Into the Wild

Because all my vacation memories as a child involve a tent, canoe, or Taurus station wagon, camping and nature are high priorities for me as an adult. In what is now the lil' dude's third summer, we have camped three years in a row, but this year was the first time alone as a family.



We bought a brand-new tent for this adventure, a big improvement on the square four-man tent we've used in the past because Mama + lil' dude in the middle, sleeping at an angle + Daddy + Beagle at the bottom, sleeping at an angle = bad camping math, in my opinion! Besides, I told the Dad, the purchase was warranted because every child loves playing in the tent the most, I wanted her to have the room she needed to create the space of her imagination.



We could have done without the raging thunderstorm Saturday night, which held the threat of flash floods, tornadoes, giant hail, 60mph winds, and overall treachery ... but that's part of the memory, anyways. As we huddled with various other campers in the dark, powerless men's bathroom, the lil' dude plastered to my chest, wrapped in NaNa and sleeping soundly ... I really, really felt like a Mom. It's like saying you'd run through fire for your child; well, I sat on a toilet in the dark, in the men's bathroom of a public campground ... for my child. You get the picture. The little girl's bravery and curiosity never wavered once she woke up, and she won the hearts of everyone around her, per usual.



When we figured the worst was beyond us, we ventured back to our tent, still intact, my nerves calming down. As we readied our girl for bed once again, she inquired about her plastic bugs, toys she thought she left in the rain. Where are my bugs? Are they OK? was all she wanted to know before we shut off the lantern. While I assured her they were tucked away safely in the truck, she had one more message before sleep:

Mama, don't be afraid of the rain.
It's OK.

I won't baby girl, I'll never be afraid of the rain again.

Hot

The first few nights of your life, you slept like the average newborn does: not so much.
On the fifth night ... on the fifth night you slept like the average college student does: all the time.

Coupled with good genes and the ultimate sleeping ensemble, you were dressed in a onesie, sleeping gown, fuzzy sleep sack, socks up to your knees, mittens, a hat, and two swaddling blankets. Back then, you craved the heat. The hotter, the better. When you'd fall asleep on Daddy's chest and snooze for hours, both of you would end up drenched; the hair on the back of your head sopping wet with sweet little baby sweat.

You're warm-blooded, to say the least.

Even now, with the AC on, a fan blowing on you, a thin sheet covering you, and summer pj's on, you fall asleep and you're sweaty within minutes. When I wake you one last time to go potty at night, I cautiously do the hand creep under your covers to see if you've had an accident ... you haven't.

You're just lying in a pile of your own sweat!

But don't worry, it's like Lou Holtz said, 'no one has ever drowned in sweat'.

Letter from Mama, v31

As I was falling asleep last night, I was thinking about your birthday party, which is only five months away. I don't even have to say how unfathomable it is that by Christmas, I'll have a three year old. I don't have to say that, because everyone knows. By then, you'll be old enough for solo swimming lessons, preschool, and Sunday School at church. Up until this very point in your life, you've exerted a strong sense of independence and will. You've always wanted to do things by yourself and on your own. Lately, I've been witnessing some regression on your part though; you're asking for more and more help regarding the things you've always done for yourself. Feeding yourself, getting dressed, getting up and down from chairs, bringing toys out from your room. I remind you that while yes, you can do these things for yourself, there is no harm in asking someone for help. I want you to be enabled to do everything for yourself, and on your own terms, as well as ask for and appreciate help as warranted. It's a fine line you'll learn to walk.

You remain the bright, sunny child you've always been. You have all your teeth now, even those last four molars that wreaked havoc on you. We're three weeks on this side of potty training, and you'll be wearing underwear for the rest of your life. Your bangs are long enough to tuck behind your ears, finally eliminating the need for a barrette or hair clip. You've been 29 pounds for months, but all your jeans from winter and spring are too short. You still thrive under structure and routine, you still hop in bed each night without a fuss, and stay there until I have to coax your warm, fuzzy body from sleep each morning. You're still the light that shines on both Daddy and I, day after day. You're the same baby we brought home from the hospital, all eyes and calm and the greatest blessing bestowed upon your people.

Shine like the sun, little girl.
Mama loves.

Misery Loves Company

Oh, lil' dude. Bless you and your empathetic little heart yet again.

The Beagle is notorious for his sensitive ears. He hates loud noises- sirens, guns, thunder, motorcycles, tornado warnings, firecrackers, smoke detectors, shampoo dropped in the shower ... he's very sensitive to noise.

Especially fireworks.

There was that one time, last year, where he accidentally stayed outside during the fireworks display in our town, and he ran away for 12 hours. That was a bad time. This year, we knew better.



Daddy secured the poor fella in the basement while partygoers like you and I reveled in the beautiful display from our front lawn. The Beagle hid, cowered, drooled, shook, and prayed for August.



You, on the other hand, enjoyed all of 60 seconds of the display in my lap before you were hollerin' for your daddy and to get inside away from the fireworks as well. You then felt much, much better about your new perch to view the show from behind two panes of glass.

It's OK if you only went in because you felt bad for the Beagle.
I know he appreciates your empathy.
I watched enough to tell you both what you missed.
And Daddy spent his birthday eve doing what he does best: loving and calming his people.

It all worked out in the end.

This Guy

Wishing the man in our lives a very happy birthday today ...
We love you to pieces!

Lil' dude, the Beagle, and Mama loves.

Crop

Three years ago, we dug a hole in the ground and held our breath.
Summer after summer, the green sprouted new, and we watered, waited, and wondered.
And three years later, our crop is yielding.



Luscious, luscious raspberries.

The bushes came from the lil' dude's bestie E.'s daddy. He's got himself a mean green thumb.
Every night when the lil' dude runs to the fence for her berry fix, I tell her the story of how these raspberry bushes came to be.



I love explaining to my daughter what a little time, love, and patience will provide. Some good dirt, hot sun, and luck is all you need to grow your own food!

What a sweet little lesson.

July, Baby!

Our month to party and celebrate is finally here!
We have Daddy's birthday on the 4th of July.
First-ever family camping the weekend after.
A week at Grandpa T.'s and Grandma S.'s.
A few weekends at home doing what we do best- nothing and everything at the same time.

I love this time of year, and love that you're here and big enough to enjoy it with us!