of another rarity in our culture: We will be moving in with my parents.

With my youngest brother, Thom, heading off to college, my parents had invited us in long before we were expecting. But once that door was open and a baby was on the way, we began to realize the potential. We could have the proverbial village that is so often said to be necessary in the raising of a child.

I’ll be the head chef, the maid, the odd-jobs man and resident bard. Elle will be yogi, school marm, head gardener and milk supply. Grandpa, the ethical leader, the wise one, the tickler, the movie-goer, the gray hair. Grandma, the warm-hearted, the selfless, the giver-of-good-hugs, the listener. And of course we’ll all be parents and teachers and students ourselves.  

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Our garden glows like a green fire up back beside what was my childhood playhouse (soon to be my writing shack), the chicken coop is nearly ready for our chickens, and the cul-de-sac is bustling with the next generation of young children. The home is plenty large and will be three-generations full—something honored by most cultures around the world, but for some reason thought ridiculous by ours.

We are proud to be a little different and embrace this opportunity to be a cultural anomaly. And how great to think that our boy will start his life in the house where I spent most of my youth. That’s a kind of rootedness I can really stand behind. 

In light of all these musings we’ve decided to officially rename the homeplace The Village. I’ve been thinking how lovely it is that we have such a community for our child. But today, as I’m pondering how it takes a village to raise a child, my mom points out the real truth: It takes a River to make a village.