Turning My Tent Upside-Down: A Lesson in Camping with Kids

Some families do Disney. Some do Hilton Head or Daytona Beach. Others jet across an ocean because they have the funds (bless them, oh Lord, for I am jealous). Then there are families that camp.

Camping is not for everyone. Sometimes it's a harrowing experience with more dirt and bugs than you can shake a stick at. Other times you walk into a deluge meant only for Noah. Laying on the ground isn't for everyone. But for some, it is the piece de resistance. My childhood was full of that resistance. 

There were multiple summers where we packed our Honda Civic wagon to the ceiling and drove across the country, camping the whole way. A cooler wedged in the middle of the back seat was the only thing separating my sister from myself. But the cooler was narrower than my arm, so it was useless in stopping any fights that involved hitting, poking, or pinching.

Most mornings we would pack up camp and drive for 8-10 hours, only to stop by dinner time and set up camp again. Everything in the car had a place, that had a smaller place in which the place would be set in order to make room for the next place. There was order to the order and it was beautiful. I credit it all to my dad, but I'm sure mom helped. (I love you mom. You make great sandwiches.) We rolled our clothing into tiny cylinders so that we could squeeze as many outfits as possible into the small duffle bags that held our lives for more than a month. Dinners were cooked over a Coleman stove, and lunches were always packed in the morning for quick an easy disbursement at noon. A well-oiled machine people. Clockwork.

It may not sound super appealing to you, but the memory of these trips has reached sainthood in my mind. And so, with that tucked away in my adolescent brain, I grew up and had children of my own. And what better thing to do with five children than go camping? Stay home, you say? Not a chance.

Planning- a.k.a. the part where you are blissfully unaware of reality

Seeing as how I was a child when I was little, I didn't really have an insiders view of the preparations for camping. I saw the results, but not the process that led up to it. With that skewed vision in mind, I began to plan our Grand Memorial Day Camping Adventure. I made lists. I love them, and they make me inexplicably happy. Kind of like straight lines in mown grass. Lists of food. Lists of things to do. Lists of super important, don't you dare forget this because this is the most essential item when camping, kinds of things. 

                           

Packing- a.k.a. the part where you realize just how much your lists have on them

There are seven people in our family. That is a lot of sleeping bags. Two tents. A lot of pillows. It is a lot of shirts, shorts, towels, underwear, teddy-bears, toothbrushes and diapers. When we bought our wonderful mini-van, we did not think ahead like smart people do, and got a not-so-grand caravan. That means that the packing space in the trunk is deep enough for a grocery bag. Maybe a couple of raisins. 

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Once we were squeezed into our spaces like toothpaste, we made the trek across the state to the campground. Our site was directly across from the playground. Thank you, Lord, and Amen. The kids played in the sandy Michigan dirt while Adam set up camp. Dinner was late and crazy. Ramen with veggies. And all of a sudden it was dark, so off to sleep we went. 

Just kidding. Adam in one tent with four children, and me in the other with the one that cries and wakes up an average of 5 times a night. No sleep.

Breakfast- a.k.a. the meal that should inspire a camper to climb mountains, or at least trade legos

Bacon. Eggs. Poptarts.

Two parts iconic, one part reality.

Oh, and coffee. (See, "no sleep" above)

We spent the next two days boating, fishing, swimming. All on whims. No plans, just wake up and be. 

It. Messed. With. My. Head.

What about my lists?

What about the meal planning that I did?

How is this going to be EPIC if it doesn't go like I planned?

The moment of truth came our third night there. I had packed our super awesome ice cream making balls, and all the pre-measured ingredients in little zip-loc baggies to make some deliciousness. While the kids were boating/playing/fishing, I got them set up. Salt and ice in one end, and cream and sugar in the other. The time comes to roll the balls and there is not a child to be found. I spy one across the playground. Even before he's in earshot he starts yelling a question about going to play a game. He can clearly see the big red ice cream balls under my arms. He does not want to do the quintessential camp thing that I planned. He wants to play. 

No.

But mom, can't I just go play and then come back when it's ready?

No.

Seriously?

No. If you go play now, you will come back and watch us eat ice cream. And I will eat it slowly and make lots of good food noises so that you are certain to regret your decision to go have fun and leave me with all the work. Shake. A. Ball.

(Somewhere in my planning, I forgot to check how long the process takes. Fatal mistake.) 

Mom, is the ice cream ready yet?

No.

How long does it take?

It takes...as long...as it takes!

How long is that?

*flames...on the side of my face*

In the end, I sent them all off to play while I finished making what ended up being sweet cream shakes. When they came back to enjoy the fruit of my labor, the baby was eating dirt, the mosquitoes were attacking, and the mountain of camping dishes to be done before bed was literally falling off the picnic table. At some point, Adam disappeared into the van for three minutes...just to sit...away from the insanity. 

Darkness could not fall soon enough.

As I lay in my sleeping bag, cursing myself and regretting the crazy rabid mama that I had become that evening, I began to think a bit more about the perfection that I had failed to achieve. My memories of camping as a child are so gilded and perfect. I don't know what work went into creating those memories. I don't know if my parents were stressed out trying to do that with us. I don't even know if the memories that I have are fully accurate. I may have created things just to match the emotional euphoria that is etched in my heart from those trips. 

But looking back, it wasn't the meals or the detailed planning that made me love those trips. It was the moments. Snapshots in time. Family intimacy in God's great big beautiful creation. Bugs and all. 

My kids had spent the weekend wallowing in each of those delicious snapshots. Writing those memories into their little souls as beautiful, fun and good. They were seizing the day while I was worrying about planning for the next great memory. 

*face palm*

It really was an absolutely, fantastic weekend. And in spite of my obsessive tendencies, the kids deemed it the best. weekend. ever. Adam and I came out alive, and know for certain that we'll do it again.

 In fact, we've already started planning... 

Singin' in the Rain

There's been a good amount of rain lately. Not so much to make things flood, but enough to give the grass that beautiful deep green that only comes from binge drinking. It means we have to mow again, but I'll take walking perpetual lines in my yard over brown and dreary any day.

Late last week, after driving home through a torrential downpour, we parked the van in the garage and the kids literally refused to go inside. When they were younger, they would inch their way into a situation like this. At first they would beg to watch the rain, then they would ask to get an umbrella and walk around the yard, then they would tentatively stretch their hands out to catch a few drops (watching me to see if I noticed their deviance). Finally, they would look at me with their puppy dog eyes and beg to run around. The umbrella would be relegated to the grass and they would test the water, so to speak.

This day was different. Maybe they've changed...grown a bit. Maybe they've just begun to understand my parenting style a little more and know that sometimes it's best just to ask for the whole cake, instead of one piece at a time. Not sure, honestly. But they leapt out of that van and surrounded me, jittery in their excitement. 

"Mom, can we?"

They dove right in. 

No small steps, just a plunge. 

Outright, into the glory of the weather.

Soaking the rain down into their little souls

Dancing without abandon as cars drove by...

Thunder and lightening drove them inside for a while. One pile of wet clothing in the laundry room, three dry children with fresh digs. 

And then the thunder stopped.

Round 2.

Less water, more earth, but whatever.

I suppose you can't be picky when you're that awesome...

Like I said.  Awesome.

If I were one to write memes, this one would say:

"We don't always get this messy. But when we do, we make sure mom will have to wash our clothing three times to get all the mud out. And we'll leave it all by the back door, because we couldn't possibly carry it any further after having so much fun."

But I'll take it. Because someday -when their children are begging them to play in the rain- they'll remember that I let them do it. In that moment of nostalgic weakness, they'll say yes to their precious kids...and that pile of wet clothing will be their reward. *maniacal laugh*

Anger Mis-management

My mind has been very preoccupied lately. So many different parts of my life are flying in as many directions, and I often find it difficult to be "in the moment". This is a dangerous place to be when five small children are constantly running circles around my ankles and asking questions about life and their pursuit of a mid-morning snack.

Needless to say, it hasn't gone very well.

Take today, for instance. All day I was sitting on pins waiting for a call from our loan officer. The appraisal for our hopeful house was supposed to come back today, and it was ALL I COULD THINK ABOUT. The kids would come up, be completely in my face, and I wouldn't even see them there. I would hear my name being called, as if from far far away in a distant Narnia land, only to realize that their nose was touching mine and they were screaming. Bloody, evil screaming.

So I screamed back.

Bloody, evil, Mommy screaming. Ugh.

Case in Point:

While trying to explain a math problem to one of the older boys today, the younger one piped up with the answer. I asked him to wait so that I could finish my sentence. And he kept talking. No pause, nothing...just kept going. As if the words coming out of his mouth had to be expelled before he could breathe. It was infuriating. After shushing him three times to no avail, I lost it. I started to make this terrible noise. Like the one they teach you to do when you're being attacked. Not a high pitch scream, but a guttural, loud, annoying air horn type of sound. One that might just make you pee your pants if you're 6 years old and sitting at the dining room table trying to do your math.

And this was not a singular sensation today. Granted, I didn't pull out my victim scream again...but seriously, every time that I felt crossed or disrespected or ignored or inconvenienced, the volume of my voice would jump. IMMEDIATELY. No questions asked, just yell.

By 4pm I was certain that all was lost. I just knew that the appraisal would come in low and that we would have to walk away from the house we wanted...that my children would grow up knowing only one form of communication defined by its excessive volume, and that they would need therapy in order to survive...I knew that I couldn't do any of this well enough, not school, not child rearing, not wifery, not housekeeping, nothing. And it was only 4pm, so I just couldn't justify that glass of wine.

*sigh*

There are some days that are just like that. ^

Sometimes things are beautiful, and my children listen and I can just feel God working through me to raise my children. Then there are others where it's lost before 8am and the desire to hide in my bathroom behind locked doors is so intense that I can not resist the fleeting respite, and I sit on the pot with my face in my hands and choose to breathe through the din of the banging on the door.

It's on days like today that I am so thankful for tomorrow.

When my 6 year old wakes up tomorrow, he will look at me with fresh eyes. He will see his mama. His strong, beautiful, morning coffee breath mama, and he will curl up in my arms as if there was never an evil bloody screaming match over a math answer. He will reach up and twist my pony tail and tell me he loves me because, like the God that made him, his mercy for me is new every morning.

hallelujah.

All Grown Up

The other day, I had to take one of the boys in to have a tooth pulled. He's a brave fellow. Always. As my little guy settled down in the chair, knowing exactly what was coming, the dentist looked over at me and handed me the papers to sign so that he could go ahead with his work. Then he said, "Mom, do I have your permission to go ahead and do this?"

In that split second, I felt like the world around me was moving in fast forward. Life in motion, me sitting still. Moments like these bring to the forefront of my mind the glaring reality that I am a grown-up. Some educated dude I had just met was asking me if it was okay to poke and prod and yank at a child's mouth, removing a tooth and cutting up some gums. Asking me! How in the world did I get here? How is it that I hold the weight of that decision -and so many others- in my hands?

Times like these (which happen more often than I should probably admit) make me feel emotionally naked. I fear that the person I'm talking with can see into my soul and is chuckling to themselves, "Look at her, a kid pretending to be an adult! Who let her in?"

I know it didn't happen all at once. Little by little, adulthood grows on you. Some of us start earlier than others, with it thrust upon us when we are yet children through the circumstances of our young lives. Some of us fight it into our 40's. But eventually, whether we like it or not, we grow up.

We pay bills. We stress about committees. We do yard work. We tie the knot. We have kids. We get used to our hands being puked in or pooped on. We have cats. We suck it up and dig the hairballs out of the drains. We deal with the IRS...

Other than the whole cat thing, I've done all of that.

My husband and I have been married for over a decade, and have five children. I would say that we certainly qualify as grown-ups. Yet with the birth of each child, I kept telling myself that I didn't feel grown up. Maybe I'll feel it when we finally buy a house, I surmised. That's what adults do. They buy houses.

So here we are, wading through the paperwork to close on a house.

Do I feel any more grown-up? Nope.
Stressed out? Yep.

Maybe it's synonymous. Stressed Out = Grown Up

I certainly hope not, because if that's the case, hypertension is in my near future, and my fingernails will be a thing of the past. My children will grow up to hate me and eventually refuse to grow up themselves for fear of becoming as stressed as their mother, therefore causing me more stress and creating a vicious cycle and some seriously daunting therapy bills. I can see it all, and it isn't pretty.

Okay, rewind. What I said before, about that feeling in the dentist office...am I the only one? Do you ever get that feeling when you're in the middle of big decisions, or even everyday life? Can you feel your 10 year old self, still tangibly present inside you, and it seems to be more who you are than the grown-up that the world thinks you've become?

I look back at my childhood and wonder if my parents, and parents of friends, and Sunday school teachers, and elementary school teachers, and all those people that seemed so very big and important at that time... Did they feel that way? Did they look in the mirror at the end of the day and wonder what they were doing, and how they ended up being responsible for so much?

I have to assume that the answer is yes. *If you disagree with me here, and have never experienced this phenomenon, you are not allowed to tell me. I do not want to know. Shh. Seriously. Shhh. *

When I wake up in the morning, five small people need me. FIVE. That's still such an unreal, crazy number. Five persons who need me to feed them. Teach them. Discipline and guide them. Every thing that I do is sopped up by their little brains and turned into stock photos of what a grown up looks like. I am their main reference for "functional adult human being".

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

So, yes. Obviously, a grown-up.

I was thinking though, that it's probably good to keep a bit of that 10 year old around. Me, back then -though thoroughly confused by the world- hadn't yet crossed the threshold into a place of false pretenses and self-importance. There was still imagination and wonder, a willingness to receive correction and an understanding that I didn't know much of anything. That's the beauty of being only a decade out of the womb: you're free to be real about knowing so little, and therefore, free to learn faster and ask more questions without fear of reproach.

Imagination - Humility - Fearlessness

None of those qualities seem like a poor lot to keep in your back pocket.  That and maybe some jacks, your lunch money, and a sparkly gel pen...for signing really important documents.

This is my Brain on Blog {a writer's self portrait}

So apparently this "blogger selfie" is making it's rounds in the blogging world. I have been tagged by my wonderful friend, Lydia. I have known her for a little over a year. Though we live in the same town and both attend the same home school co-op, I think I have learned far more about her through her blogging than through actual conversations. Small children running in circles and screaming cut us short every time. But that's okay...she puts her heart right out there in her writing, and I absolutely love what she brings forward with her thoughts. All that, and six kids before her 30th birthday. Amazing.

Okay. Four questions. Ready. Go.

1. What are you working on?

Right now? I'm trying desperately just to keep up with a blog. I have so many grand ideas, like children's books and inspirational books for moms and books to hold up the other books on your shelf. But -to be honest with myself- I can barely keep up with blogging once a week. So, for now, this is as far as it goes. Someday, when I'm no longer teaching all my children how to read books, maybe I could write one. We'll see.

2. What makes your work different from others' work in the same genre?

I'd like to think there's something very distinctive about my writing. But I also realize I'd probably be lying if I tried to sell you my wares on the merit of their uniqueness. Instead I will blame it on my strange combination of personal qualities (an Ohioan, turned Kentucky hillbilly, trained vocalist/conductor, super-stellar wife, mother of the crazy five, homeschooling because she thinks its right -for us, for now, and all that wrapped up in self-deprecating humor). Okay, maybe not that strange, but I certainly feel weird most of the time.

3. Why do you write what you do?

I thought briefly about writing on vampires and other strange things in this blog. Only briefly, mind you, because Edward and Bella have already been done -to the dire sadness of us all. So I left that one alone. Instead I took the advice of Professor Friedrich Bhaer who spoke truth to Jo March when he said: "You must write from life, from the depths of your soul!" (A big shout out to Louisa May Alcott for creating a character that we all wanted to marry. *sigh*) Anyway... I write what I know. Currently I know a heckuvalot about dirty diapers and sibling conflict. A little bit about raising kids so you actually want to keep them, and only a tad bit more about making marriage work for the benefit of both parties. So there's lots of stuff in my blog about falling down and getting back up, about grace and forgiveness and breathing room, and finding joy and contentment in the middle of poop. 'Cause that's where I live.

4. How does your writing process work?

Every night, when the minions go to bed, I tell myself that it is time to write. This is an inspirational lie. Good intentions, bad follow through. Most nights I close the kids doors, change into my Barney purple robe and shuffle downstairs to find the ever-hidden tv remote. If the search is successful, myself and the hubby sit down to at least 22 minutes of childless entertainment. This often also includes the consumption of anything sweet that we can find.

On the rare evening where my brain hasn't atrophied before 9pm, I sit down with purpose and start writing. I keep a thesaurus tab open all the time. That's right, folks. I'm a cheater/bilk/trickster/diddler/grifter. You pick. But I also really love great words and get really geeked out when I can turn a good phrase. I also have 13 drafts sitting in my blog list right now. Ideas come half formed and stay that way for a month or so until one day, they start to unfold into something real.  That's pretty awesome, too. Something out of nothing.

Usually, about 24 hours later I'm satisfied with my work. Then I read it three more times and wonder if I've offended anyone and worry that people will hate my sense of humor or verbosity. I worry about those things. Some people write for themselves. Yes, I do. But no, not really. If I were writing for myself, I would do it in my journal, not on a blog. So I care what you all think, and I worry about that for at least three minutes before I hit the publish button.

Then it starts all over again.

*Now for the real fun*

First I'd love for you to meet my sister.  She's a seasoned blogger that crafts her words perfectly, and is such a joy to keep up with. She has an amazing sense of style -apparent in her clothing choices, decorative ventures and homemade gifts...all of which she includes in her blog. Go! Be crafty! You know you want to. :)

Second, I want you to meet my best friend from high school, Debby. She is a painter, and the mother of three wonderful little people who run around while she paints. I am amazed at her bravery to keep something oil based in the same house with small, curious hands. And yet, she is able to produce wonderful work and her children appear completely normal and awesome with no paint on them, whatsoever. Go figure. Amazed.