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... 

Eating Words

A few years ago, my sister gave our kids a book called "The Incredible Book Eating Boy".  It's a fantastic, adorable story about a little guy who eats books instead of food, and discovers...well, you should really just read it. *wink*  Anyhoo, he eats books.  Lots of books.

(The Incredible Book Eating Boy, by Oliver Jeffers)

Lately, I've been thinking about eating words.  

The other day at our home school co-op, I had a meandering discussion with a few other moms.  As our babies crawled around the floor or slept in our arms, we talked about our other children and their shenanigans. Someone mentioned the fact that two of her children -put together- might wear a whole outfit around the house: one in just pants, and the other in just a shirt...and she could care less. (We all giggled and nodded agreement.)  Then we proceeded to discuss the joys of getting and keeping children neatly dressed, and how all of us have given up the struggle.  It's just not a battle worth fighting. 

"Before I had kids," said me, "I used to see people out and about with their bedraggled children and think to myself, 'I will NEVER let my kids out of the house looking like that!'  And now...my only requirement is that they pick clothing without noticeable holes."

Those words from my youth have been chewed and swallowed.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that they are fully digested by now.

I think we're all aware that the certainty of our youth slowly disappears as we age and experience life. However, during each phase we tend to come to the conclusion that we are SO much wiser than we were before.  We risk superlatives in our speech and let loose our judgement on generations that are not yet our own, and condemn thoughts and actions that we couldn't possibly understand from our limited vantage point.

In elementary school, I worked pretty hard to be the best.  I was really well behaved, I did all my projects all the way, read extra books, kept my desk extra special neat and tidy, and loooooved my teacher.  Mrs. Haught was so awesome, and I made sure that she knew that.  I was also pretty sure I was her pet, even if I wasn't. But...next to my amazingly clean desk, donned in "thank you" cards and glory, was the desk of a messy little boy.

His space was catastrophic.  Papers were lost for months, and pencils held captive beneath the bedlam that occupied the belly of his school desk.  One day he couldn't find a worksheet, and I volunteered to stay in with him at recess to help him clean out the desk and find it.  This was not an act of mercy. It was the ploy of one who was unsatisfied with the way her neighbor's space was negatively effecting the property value of her own. I remember telling my mother after school that afternoon that I would never let my things be that messy. Never.

*gulp* Moving on...

see? peaceful sisters.

My childhood home was one of peace and order. My dad loves to clean (or was just trained to like it by his mother), and both parents are quiet(ish) people. Two kids, both girls.  That's all. We had the occasional sister fights, but in general, things were silent and there was no risk of bodily harm.  Potty humor was confined to the bathroom. Literally. And most importantly, there was nothing gross. 

This same boy that challenged my notion of proper desk etiquette also blew me away with his uncanny ability to be a lethal combination of crazy, gross, and extra special crazy.  He wasn't the only boy who did this to me, since -because I had no brothers- I had no concept of what little boys were supposed to be like. I only knew that this dude was nuts.  He was able to fart, talk about poop, pick his nose, make fun of girls, and break school rules all in one sentence. I vowed I would NEVER share a space with someone so hideous as him. Eww. Never.

That, folks, is my wonderful third child. (Be sure to turn on the sound to get the full effect.)

-Words eaten.-

Last night, he did that^ for 10 straight minutes while my husband and I laughed until we cried.  I have not only eaten my words, they actually tasted good going down. I am amazed, and slightly jealous of his armpit farting ability. Wow.

In high school, I knew everything. And by everything, I mean that the emotional universe and understanding of life and its purpose were completely within my grasp.  You could tell me nothing new, unless you were also in high school and possessed the same innate understanding of existence...in which case, you were permitted to speak. I'm pretty sure that I don't have room to write all the words I've eaten from that period of my life. Some of my assumptions were more embarrassing than others, but the ones I regret the most were my conclusions about other people and their actions.  

I would never act like her. 

I would never date a guy like that. 

I will never want to be around my parents.

College was a whole new realm of misunderstanding. For the first time in my life, I felt pretty stupid. The liberal arts education tore me down to a basic scaffolding of thought and rebuilt me in a manner that suited an atmosphere of learning with an open mind. This sounds like a good thing.  It pulled many of my assumptions out of their holes by their underwear. After much kicking and screaming, they gave up the fight and were eaten, only to be replaced with more postulations of a very different kind. 

I won't be dependent upon anyone.

I don't need God.

My abilities will carry me through life.

High intelligence is superior to all other things.

Following your desires is a good thing, no matter which direction they lead.

Eaten... every last one.

Since then, with marriage, child bearing, child rearing, and life in general, I've had my fair share of misguided superlatives:

I will follow a career path in music.

I couldn't possibly be a stay at home mom.

I will never have an epidural during childbirth.

I will never turn into my mother.

Homeschooling is ridiculous, and only weird people do it.

I will never use cloth diapers.

I will always make my baby food from scratch.

I will never give my children sugar.

I will never use disposable diapers again.

McDonalds is off the menu.

It goes on and on, back and forth. Over and over I speak something, only to realize down the road that -though that may have been true for that moment in time- it was not an eternal truth. 

There are some words that I never intend to eat. I will always love my children (even when I disagree with their choices or actions). I will never leave my husband except in death. I love and follow a great God that hasn't abandoned me, even when I've been severely misguided in my assumptions, and never will.

Everything else? Well, I've decided that from now on, I will do my best to make statements that don't preclude my need to change, learn and grow. I'm certainly wiser than I was a decade ago, but (God willing) I have so many of those left to live. I sincerely hope that 20 years from now, I'll look back at my 33 yr old self and chuckle at the foolishness and misguided thoughts. But between now and then, I have no doubt that I'll be feasting on my own words, and getting full on the goodness -and craziness- of life lived into wisdom.