De-Vacationing

Going on vacation is always fun, but it’s also a lot of work – especially if you’re a bit neurotic, as I am. I have lists of what I’ve packed in the past, what I’m planning on packing now, and what I think I should pack in the future. I have lists of what I need to get, what I already have, and what I don’t need this time. I have lists that are alphabetized, categorized, and color-coded. I spend nearly as much time making lists as I do collecting the stuff that is on them. And I definitely spend more time planning and packing for vacation than I do actually being on vacation. But what really takes up my time when it comes to vacation is not the preparation, nor the vacation itself. It’s the “de-vacationing” that comes after we get home.

The first part of de-vacationing is laundry. Even if a trip was only a quick overnight, my family somehow manages to generate 27 loads of laundry. In fact, whether the trip was overnight or two weeks long, the amount of laundry is roughly the same. It’s like some weird magic vacation physics. And since my family often goes camping for vacation, a large part of that laundry is washing sleeping bags.

I live on the edge when it comes to washing sleeping bags. I used to carefully read the labels and have them dry cleaned, until I noticed that one of our sleeping bags carried a dire warning: “DO NOT DRY CLEAN!!!!” It was in such a threatening font that I decided to give in to that warning and instead ignore the warnings on the other bags that said, sweetly and non-threateningly, “Wash only in a large capacity front-loading commercial grade washer.” Pfft. Ain’t nobody got time for dat. If I can stuff that baby into my washer, then that’s where it’s going. So far, neither the washing machine nor the sleeping bags are any the worse for wear. I do draw the line as throwing them in the dryer, though. I have had the experience of sleeping in a sleeping bag whose stuffing had shifted in the dryer and I will never again subject myself to that. Instead, my back yard is covered with sleeping bags draped over every available surface. At this very moment, there’s one hanging over the fence, another draped over two carefully placed patio chairs, a third hanging over the railing of the pool steps, and a fourth looking like a heavily-padded tablecloth on the picnic table. I spend most of “drying day” praying for no rain.

Another large part of de-vacationing is re-stocking and de-stocking. Our camping supplies include a mix of perishable and non-perishable items, so things like Ziploc baggies, rolls of paper towels, and long matches are re-stocked prior to being packed back away in the attic, and things like pancake mix, Clorox wipes, and batteries are pulled out and added to our daily stores before their boxes are tucked away for another year. Of course, this leads to a complete reorganization and repacking of all the items in every box. There is a complicated system of nesting and tucking items together to maximize use of storage space. (This is where my years of playing Tetris come in handy.) The paper towel roll nests perfectly inside the Dutch chimney, and the space left by that cereal box I just took out can be filled with two boxes of ziplocs and a pack of firestarters. If I do my job correctly, next year these boxes will look like so many clown cars, with many more supplies spilling out than could possibly have been packed in there.

And of course, the final stage of de-vacationing is cleaning out the car. Once the bulk of the boxes and bags have been removed, the process of picking through the detritus begins. Like a gold miner panning in a river, sorting through mud and stones to find a glimpse of gold, I sort through petrified raisins, stale Froot Loops, and empty juice boxes to find miniscule Lego pieces, Matchbox racecars, stuffed animals wedged under seats, and other treasures hidden amidst the chaff. If I could invent a vacuum cleaner that would suck up Cocoa Pebbles while leaving Legos behind, I’d be a millionaire (and the hero of every mom who ever lived).

It may take some time, but at some point after arriving home, the car is clean; the boxes are once again stashed in the attic; the scents of campfire, bug spray, and sunscreen have faded away; the photos have been posted on Facebook; the updated packing lists have been filed; and all that’s left is a few tan lines and a lot of happy memories. We are officially de-vacationed! Hmm, I’d say it’s time to start planning the next vacation. Now, where’d I put that packing list?

Roughing It

When I was a kid, the word “vacation” meant one thing: camping. Every summer, our family spent two weeks at Pawtuckaway State Park in Raymond, NH, in a little pop-up camper. We’d get up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning, Dad would hitch up the camper to our lime green station wagon with the glittery silver side panels, throw my sister and I in the back seat, and off we’d go.

Sometimes we’d stop at Dunkin Donuts for breakfast, which my sister and I considered a special treat just for us, but which in retrospect was probably to get coffee for Mom so she could survive the trip.

Once we arrived at our campsite, my sister and I would run around exploring and gathering kindling, a task which also in retrospect was probably just something to get us out from underfoot while Mom and Dad set up the camper. This suspicion is strengthened by my lack of memory of actually collecting any significant amount of kindling.

My favorite task, however, was the final part of setting up the camper: extending the legs. Our camper had four little pop-down legs that ratcheted down to the ground using a crowbar. Since the camper was old and rusty, the legs took quite a bit of convincing to ratchet. My job was to wait until Dad inserted the crowbar, then to stand on it and jump up and down with all of my 30-pound weight to make it ratchet. (This task served me well when I learned to drive and Dad taught me to use the same trick when changing a flat tire.)

This summer, my husband and I are taking my kids camping at Pawtuckaway for the first time. We don’t have a pop-up trailer, but our kids will get to rough it in a tent. My son’s big task will be to carry water from the spigot. He actually assigned himself this task last year. I got a little choked up seeing this tough little 2-1/2 year old marching proudly off to the spigot with an empty bucket, determinedly figuring out how to turn the spigot on and get the bucket in the right place to fill it without knocking it over, and then carefully walking back to the campsite one tiny step at a time to avoid spilling any of that precious half-full bucket of water. I have no doubt that this year he will have a little blonde shadow as my almost 2 year old daughter runs after him, “helping.”

To me, as an adult, camping is “roughing it.” I’ll be sleeping in a sleeping bag, with no A/C. I’ll be cooking over a fire or on a little propane stove with food from a cooler instead of a fridge. I’ll be using communal bathrooms with cold showers and plenty of spiders to keep me company. I’ll be swimming in a chilly lake instead of my toasty warm pool. I won’t be bothering with (or bothered by) my cell phone or my Kindle Fire or my television set. I’ll be washing my hands with cold water from a jerrican and a bar of soap encrusted with sand and a few bugs. I’ll be brushing my teeth with a manual toothbrush instead of my electric one and drying my hair not with a hair dryer but with a manual method commonly referred to as a towel. I will be lacking my morning coffee entirely. (That would be the roughest part of roughing it.) I like roughing it, but I am always very aware that I am, in fact, roughing it.

To my kids, however, “roughing it” is a synonym for “adventure”! Eating dinner in front of a roaring fire is an adventure. Swimming with fishes zipping past your feet is an adventure. Getting to hold a stick in the fire to cook your own hot dog or toasted marshmallow is an adventure. Chasing fireflies and watching for shooting stars and sitting perfectly still to watch a chipmunk or a raccoon and listening for owls hooting back and forth to each other are all adventures.

 

Somehow, getting to share that adventure with them making roughing it a lot less rough.

 

June 19 Photo: Imperfect

Today’s blog entry itself is imperfect, because I am cheating. I am cheating because I am posting a video instead of a photograph. A photo could not quite do this story justice, so please bear with me.

One of the hardest things for me as a mother is to let my kids do things themselves that they can’t really do yet. For example, my son is learning to put on his own socks, and they often end up either inside out or only half-on with the toes dragging on the floor. But he is so proud that he has done it all by himself that I have to bite my tongue and let his socks be. Or when he helps to wipe off the kitchen table when I’m getting dinner ready, and it ends up even stickier than it was when he started, and I need to force myself to thank him and wait until he’s out of sight to fix it.

If I never let him do anything imperfectly, he’ll never learn to do anything at all. If every time he tries something new, I tell him that he’s doing it wrong, or I fix it for him, he’ll get discouraged and convince himself that he can’t do anything. So we’re both learning to be happy with imperfect for now, and leave learning to do things perfectly until later.

Today I saw a beautiful example of his imperfection. He’d been helping his daddy fill our water jugs at the spigot near our campsite, and today when Daddy asked if he wanted to help get water, he announced that he could do it himself. So my husband laughed a bit to himself, handed him a plastic pitcher, and sent him on his way, expecting to hear a plaintive voice calling, “Um, Dada, can you come help me?” in a minute. But to our surprise, he came back a few minutes later, very solemnly and carefully carrying a pitcher about one-third full of water. We weren’t sure how he’d managed it, so the next time we needed water and he volunteered to get it, Daddy surreptitiously followed him with a video camera. This is the result.

We could have told him he wasn’t big enough to get water by himself yet. We could have told him we needed to help him. We could have told him we needed more water than he could get. But then we would have missed out on seeing that determined expression on his face as he carefully navigated around roots to avoid spilling his precious cargo, and his look of triumph as he handed it over. Sometimes, imperfect is way more than good enough.

June 18 Photo: Something We Don't Know About You

A lot of people don’t know that I love to go camping. Growing up, my family went camping for two weeks every summer at a local campground, and then often took another trip somewhere farther away later in the summer. We had an old Cox pop-up trailer, with two wings that swung outward to make bunks. When I was very small, my parents slept on one bunk and my sister and I slept on the other. When my sister and I were old enough to object to that situation, she took the bunk and I slept on the floor. I’m still not sure why this was such an improvement in my mind, but I do recall that it was.

I remember my mom getting out boxes and lists from the attic. She carefully consulted her menu and packed dry foods in a green wooden box with a sliding top, and perishable foods in a heavy Coleman cooler with an aluminum latch that made a very satisfying CLUNK when you latched it. She had another green wooden box filled with yellow and turquoise plastic mugs, cheap cutlery and serving forks and spoons, and plastic bowls and plates. A large white jerrycan nested inside a white basin that was used for washing dishes and people. Ziploc bags filled with everything from damp washcloths to shampoo bottles to sponges to hot cocoa mix were tucked into the nooks and crannies of each box. And the dark green sleeping bags, one lined with plaid flannel fabric and the other lined with brown flannel fabric printed with flying ducks were carefully aired on the clothesline before being rolled, tied tightly with twine, and crammed into the back of our Plymouth Gran Fury station wagon, which already groaned under the weight of the aluminum Grumman canoe my dad had heaved on top and tied down with bungee cords.

It’s funny the details I still remember some 30 or 35 years later. And it makes me wonder what my own kids will remember years from now. Will they remember that we left them sitting in the minivan watching a DVD to keep them out from underfoot while we set up the tent? Will they remember that we always had a fancy dinner of steak and corn-on-the-cob with wine for the adults the first night of vacation? Will they remember the cool toasting forks with the thumb wheel that we used to toast marshmallows over the fire? Will they remember chasing fireflies after dark, or lying in the tent listening to owls calling, or looking up in the sky on the way to the bathroom at night and seeing a shooting star?

It may look like just a tent to you, but to me, it’s my kids’ memories in the making.

A-Camping We Did Go

For the last 5 days, Herb and Ryan and I went camping and hiking in New Hampshire. As I’ve mentioned before, I grew up camping, so the idea of sleeping in a tent and not having a shower for a few days was not especially daunting. But doing it with an 8-month-old baby changes the experience a bit!

First of all, you have to pack a lot more stuff. Last year when Herb and I did this trip, we managed in one car – stuffed to the gills, yes, but just one car. This year, we took two cars and they were both, well, not exactly stuffed to the gills, but let’s just say it’s a good thing we didn’t need to save room for another passenger. We needed a bigger tent for the three of us, plus we needed to bring the Pack & Play for Ryan to sleep (and hang out) in, his high chair so we could feed him (he’s very wiggly), the big frame pack so he could come hiking with us, plus the usual day-to-day needs: diapers, diaper rash cream, baby wipes, changing pad, formula and bottles, baby food (and spoons and bibs), crib sheets and blankets, baby first aid, toys, spit rags, and of course plenty of changes of clothes. And, being New England, those changes of clothes needed to include appropriate attire for temperatures anywhere from 40 to 100 degrees. (And we did, in fact, cover that whole range in those 5 days!)

Also, your entire schedule of activities needs to be somewhat different. To begin with, you need to figure out where to put the baby while you’re putting up the tent. Letting him play on a blanket on a clear spot on the site often leads to trouble:

Why stay on the blanket when there's so much dirt to explore (and eat)?

Hmmm, wonder what this leaf tastes like?

At least once the tent is up, you can put up the Pack & Play and have somewhere to put him for a nap.

It's a 7-man tent, which means it's just about the right size for two adults and a baby.

Although he is able to nap just about wherever he happens to be.

But don’t let that picture fool you. Ryan loved hiking in Daddy’s backpack! We took several family hikes, hiking from our campground up to the Cannon Mountain Aerial Tram (and then riding the tram up to the peak!) and back, and then hiking the Flume Gorge.

We passed several pairs of rock climbers headed for this rock face, but we never did see anyone actually climbing it.

One of the many huge glacially-deposited boulders along the Flume Gorge.

The lovely Flume Gorge is a lush, cool paradise.

In between those trips, the menfolk did a hike of their own up to the AMC hut at Lonesome Lake. I saw them off as far as the trailhead then walked back to camp and got some R&R while they did some outdoorsy male bonding.

Bye-bye boys, have fun stormin' da castle!

Looks like Ryan wants to dip his toes in the lake!

Checking out the AMC Hut.

But I think the most fun of the whole vacation was in the evenings, when Daddy would build a fire, then light the Dutch chimney to get the coals ready for the hibachi, then he’d make steak, or burgers, or whatever treat we were having that night. Ryan was fascinated by the thick curls of smoke billowing from the Dutch chimney.

Ryan and Mummy both got a kick out of the Dutch chimney.

He loved having his own dinner by the fire.

Yes, that is a glass of wine next to me. “Roughing it” can mean not washing your hair or shaving your legs for a week, but it doesn’t mean you have to live like a savage!

In the end, I think it’s fair to say that we were all very happy campers this week!

I Think We're Gonna Need a Bigger Car

Last summer, Herb and I went camping at Lafayette State Park in NH. It’s a beautiful woodsy spot in the mountains. We set up our tent, cooked on an open fire, and hiked through the mountains. We had such a wonderful time that we decided to do it again this summer. But of course, this summer Ryan is on the outside instead of on the inside, which means a BIG difference in packing.

Traveling with a baby requires a lot of packing. And camping requires a lot of packing. So when you combine the two, we’re talking a LOT of stuff. In fact, I don’t think we’ll be able to fit everything we need into the car. Last summer the car was stuffed to the gills, and this summer we need to also accommodate a car seat, a Pack & Play, a stroller, a framepack for hiking, possibly a high chair, plus Ryan’s clothes, toys, diapers, and food. Plus, we have a bigger tent this year.

You’d think that living in the woods for a few days would be simpler than living at home, and would therefore require less stuff. Your needs are pretty basic, right? Food, shelter, clothes, and not much else. But food requires not only the actual food, but something to cook it in, something to eat it with, and some way to clean up afterwards. So pack the basic foodstuffs: cereal, milk, juice, peanut butter, jelly, bread, burgers and dogs, buns for the burgers and dogs, condiments, soda, and of course graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate (it’s not really camping until you’ve made s’mores, after all). (And will hard-core campers think less of us if we add to that list two filets mignon, fresh summer squash, red bliss potatoes and a bottle of wine for that first dinner? It’s a little tradition of ours.) But of course, a good deal of that needs to be refrigerated, so add in a larger cooler with ice. Then add in paper plates and cups, napkins, plastic cutlery, a few pots and pans, and a camp stove (don’t forget the propane), plus a sharp knife, a spatula, and toasting forks. And then some dish detergent, a basin, a jerrican for hauling water, some sponges, and a dishtowel or two. Oh, and a kettle for heating wash water on the stove. Then comes shelter: a large tent (with fly and partitions), a tarp to put it on, an inflatable air mattress, two sleeping bags, two pillows, and a Pack & Play with its mattress and linens.

And we haven’t even gotten to clothes! You’d think those would be simple, but again, it’s more complicated than it seems at first glance. This being New Hampshire in the summer, you need to plan for all contingencies of weather. Could be 40 degrees, could be over 100. Could be sunny, could be rainy. So you pack shorts, jeans, T-shirts, sweatshirts, a windbreaker, a rain poncho, warm pajamas, cool pajamas, sneakers and socks, hiking shoes, sandals, and a bathing suit (don’t forget the towels). Multiply that by two adults and a baby (who often goes through multiple outfits a day) and there’s another whole carload of stuff right there.

Then of course you have all the other bits and pieces: toothbrushes, hairbrushes, soap and shampoo, first aid kit, paper towels, tinfoil, an extra backpack, cooking spray, salt and pepper, flashlights, a lantern, bug spray, sunscreen, matches, firestarters, citronella candles, a few board games, folding camp chairs, and a crossword puzzle book or two. Luckily, most of that stuff is small and can be crammed into the nooks and crevices between the larger stuff.

But of course, the biggest difficulty is when you’re headed home, and despite the fact that you’ve eaten most of your foodstuffs, thrown away a bunch of paper goods, and used up a lot of your toiletries, everything remaining has magically expanded so it no longer fits in the car. Many families I know upsized to larger cars or even a minivan or an SUV after they had kids, and I pooh-poohed the idea. We can easily manage with our existing cars! But camping might be the one thing that sends us over the edge. Unless of course, we just bring both cars. Hey, that’s not such a bad idea, come to think of it…

Earth, Air, Fire, and Water

It doesn’t get much more basic and primeval than those four elements: earth, air, fire, and water. So last night, when we were sitting by the pool with friends and their baby, smelling the green earthy smell of the garden, watching the smoke curl up into the night sky, warming our feet by the fire pit, and listening to the quiet gurgle of the water, it made me feel such a connection to eons past.

Think about it: for thousands of years, people have survived, and taught their children to survive, with those simple elements. They planted crops in the earth, dug wells to water their gardens, their livestock, and themselves, gazed up at the bright daytime and the dim night sky, and warmed themselves, cooked their food, and staved off marauding animals with fire. How many mothers, like I did last night, have cuddled their children by the warmth of a fire? How many have pointed out the stars in the dark sky to their little ones? How many have cooked dinner over a fire and then offered bits to a baby just learning to eat solid food? How many have splashed their little one’s feet in the water and laughed along with the baby’s delighted laughter?

Being a mother has given me such a sense of connection to the past. Whenever I struggle and whenever I find delight in taking care of my baby, I wonder about all the other mothers over the course of time who must have felt the same way. Mothers living in log cabins on the American frontier must have sighed with exhaustion and relief when their babies finally took a nap and they could do chores unencumbered for an hour or two. Mothers in the Dark Ages must have felt a pang of fear at hearing a baby cough in the middle of the night. Mothers in ancient Israel must have delighted in seeing their babies crawl for the first time. Mothers in prehistoric times must have looked in awe at their sleeping babies and carefully counted each finger and toe. Those feelings are so deep-seated and primal that I’m sure that mothers have been feeling them ever since there have been mothers. I’m sure Eve herself slept lightly, listening to Cain and Abel’s nighttime breathing.

This weekend, when we take Ryan camping in New Hampshire, I know I’ll feel an even stronger connection to mothers of the past. Mothers who never had a solid roof over their heads. Mothers who never had refrigeration for baby bottles or microwaves for baby food. Mothers whose only source of heat was a fire of burning logs. Mothers who tramped through the woods carrying their babies every day as a matter of course.

I’m just glad that I won’t be having any direct experiences to share with all the mothers who never had the convenience of modern diapers, or baby wipes, or pre-packaged baby food, or even portable cribs. I love connecting with the past, but I do have my limits!