There's Turning Back
My friend and her husband were planning to take their infant to Family Swim Time at the Y. After packing up (a phrase that does not adequately reflect the laborious process of assembling everything you could possibly need), her husband cheerfully said, “I’m so glad we’re doing this!” to which my friend immediately replied, “We’re not doing it yet. There’s a 30 percent chance it won’t happen.”
Like most parents, my friend knew that any number of things could occur that would result in missing the activity window: unforeseen nap, hunger, inexplicable crying, all of the above, etc. You had a fun idea, put in the mental and physical effort to prepare, and now you have to turn back. (For those of you on the edge of your seats, my friend and her family did indeed make it to Family Swim Time.)
This surprising and memorable outburst immediately preceded one of the most common reasons for a turn-around: the unforeseen nap. We headed back to camp immediately.
On the one hand, from the moment you find out you are going to have a baby, there is no turning back. You are hereby on that road forever. But ironically, the same cannot be said for any other aspect of parenting, which requires an unflagging willingness to turn back at any given moment.
One of the first times I took Levi running with me, I packed up (“Will 10 diapers be enough?” “Should I bring his fleece and his sweatshirt?” “What if it rains?”), loaded the running stroller, and drove across the city to Green Lake Park to meet my running buddy. A few minutes into our “run,” which involved sitting on a bench to nurse, changing a diaper, and altering the stroller position to try and make him stop crying, I had to concede defeat. Giving up on the running aspect of the run, I put the stroller back in the car and carried him around the park instead. Luckily, my running buddy has 3 kids of her own, and she offered these words of wisdom: “When you go running with your baby, never plan on running. If you end up being able to run, that’s awesome. But don’t expect it to happen again.”
I remember this advice every time I get particularly excited for any activity with Levi. I tell myself (out loud) to calm down, just in case today is part of the 30% of the time we don’t make it. I have an especially hard time with this when it comes to taking a hike. Before baby, I wouldn’t turn back early unless there were truly extenuating circumstances: dog in danger of heat stroke, unnavigable terrain, lightening, that sort of thing. After baby, turning back has become the norm.
This turn-around was memorable for the length of the drive vs. the amount of time spent on the trail before this inexplicable breakdown.
On Levi’s 3-monthiversary, I took him hiking by myself for the first time. He was happy (aka silent) for about 10 minutes, and then he started crying. Upon realizing that I had no one to commiserate with, I went through the following motions, which most readers will be familiar with: Remove backpack and carrier; sit on rock; check diaper; nurse; put backpack and carrier back on; cross fingers and continue walking. Hear crying again and start to stress; remove backpack and carrier; sit on rock; ask baby what’s wrong (no response, as expected); check diaper; nurse; continue walking. Hear crying again; find log; put everything down next to log, including baby; contemplate life; nurse; load up and walk in the other direction toward car. Realize baby is now sleeping. Take a selfie and drive home in silence. Try not to feel defeated.
This selfie was taken during the first (and only) few peaceful minutes of our solo hike on Levi’s 3-monthiversary (Little Si Trail, one of my all-time favorites, no matter how busy)
15 months later, I know that just getting on the road that morning was a win. But it didn’t feel like success then because I hadn’t attempted many adventures with Levi yet, and had not wrapped my mind around the 30% rule. I was willing to turn back, but I still had the Before Baby desire to actually reach an end point, which made the trip feel like a fail.
At this point, Levi has turned around more times than any baby I know, not because Travis and I have become overly cautious, but because we take him so many places where turning around would be likely. I’ve begun a mental registry of places Levi has almost been: Bumpass Hell in Lassen National Park (thunder – missed it by a half mile); Mason Lake (non-stop crying session, the origins of which remain a mystery); Talapus Lake on his first New Years Eve (cold hands, I think, hard to tell).
Dark clouds rolled in at Lassen National Park. We got back to the trailhead unscathed.
Sometimes I do a quick calculation – I add up the time and effort involved, predict the odds of success, and determine whether it’s worth it. Half the time, it seems easier and less insane just to spend the day at home surrounded by soft toys and Caspar Babypants (totally fun too, by the way). It’s natural to get frustrated by the 30%, and I constantly have to remind myself that 70% of the time, we do finish what we start. So for every turn-around, the odds are better that the next thing we try will work out. We might just make it to the top of the mountain or the bottom of the volcano or the end of library Story Time.
One perk of the 30% rule is that when I don’t expect to finish, I am even more elated when I do. It turns out my friend’s words of advice apply to practically any endeavor when a baby is involved: When you plan on X, don’t expect to do X. Consider success getting out the door. And if that’s the standard for completion, and you like to reward yourself like I do, think of how many plates of nachos you’ll earn!
Nachos & Beer - the ultimate reward for a successfully completed XC ski on Mount Hood. Little did I know when this picture was taken that Levi had no intention of sleeping that night or the next. But that’s a story for another time!