The other day I wrote about having two of our kids home at the same time.

These days, that feels a little like spotting a rare bird in the garden. It happens, but not nearly as often as we’d like.

Kathryn was home from New York, balancing summer classes and her job in the career office at NYU. William was here too, splitting his time between programming work and helping build the software company he’s starting with his older brother, Stephen.

It was one of those weekends that I looked forward to for weeks.

And then, somehow, it was over.

As they were packing up to leave, it hit me that I hadn’t really talked to either of them.

Not the meaningful kind of talking.

I didn’t hear much about how classes were going. What was happening at work. Their plans for the rest of the summer. The things they’re excited about. The things they’re worried about.

Nothing.

Which is ridiculous when you think about it because they were here for several days.

The problem wasn’t a lack of time.

The problem was routine.

When it’s just Steve and me, we spend practically every waking hour together. We work together on the farm. We run errands together. Somewhere along the way, we became one of those couples who thinks a trip to the hardware store is a social outing.

I don’t know exactly when that happened, but here we are.

By dinnertime, we’ve usually already discussed everything there is to discuss. The weather. The flowers. The weeds. Whether the rabbit population is plotting against us personally.

So dinner isn’t really an event for us.

It’s mostly eating while staring blankly into space and recovering from the day.

The trouble is, when the kids came home, we never changed the pattern.

Kathryn spent her days soaking up sunshine at the beach. William disappeared into either his computer or a car project. Steve and I continued doing what we always do.

Then we’d all surface for dinner.

And instead of gathering around the table and catching up, we’d all quietly veg out together.

Which, as it turns out, is not the same thing.

Before we knew it, they were loading up their cars and heading home.

And that’s when I realized I had wasted an opportunity.

Not intentionally.

Just habitually.

It’s funny how often that happens in life.

On the farm, I see it too.

A routine can be a wonderful thing. Routines are what keep the weeds from taking over. They’re what make sure seeds get planted on time and flowers get harvested at the right stage.

But every now and then, a routine needs to be interrupted.

Because not everything important can be put on autopilot.

Some things need us to stop what we’re doing and pay attention while they’re right in front of us.

So we’ve made a new family rule.

The next time the kids come home, we’re having a proper family dinner.

No phones.

No rushing.

No collapsing into our chairs like exhausted farmers.

We’re going to sit around the table and catch up on us.

Because flowers will always need weeding next week.

But weekends with your grown children are a crop you don’t get nearly enough seasons to harvest.