A family vacation.

Last week we vacated. On the morning after our 16-hour travel day to Yosemite National Park when the children woke cranky and unreasonably early, we thought: what are we doing here? This trip was such a mistake. And later on day one, it hailed and rained, and the construction in the park had us in traffic for what felt like hours. At multiple points, we were all on the verge of tears of rage.

But you know what? As we sat around the campfire on that first evening, eating dinner and toasting marshmallows, we knew we'd been wrong. We were together, with no internet or cell reception or other modern distractions, in the wild.

The week toured us across Yosemite and then to Lake Tahoe, a place so magical that we almost didn't come home. After four days of "hiking and walking and nothing else to do" (our four-year-old's words), the little ones were ready to splash in the pristine alpine waters and dig in the sand for treasures. And so were we.

This much togetherness can be exhausting, but there's nothing else quite like it. We learned new things about each other, and had the time to appreciate the old things about each other that we already knew but forgot to pay attention to before. I was just about knocked to the ground with a flood of old memories of cross-country travels with my own mom and dad in their 1970s Buick LeSabre, back in the mid '80s.

In so many ways, it was a trip. And every time we travel together, I appreciate our familyness more.

Here are some stories from the road.

Blog: On making time because it's worth it.

On long-distance grandmas / the art of just being.

When I was little, my grandmothers both lived in Poland, across the great Atlantic. So for long stretches of my childhood, our visits were few and far between.

And yet. The memories remain of them reading me books. Singing me songs. Sneaking me goodies. Cooking with me. Telling stories. Listening to mine. Going for walks. Just being.

Now I have children of my own, and their grandmother -- my mom -- lives on the East Coast, 1,500 miles away. Our visits are never as plentiful and long as I'd like them to be, but strung across time, they're still substantial.

History repeats itself.

But not just the melancholy parts, in which we live plane-rides apart. Also the sweetest parts. The just being.

It seems grandmothers have a knack for this -- the just showing up. My own mom is open, positive, flexible, attentive. The best traits for honoring the incredible spirits of small children.

On her last visit to Austin to spend time with us, we went out to Butler Park so my two-year-old could ride his bike down the big spiral hill, like the daredevil that he is. This was our only expectation.

But with two year olds, nothing goes exactly as you expected, and before we knew it, we were chasing the little guy across the park on his bike (his hair was practically ablaze, the guy is so fast), and we stumbled upon -- you guessed it -- a pair of camels at the events center next door.

It was amazing, they were beautiful, and never in a million years would we have expected it. But apparently impromptu visits with camels are just one of those things that becomes possible if you're open to just showing up -- without an agenda.

A good soaking in the park's splash pad was probably more foreseeable. And watching my mom watch my little guy experience that head-to-toe thrill of running through the fountain was enough to give me pause. To remind me to slow down and pay better attention to what makes these little people tick right now. In a flash, it'll be different. They'll be different. 

When we go to the neighborhood park, my kids always want to swing on the swings (which -- by the way -- is directly at odds with my mysteriously stubborn desire for them to climb and run around instead). They beg me: push me, push me, mama! Sometimes, I say no. Ok. Often. Often I say no.

But their grandma, in for a visit? She never says no. She'll push them as the sun sails across the sky, if they want her to. And if they ever tire of that? She'll help them ride the swing "like a horsie" and look on with love.

The very tasks that seem the most mundane become full of meaning and memories with a patient, appreciative grandparent.

When we're just chillin' at home without a plan, I often try to engage the little ones in some sort of activity so I can sneak away and fold some laundry or shoot off a couple of emails for work, or figure out whether our geriatric dog pooped in the house again. It's a regular cycle: Get them playing. Sneak off. Half-accomplish something. Feel both relief and frustration when they triumphantly come find me. Rinse. Repeat.

Many nights, I collapse on the couch after putting them to bed and promise myself that tomorrow, I'll be more attentive. I'll work on that art of just being. (The irony is not lost on me that at the same time, I'm promising myself that I'll be gentle with myself and trust that I'm doing just fine.)

This week I'm feeling so thankful that my children have this budding relationship with an incredible woman who -- although they don't see her as often as we'd all like -- is a totally present presence for them when they're together. It's a relief to know that at least a few times a year, they'll get to play tea party (complete with watermelon-and-egg-soup) as long as they want.

I'll close this ramble with the following thought: to me, letting grandma carry out the sacred bedtime routine feels like the biggest gift. Sometimes I like to quietly creep to the doorway and just watch the way my little ones snuggle in to her neck, absentmindedly stroke her arm with their ever-active fingers, and sweetly beg for one more book. One more book. One more book. Yes, she responds. Always yes.

When I make a photo like the one below, it's really for me. So that I can remember how it felt to watch this love unfold. But also, I hope, it'll speak to her.

Blog: On cross-generational memories.

On genuine expression in children / school portraits at Starbright preschool

At least once a week, I hear the following from a friend or acquaintance: How do you get your children to act so natural in front of the camera? Whenever I pull mine out, my kids whine / cry / run away / throw their dirty clothes at me.

In short, it all comes down to this. I don't ask them to perform for me. If I don't interrupt their concentration with my camera, they have no reason to resent it. Granted, this takes time. If you're a parent seeking a better relationship between your camera and your children, here's your challenge: For the next month, continue photographing your little ones, but don't direct them or ask them to smile. Don't even ask them to look. See if around week two, you don't start noticing a difference -- both in the way your children react when you pull your camera out, and in the quality of expression you're able to capture.

I've always photographed my own family this way, and I take this approach to clients' homes as well. For families with camera-shy (or camera-awkward) children or parents, it's quite brilliant. Within the first 30 minutes, all parties have all but forgotten about me and are able to be themselves -- and that's when the magic happens.

Obviously, the story is a bit different with school photos. I spend no more than two minutes with each child, so expecting them to forget about my camera (and the backdrop . . . and the garden shed I've set up in . . .) is too much to ask. But rather than churning through the session with demands of "cheese" or the same canned joke, I try to honestly connect with each child, in the hopes that they will reveal a bit of their unique little spirits to me.

Some are quite shy and reserved with me no matter how charming and funny I think I am, and others are total hams with very little encouragement. But I find that in general, parents appreciate a true expression in their child's photo more than a "just say cheese!" smile. And when the pressure to capture a coerced grin is off, the children can just be themselves. After all, the goal is to capture what these small humans genuinely look like, not just the face they make when they're acting.

Below is just a small sampling of my time last week at the magical and beloved Starbright Preschool, where the children and I discussed (1) the merits of filling your shoes with whipped cream, (2) whether it would be easy to teach a rainbow dragon to hide in your ear, and (3) why our dogs never seem to load the dishwasher or pick us up from school.

More info on school portrait sessions here, individual child portraits here, and (my bread and butter) family documentary sessions here.

A day in the life with Finn - Austin family storytelling photographer

Every time I come home from a session -- even a 12-hour marathon that leaves me wanting for nothing but a good night's sleep -- I immediately download my files and do a quick glance to see what jumps out at me.

After last month's Day in the Life with Kelly, Clark, and little Finn, it was this image, right away.

Surprised? Let me explain.

This family is supermodel beautiful, yes. Their session was full of gorgeous moments and beautiful light, yes. But what will define this period in time for them when they look back on life with 22-month-old Finny? Exactly this. The teamwork. The tenderness. The exhaustion. The balancing act and all-consuming nature of family life with a toddler boy who is as dynamic and passionate as he is cherubic and delicious.

The day we spent together happened to be Clark's birthday, so in addition to their usual weekend activities -- reading, park adventures, sandbox play -- Kelly sprinkled in a few special birthday surprises, including a crawfish boil (Clark's favorite) and a birthday cake with a surfer riding a rainbow (Clark's other favorite).

Anybody who has parented a toddler knows it requires a hella lotta patience, but yields the reward of a hella lotta adorable. This day was no exception.

Here are a few moments from a day in their life.

To book your own Day in the Life session or for more info, click here.

More from Finn's day:

A day in the life of Finn, a cherubic 22-month old little guy in Austin, Texas. More family stories at www.aleks-g.com.

April (a 365 project)

April is traditionally a big bright month in our life, with the birthday of my eldest, who turned four this year. We celebrated her with a scavenger hunt, an outdoor movie, some sweatin' to the oldies with Richard Simmons, 100 cascarones, and a stunning woodland fairy birthday cake that must have weighed 60 pounds. 

We swam or splashed in at least 10 bodies of water -- the perfect opening to a long Austin summer. We two-stepped, painted, slathered our bodies in colored shaving cream, celebrated Passover with family, hiked and camped. In other words, it was a sublime spring month.

This 365 project attempts to capture a little slice of each day of 2017. Babies don't keep, after all, and the months just keep rolling by.