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?
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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. . .
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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?
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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. . .
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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.
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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!
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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.
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Last April, I literally busted out of 2 pairs of pants. I was – both times – in the process of the seemingly innocuous act of sitting down … In my butt’s defense, both pairs of pants were old and worn. But, after the second bust, I could not ignore the obvious: 2 years without a strenuous workout was taking its toll. That was 9 months ago, and nothing has changed. The question is: Do I care?
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Let’s talk for a moment about the month of October. Despite the hype about sweaters and pumpkin spice lattes, I have mixed emotions about this month.
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There is nothing quite as pathetic as a Pacific Northwesterner at the tail end of Labor Day Weekend.
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The first weekend in July was notable for 2 reasons – it was both our nation’s birthday, and the Menaul Family’s first camping trip since last Labor Day, which will be forever remembered in Menaul Family History as “the trip that broke us.” Readers of this blog will remember that Levi rounded out the 2018 camping season at Sequim Bay State Park, where he transformed our formerly idyllic 3-man tent into a veritable torture chamber. Suffice it to say that we approached this first camping trip with more than a bit of trepidation.
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When you become a parent, the concept of “vacation” changes entirely. Before Baby, a vacation meant that I was “off.” Of everything. After Baby, one or two things (money-job, laundry, or meal preparation, say) might stop happening for a few days, but the main thing – the all-encompassing life-or-death responsibility that is parenting – is still there. That never goes away.
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It’s deep winter, and you’re over it. You’ve taken all the advice: gone cross-country skiing, taken family yoga and music classes, visited multiple children’s museums. But you want something new. An adventure. The wind in your hair and the sand in your shoes. It is time, restless reader, for you to head to the sea. . .and go clamming. Yep, that’s right – clamming.
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Last Monday and Tuesday, schools were closed, and when we came back on Wednesday, students (and many teachers) complained of having been “bored.” I know that my toddler will one day be a teenager, but it’s almost impossible to imagine him bored, ever. There are just too many things for him to be delighted with in this still newish world, and as I started to feel cooped up inside and a little bored myself, I was even more impressed by the things that Levi is entertained by.
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A vignette of me, a Seattle transplant, packing for a 10-day trip home to see my family in New York over Christmas with Travis and Levi: My massive suitcase will probably exceed the 50-pound limit. No matter. I need all the things: Running gear times 3. Yoga outfits times 5. Should I bring hiking clothes? Might we go Nordic skiing? Should I bring two novels, or just one? How many skeins of yarn? … Ultimately, the bag weighed in just under the limit, and I sent it off in the hopes that for 10 days, I would be able to commune with the spirit of Old Sarah, in the traditional garb of Lululemon and Nike, unobstructed, disenfranchised, sweaty, happy, free.
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I see you, sad Seattleite. If you’re reading this, you want to get outside with your wee one, but it’s January and it has been raining for however many days (you’ve stopped counting because what’s the point?), and you have officially given up all hope of seeing the sun ever again. You are no longer even slightly amused by your son’s puddle antics. You have checked flights to Arizona and Southern California (just to see) and scroll through your camera roll in the hopes of catching a glimpse of yourself in a T-shirt. Maybe you even have a tan. . . But don’t despair, soggy reader! It’s time for you to hit the ski trail!
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Only 2.5 months have gone by since the Labor Day vacation that is sure to go down in Menaul Family History as the Camping Trip That Broke Us. If I start banging my head against the laptop while writing this, I’ll know I need more time to elapse before tackling this post. To maintain distance from the events of the weekend, I shall write this post in the 3rd person.
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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.”
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I was 2 months pregnant and camping with Travis at Yosemite National Park. We were about to go to bed, and I was extinguishing our fire with a bucket of water. I hoisted the full bucket over the fire and, remembering our midwives’ warning against lifting heavy objects, I said, “Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this.” To which Travis, without missing a beat, replied: “What would Sacajawea do?”
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If you’re reading this post, you want to spend the night at a campground with your infant. Hooray! Read on to find out what worked for us when Levi was a wee little babe.
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