Hotel Camping

We are not camping people.  My husband and I, once when we were younger, took a 4 day camping trip into the Boundary Waters of Minnesota.  It was hard core.  Pack in, pack out.  We had to portage our canoe ridiculous distances, and tie up our stuff during the night so that bears couldn't get at it.  Bears. And mosquitos, which, in northern Minnesota, are difficult to distinguish from the bears. After the first night, the safety mechanism on our cookstove slipped, and we were unable to figure this out for the remainder of the trip, since we pretty much had zilch camping experience between the two of us.  Which meant granola bars and PB&J for the next 3 days, while we looked longingly at our dried rations.  We got used to drinking the tablet-treated lakewater, sort of.  I mean, do you ever get used to drinking brown water with sediment?  I still remember that first glass of ice cold clear water that we had once we straggled in. It was like nectar. We survived, and actually had a good time, but I think we were a little traumatized. So that was our last camping experience, no kids, about 12 years ago.

If you look closely, you can actually see the mosquitos lurking in the foliage.
www.moshannonfalls.com

The thing is, I've come to realize that what I really enjoy is hotel camping.  Especially in nice hotels. Since my husband earns hotel points from his business travel, I have roughed it in more than my fair share of really nice hotel "campgrounds." Clean water. Generous shower. Pool.  Wi-fi. Workout room. Clean crisp sheets, without little toys or binkies or food particles lurking underneath the blankets.

The Heavenly Bed.  It's exponentially more comfortable than a sleeping bag.
I'm surprised they don't use this in their ad copy, actually.

The kids also love hotel camping, which was why I was a little surprised when my son started bugging us about taking them wilderness camping.  It started in the middle of an otherwise uneventful dinner.

Michael: Daddy when are you going to take us camping?  Because you said that when Allison was old enough, we could go. And now she's old enough, but we have the twins.

Daddy: That's right, son.  And when the twins are old enough, we are going to have another baby (this comment made me throw up in my mouth a little bit).  And we're just going to keep on having babies so that we never have to take you camping.

Allison (listening intently, blurts): Daddy!  You can't have any more babies!  You had your balls chopped!

Allison, roughing it on one of our wilderness hotel camping adventures.

She had him there.  I'm not sure how she heard about my husband's vasectomy, or how she connected it with having babies.  We haven't had any sort of talk along those lines with her, but she does have an extremely knowledgeable older brother who loves to dispense his font of information to others.  I can't totally control that.  At any rate, I remember responding to her comment by looking off to the side and suddenly deciding to chew my food very deliberately.  It was important that I didn't make eye contact with my husband, as that would have put one or both of us at high risk of choking on our food.

This conversation happened many months ago, and since then, I've had this nagging guilty feeling that we really should take the kids camping so that they can experience Nature in all Her Glory.  I don't know why I feel this way- it's not like my parents ever took us camping when we were little.  I guess because the Northwest has such beautiful campsites and protected areas. And what could be more fun than camping with four kids, two of whom are toddlers and still in diapers. So against my better judgement, we now have a 10 person tent, sleeping bags for the kids, and a plan for the summer.  It's cheaper than a few nights of hotel camping, I suppose.  So that's it, we're going camping sometime this summer.  In the wilderness. Where there could be bears and mosquitos. Stay tuned.  Wish us luck.

         
    

     

Illicit Brownie Breath

One night months ago, I had made brownies for dessert.  By morning, there was still half a pan left, including one lonesome corner piece.  It called out to me as I was walking past the corner.  I was running late for work, and didn't have time to grab breakfast.  Assume that you are a human being.  You're late, you're hungry, you've got a long day ahead of you, and there is a brownie sitting right there.  Not just any brownie.  A Ghirardelli Chocolate Triple Chocolate Semi-Sweet Milk, Bittersweet Brownie. Carbs- check. Fat- check. Protein- is there an egg in it? Yes. Check and checkmate for the balanced diet. What would you do? Would you skip the most important meal of the day and walk right past? Yeah, I didn't think so. These magical brownies will hop right in your mouth if you try to ignore them.  That's how good they are. Of course I shoved one in my mouth.

Resistance is futile.

And then I heard a small voice from upstairs, "Mommy?  Are you leaving now? Can I have a hug goodbye?"  See, if I had been more organized that morning, I would have already been out the door. Of course, normally I want to hug and kiss my kids goodbye, but when your mouth is full of illicit brownie, you have to start thinking fast.  I tried to keep my mouth closed when I hugged her, and I kissed her as close to her ear as possible.  Apparently, she has olfactory receptors in her ears, because those little words that I was dreading spilled out as she pulled back to inspect my face. "Mommy. Why do I smell chocolate?"

Mom, you are so busted.

All those mini-lectures on eating your veggies and finishing your meal before having dessert (I like to have my kids associate reward and punishment with food so that they will become normal Americans and fit right into society.)-- wasted.  I had, like all other parents in the history of the world, been spouting pure drivel.  I now had no street cred and no leg to stand on.

Possible replies raced through my head, including

• Honey, I don't smell any chocolate. You must be imagining things.
• When you're a grown-up, you can eat brownies for breakfast, too.
• I ate 3 carrots and half a head of broccoli for breakfast. This is my dessert.
• Sweetie, I was in a hurry and I ate a brownie for breakfast. It's something I should not have done.

Here's the part where I leave the audience hanging, because in my panicked state, I actually can't remember what I blurted out.  I am 85% sure that I told her I didn't smell any chocolate, because instead of a clear memory, all I have is vague feelings of guilt not associated with the actual consumption of the brownie, which as I mentioned, was in fact, when you think about it, a healthy, balanced breakfast.  Fortunately, she must have been a little too groggy because I seem to have gotten away with it.  I learned my lesson, though. Since then, I am very careful when I sneak illicit food.  Mainly, I wait until they go to bed, or eat the brownie in the car while I'm driving to work.  I figure I still have some time to clean up all the brownie and cookie crumbs before they start asking to borrow the car.

Ponytails and Bad Boys

My little Allison for some reason is allergic to hair accessories.  After bargaining with her, I can usually get her to wear a barrette or ponytail holder for a few minutes, but within seconds, she takes it out.  She loves to do this in the car, and the backseat has hundreds of little clips and hair-ties all over the place.  This would all be fine, except that her hair is often in her face, which of course drives me crazy.  At dinner, she gets various food sauce like ranch dressing in it, and it gets sticky and matted.  After weekend breakfasts, she reliably smells like maple syrup.

Hair accessories would help her avoid
the dreaded unibrow look. 

I have fought battles with her on her hair accessories, threatening to cut off all her hair so we don't have to worry about it.  I've suggested bangs.  I carry extra ponytail holders in my purse, and we have spares in every room of the house. What I've come to realize is that it's probably not about the hair, really.  I'm told that in a few years, she's going to want to dye a purple streak or something, and I may have to be okay with this.  It's ironic, because I certainly had my share of weird haircuts when I went through my rebellion phase.  Actually, it was just one weird asymmetric cut. With a rat-tail, because those were cool back then. I'm sure my parents hated it.

It's about control, and self-expression, and that glimpse into the future.  Already she's "dumped" two boyfriends, and she is not yet 5.  Her first boyfriend, whom she described as a "bad boy, " lost favor because, as she put it, "He has allergies, so I dumped him."  Her second boyfriend, whom my husband described as a "player" because he wore gel in his spiky hair, was always paying more attention to his friends.  So she lost interest in him too. Smart girl.

Alternatively, we could just put her
in a box until she is of age.

All I can do is set a few ground rules and hope for the best.  I tell her she has to work on her brain first.  That includes, or will include, homework, piano, and worksheets.  Exercise and eating healthy is next. Then she has to work on chores and family stuff.  If the president's daughters have to do their own laundry, then she can learn too.  Although I'll probably wait until she's tall enough to see into the washer. Until then, we'll just hope that the boys remain uninterested in her because of her allergies... to hair accessories.

Bedtime for Bonzo

Sometimes my husband and I like to play a little game called "Guess which kid is not sleeping?"  It's a great game, because it's a total crapshoot. It could be anyone of them, and any number of them.  Sometimes we try to guess the percentage of children who are not sleeping.  Knowing their napping habits during the day can help you guess correctly, but other times, there is really no correlation.

The morning, on the other hand, is utterly predicatable. Julia wakes up first, then Michael, followed by Allison, and then slug-a-bed Matthew, who always needs about 1 1/2 hours more sleep per day than his twin sister. That's close to 550 extra hours of sleep per year, assuming this pattern continues.  This boggles my mind, but they're different kids with different sleep requirements, and there's not much we can do about it.
 

Michael.

Don't get me wrong- we have sleep routines, we've comforted them, we let them cry it out. Once they're in bed, we leave them there. Their bedtime is reasonable-- 7:30 for the babies, 8:00 for the olders. Well-meaning people with good sleepers always have suggestions.  I promise you we've either tried it, or it wasn't feasible for us.  If my husband hears people talking about how their babies slept through the night starting at 4 weeks old, he will walk away from the conversation. Our kids just don't really enjoy sleeping- they're worried they might miss something really interesting.  They love to eat, but sleeping is more of a necessity than a pleasure. When Michael was old enough to verbalize his thoughts on naps, he flat out told me, "I don't like sleeping.  It's boring."  I guess I don't really blame him. I don't particularly like sleeping either, although I've come to appreciate it more and more both for myself and others as the years go on, especially the less I get at night.

Allison.

Both Michael and Allison, once they transitioned into their big kid beds, had tons of clever reasons they needed to get out of bed.  We would tuck them in, and like clockwork, we'd hear their feet pitty-pat, pitty pat, and a plaintive little,  "Mommy?  Daddy?.....

       I can't find Bear.

       My blankets aren't covering me very well.
              (As if the blankets are making a conscious decision to be lazy fulfilling their job duties.)

       I need to empty my bladder.

       I need chapstick.  (Do your lips hurt real bad, Napolean Dynamite?)

       I didn't get enough hugs today.  (This one is especially difficult to resist.)

       I'm parched.  (You're parched.) Yes, Mommy.  It means 'thirsty.'

We're used to it by now, and of course it's much easier as the kids get older, but I'm sure the twins will have a whole new list of Reasons to Get Out of Bed.  I've heard that once they get to be teenagers, you can't get them out of bed before noon. I'm skeptical, as I've heard Michael say something to the effect of, "I like to get up early so that I can get my day started." On the other hand, maybe they will.  The thought of four kids all still asleep at 11 am makes me apoplectic. Or maybe narcoleptic.  Or both.

Julia and Matthew.