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In 1986, when I was nine, my mom took me and my brother to see the movie The Three Amigos. I think you had to be between the ages of 7 and 9 to appreciate this gem of a film to the extent that my brother and I did / do. Almost everyone else thought it was so-so. But all of you 44-to-46-year-olds out there know what I’m talking about. “In-famous?” “I think it’s a male plane.” “You killed the invisible swordsman!” “Would you say I have a plethora of pinatas?” And my personal favorite line: “It’s a sweater!” If you try hard enough, you can make any piece of literature relevant to your current situation. There are zero connections between parenting and The Three Amigos, but for some reason, I keep thinking about this ridiculous film lately, and how it pertains to my life as the parent of a 50-pounder. Read on if you somehow have any remaining interest. (I’m lookin’ at you, Uncle Josh!)
Years ago, in the Before Times, I overheard a co-worker telling another teacher that she was worried about Summer Break, because it was so hard to enjoy her kids. It was a June day, less than a month before school let out, and I couldn’t understand how anyone could view Summer Vacation as anything other than pure bliss. Back then, Summer meant sleeping in and staying up late, going for long runs and hikes, reading a dozen books, etc. The world was my freaking oyster. This idyllic version of Vacation was, apparently, not quite the summer my co-worker was looking forward to. My skepticism was obvious, and the other teacher – also a mom – replied tiredly, "Only another mother would understand.”
. . . Although this was not the first time I had waxed sentimental at REI (I go to great lengths to avoid the yoga apparel section for fear of sobbing and clinging onto anything with a Prana label), something about this particular interaction struck a chord with me. At 5, my son has a variety of interests, and my role at this point is essentially the “fun things coordinator.” Lately it has become increasingly obvious that when it comes to having fun, I have fallen into the trap of Living Vicariously Through My Child
Tonight, Travis and Levi are spending the night camping in our backyard. More importantly, I am not. For the first time in 4.5 years, I will be spending an entire night alone in my own home. Champagne, anyone?
I started a post about becoming a semi-serious runner again after having a child. Inane, I know, but wait. I was about halfway through writing when my mind began to go in a different, much more interesting direction: Who is “The Wee Wanderer,” anyway? And then I wrote the following enormous aside. . .
The ultimate test of how much you love doing something is whether you’re willing to do it with a three-and-a-half-year-old. Apparently, I really like shopping at Michael’s and hanging out in beer gardens. Cooking spicy food? Staying out past 7pm? Nope and Nope. (Sorry, Travis.) Now that our 40-pound threenager has solid opinions and words with which to express them, could we find a way to keep hiking? Or would our favorite pastime be kicked to the curb for the next decade, like chili powder and our social lives?
When we got married in August 2011, Travis and I eternally marked our calendars for the annual Big Camping Trip / Wedding Anniversary Celebration. On that inaugural summer nine years ago, I had been too busy planning the wedding to think about anything else. (Boutonnieres, you guys? Really?) So, for our actual honeymoon, we never got beyond selecting the general vicinity of our destination: “Canada.” … But over the years, the Big Camping Trip has become a much more orchestrated event. In fact, planning it has become something I look forward to almost as much as the trip itself. . .
Picture this: A family of three has pulled over at a lakeside picnic area for lunch. It is Day 1 of a multi-day camping trip. The child has forgotten all about food and runs -- fully clothed -- into the water up to his knees, laughing and splashing and shouting. The father’s right beside him, exhibiting similar behavior. Where is the mother, you ask? She’s standing by the car, of course, with a look on her face that any other mother would recognize: I don’t think I packed enough pants.
Recently, a friend told me that she had had an altercation with a gardening-store attendant who was angry that, due to the COVID quarantine, gardening had become unusually popular. Rookie gardeners were buying up all the seeds and supplies, and loyal customers were being turned away. “Everyone’s gardening!” the irritated attendant complained. Well, that’s the way I feel about camping. You guys, everybody’s camping!
This is the story of how a woman with both a job and a 3-year-old managed to go for a hike by herself during a pandemic. It is more comedy than tragedy. You’re welcome.