The Future Future Tense

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. 

As much as I’d like to consider myself a match for my three-year-old son’s free spirit, I – like every other adult human I know – spend most of my time thinking about the future. This was true before becoming a mother, but now I find that my thoughts are constantly directed at what’s going to happen next. I spend an inordinate amount of time identifying potential obstacles to my carefully crafted agenda, and I have a strategy in place for challenges including but not limited to: hunger, fatigue, refusal to walk, screaming fit, what have you. 

Wee Levi, on the other hand, is just the opposite. He has absolutely no concept of the future. Like every other child I know, he lives entirely in the present. And why should he think about the future when the present is so darned comfortable? When he’s hungry, snacks appear. When he’s tired, the schedule is reconfigured. When he’s cold, there’s a jacket. Sounds like magic, but it’s only Mom. The future, and any worry associated with it, is taken care of by someone else so that he can enjoy the present. 

You say “Hot Chocolate?” I say, “Comin’ up!”

Nowhere is the dichotomy between present and future tenses more apparent than in the dirt. I think about dirt a lot, and I know I’m not the only mama out there for whom this is true. Objectively, I am a fan of dirt. I like seeing kids with dirty knees because it is evidence that they have been outside, playing in the fresh air, on the actual ground. But – real talk, you guys – dirt also makes me kind of uncomfortable. In fact, I prefer to see the dirty-knee pants not on the kid, but in the laundry basket, awaiting the wash. At some point in the past 40 years, my attitude toward dirt transitioned from “I want to get this on me” to “I need to get this off me.” 

At home, dirt is easy to deal with. We live in a house with multiple options for dirt removal: sinks, a shower, and a garden hose. It’s so easy to get clean, we even built Levi a dirt box in our front yard for the sole purpose of getting dirty. And why not? At home, dirt is something to enjoy in the present because, well, it doesn’t exist in the future. (Except at the absolute end of your life, which, come to think of it, might be why we’re so attracted to / repelled by it, but that’s a story for another time.) 

Camping, however, is a whole different ball game. On Day 2 of our most recent trip (the one that began with Levi romping fully clothed in the lake), it rained all afternoon. By bedtime, despite Travis’s expert attempts at keeping our campsite dry (tarps, towels, campfire, Bourbon), Levi – who refused to wear his raincoat because why would you when the concept of “I’ll be uncomfortable soon” isn’t a thing – was soaked to the skin. He had submerged both of his shoes in a puddle; his fingernails were caked with mud; you guys, his eyelids were dirty. By 8pm, it was still pouring rain, and I couldn’t deny it any longer: dirt had made it to the future! So, we did what we had to do: Mom and Dad took one more sip of Bourbon, and we got ready for bed. I dried off as much as possible and got into the tent first. Travis gave Levi a sponge bath under the tarp and passed him to me. Travis got in last, and we all somehow fell asleep pretty quickly. 

The last thing I remember thinking that night was, His shoes will be wet for the rest of the trip. But a funny thing happened to me in the middle of the night. I woke up to the sound of the rain on the tarp. I was dry and surprisingly comfortable. It occurred to me that, for once, I was enjoying the present. (Plus, the internet said there was only a 10% chance of rain tomorrow. Fingers crossed!) 

The next morning, Levi’s shoes were, not surprisingly, still wet. Of course, I’d brought another pair. But he’d been wearing them when he ran into the lake 2 days prior. All of the strategizing in the world can’t keep a little boy dry on a camping trip. 

Here’s the thing: the little discomfort Levi might have felt by not accounting for the future paled in comparison to the fun he’d had during the downpour. I know I should be more like Levi. But unless I start a hard-core meditation routine – Bahahahahahaha! – my future tense is not going away anytime soon. But perhaps there’s an alternative: instead of worrying about the immediate future, maybe we adults could fast forward to the future future! I mean, it might seem like a galaxy far far away when your kid is frolicking in the mud and headed for two more nights in the tent, but at some point, we’ll be home and surrounded by spigots. There will be a washing machine. Dry towels. And soap! If we can keep this future future in mind when the dry clothes run out, maybe we can actually enjoy the present for once.