Among the "life experiences" I have spoken so vaguely about lately, is a camping trip that Mike and I took with the kids a few weeks ago. You know, when it was projected to be 106 degrees.
But here's the thing, friends. We had planned this with friends, who had graciously organized and invited us--and in the spirit of full disclosure, I will tell you that the property we camped on had a house with like, 28 beds and air conditioning, so we had "options". But from the very start, Mike and I were determined to break our new tent out of its Wal-mart packaging, and prove that the pioneers didn't DIE of heat on the prairie. If you want to keep this factual, then let me remind you that they perished for reasons such as chronic diarhea; and yet our generation ignores history, and STILL eats the *special* sauce at McDonalds.
You know what's more brutal than camping in 106 degree weather? Packing for a camping trip in 106 degree weather. As Mike and I have NEVER done this before, it was sort of a process of trial and error; and what we learned is that, while a king-sized foam mattress top *might* sound like a good idea, it is indeed, one of those things that doesn't make sense without a MATTRESS and a Pottery Barn bed frame.
You know, friends. If I don't ever write a book, or manage to graduate my kids from high school with all ten fingers and toes, then I will still die satisfied, for successfully erecting an $80 tent. And by erecting, I mean, handing Mike the appropriate stakes while he figured that sh#! out. It was a thing of beauty, the house (tent) we built in the wilderness and furnished with memory foam. And cooled with a really long extension cord and an industrial strength fan.
With that task under our belt, we busied ourselves with keeping our core temperatures below the boiling point of the pancreas--and as we are in the middle of a drought, our expectations for swimming in the property's creek were slim. Turns out that God loves a good blog post though, because the creek was indeed deep enough to cool down in, and for a couple of hours we soaked, and fished, and drank and laughed at the thought of anyone who told us this was going to be miserable.
And so, you can probably guess, that it was at exactly this point, that one (or all) of the children started yelling about a SNAKE.
"MOMMMMM!!!! THERE'S A SNAAAAAAAAAAAKE!!!", they shouted, while pointing to the exact spot, on the opposite bank, that they had JUST been standing on.
Now. My children have been known to cry COYOTE--when in fact, it was the neighbor's sandy-haired dog (with tags). Which is why I didn't panic. Initially.
Until I saw the SNAKE.
It came from the water.
With an f-ing catfish in it's mouth.
{Gag + Scream}
Mike decided to taunt it with a camera, L kept swimming next to it in the water, and we all just sort of stood there watching this fish BREATHE while in the jaws of a cobra? Cotton-mouth? Rattler?
Well, we stared at it for a few more minutes, before it was quickly decided that EVERYONE was getting the hell out of the water. And so, we packed it up, and went back to the house/tents, and filled the plastic baby pool with the coldest well water EVER. This also turned out to be divine provision, as a freak storm caused some sort of electrical issue that affected the water pump--and the water in the kiddie pool became the means by which we flushed the toilet.
Also, the freak storm managed to cool the temps heading into dinner time--and as it turns out, a thin bed sheet was NOT enough to keep me warm at night. NOT EVEN KIDDING.
I don't know what else to tell you, particularly after that snake, because it all went by uneventfully and without any other feats of strength and ability by the animal kingdom. We packed up the next morning, and headed to a state park with rock slides and bigger swimming holes--and while there were a million scenarios in which my children could have suffered traumatic brain injuries, there were no snakes spearing catfish with their teeth, and so it all just seems kind of pointless.
Except that Mike and I are now DYING to go camping again, because that was awesome. And terrifying.
One day, you're 19, with 8,673 various cares in the world--including, but not limited to, what you're going to do tonight, and what you are going to wear, and if you have to drive. Unfortunately, it's 1995, and high waisted-jeans are still the norm; and if you are from Hawaii, then you would pair those babies with a crop top from Wet Seal, which is, unfortunately, not among the list of things causing you great concern.
That very summer, you will have a couple of jobs and an obsession with body art--which, when combined, provide ample cash to support what is quickly becoming your tattoo/body piercing HABIT. Thank goodness you live on an island inhabited by MANY military men, because tattoo parlors abound. Hepatitis = not on the list of things to worry about either, because the camera is out of film and you have to find a 7-11, STAT, so that you can eventually develop 24 blurry shots of a bald guy drawing on your ass with needles.
This was the EXACT scenario, when I was a sophomore in college, and about to get my second tatt. The first was a red and black daisy on my ankle--and it doesn't get any more generic, or boring, or ridiculous than that, friends. The following summer I got my navel pierced, which leads us to Christmas 1995, when my best friend and I got matching tattoos.
{RED FLAG}.
Fortunately, we did not get matching Kermit the frogs. That is the silver lining here.
Seeing as we are ASIAN, we went with the Japanese symbol for "friendship". Well, that was kind of it; but also, we just thought those kanji characters looked pretty bad-ass. If the symbol for friendship had been something resembling a penis, we would have chosen differently--and I tell you this to prove that sometimes appearances come before ancestry.
When you are 19, and you have two tattoos and a navel ring, and your jean shorts are just a few inches shy of your armpits, well, you think you are pretty hot sh#!, which is the very paradox of the teenage years--having all that confidence in the way your eyeliner looks, but caring less about that political science course on journalism and democracy that you're talking next semester. Tell me how that relates to real life, EXACTLY?
Well. I graduated from college, and resisted the urge to pierce my nipples and attach them to various metal chains that I would then knit into a scarf. I got a job and racked up a hell of a monthly bill at Ann Taylor (the Wet Seal of professionals). I had an apartment and a couch that only had two cushions because one of my college roomates peed on the third one, in what can only be described as a senior dinner/ sno-cone incident gone BAD. I moved to St. Louis, and I got married; my husband had cancer, and I had to remove my naval ring when I had baby G. And I am so bitter that baggy denim pants were the style back when I was 105 pounds, and skinny jeans are the rage now that my hips have housed triplets and my skin is like puddly liquid. There is so much freaking pressure in skinny denim.
And somewhere along the way, I lost touch with the friend that I am branded with for life, and I get to retell this story every time I wear a bathing suit and someone asks, "What does your tattoo mean????"
Well, aside from friendship, it pretty much means that I had NO IDEA about life, or consequences, or the way the world changes, or how irony works.
Because after last week's trip to Colorado, and the last night that we spent in Colorado Springs, I can now tell you that my tattoo stands for a chain of sushi restaurants. The last, and final slap in the face of my adolescence. I suppose that some of my dumb decisions could have resulted in serious injury, or physical scars, or emotional distress; but instead, I shall wear the logo of Tomo Sushi on my backside, for LIFE.
TRUE. FREAKING. STORY. FRIENDS.
If, as I suspect, life is a series of competitions played out in a bracket-like tournament, then--
I WIN, Kevin Costner.
Because exactly two days ago, I got to THIRD base (kiss with tongue, heavy petting) with a real WOLF--thus proving that simply dancing with them is WEAK. This development also trumps cat milking (sorry, Ben Stiller), but still ranks below any actor who has starred opposite a TALKING rodent.
Blogworld, if I have been absent lately, it's because I have been having real life experiences. I mean, I can talk about my kids gagging on vegetables, or the hairball I snaked out of my shower--but none of it makes any kind of sense, or holds any meaning, until I've let a wolf lick my teeth, or other such shenanigans.
So this all began last week in Colorado. Mike and I drove the kids out past Colorado Springs, and into the mountains. Not the ever popular Highway-70-ski-resort-mountains--but the unspoiled-nothing-for-miles-except-prairie-dogs, kind of mountains. AMAZING. And terrifying, as the nearest hospital is hours away, and I'm not sure I mentioned this, but wolves were licking my face.
I had, arguably, one of the best weeks of my life. I didn't pick up my iphone, not even once. I didn't check facebook. My kids watched NO television, and didn't ask to play Wii during our entire visit. The family camp that we went to had a couple of old school water slides--and while I will go into more details in a future post, they were the most terrifying things I have ever been on, and completely the opposite of the slides/Nazi police that we have grown so used to at our local pool. There are a million reasons why this trip was so great, but among them was the absence of the ever-popular and prevailing attitude of fear that is bullying all of our fun and french fry serving sizes. At 9,000 feet above sea level, I suppose the life mantra is that everything is awesome until it kills you; and this is less likely to apply to happy meals, but to wild animals and complications relating to climbing 14,000+ foot mountains.
Family camp officially ended on Saturday morning--but rather than head straight back into hell (St. Louis and it's 100+ degree heat), Mike and I decided to hang around the mountains for an extra day, and visit a nearby wolf sanctuary that everyone talked about, but no one seemed to have visited. Now, here is where I will tell you, that aside from death and not having enough food to feed large crowds, my greatest fear is that my precious time will be wasted on something that will be LAME (said the girl who went to a Color me Badd concert); and so heading into this excursion I was *leery* of what we were walking into, exactly.
Except that 20-minutes into our drive to see the wolves, our mini-van was traveling a series of unmarked roads not recognized by our GPS, and we found ourselves driving trespassing through some sort of unlocked gate that eventually found us at the wolf sanctuary, which was MILES away from civilization. Turns out, the bridge between being lame, and becoming a horror story set to the theme song from "Deliverance" is a very short one.
Mission: Wolf (link HERE) is actually widely-known as a wolf sanctuary--and while I worried that this might be lame-sauce, there are actually volunteers who jump at the chance to live there year-round in tee-pees on the property, simply for the opportunity to help pitch in and live among the wolves. On our particular Saturday, there were regular staff, volunteers traveling through, a group from AmeriCorps, and a girl scout troop--all given the opportunity to help move firewood, wash trucks, chop up a dead horse that was donated to feed the wolves, or help to serve the wolves their meat. I'm not sure how to describe to you the open, and friendly, and welcoming attitude of a sanctuary that houses WOLVES; or how there is so little fear amongst a group of people that are caring for wild animals. It goes against almost everything that my kids are inadvertently learning, everyday, when they are reprimanded for wearing goggles on the diving board, or for being .25 inches above the height limit on the toddler slide--because someone might die if you bring a tube into the pool, or you break any of the millions of rules they adhere to on a daily basis.
The man who started the sanctuary came out and introduced himself to us almost immediately (as I'm sure he does to every group who comes through); and then we were lead through the compound, and introduced to the wolf-dog hybrids. It was "big feed" day, and we were invited to help throw meat to the wolves that afternoon; and once the sanctuary saw that they were busy with groups coming to tour the property, they offered to do a "visit".
And by "visit", I mean entering a wolf pen and letting them lick your teeth. Dead serious. Because that's how you politely greet a wolf--eyes WIDE open, teeth bared and clenched (this has nothing to do with dominant behavior, but as a precaution so that the wolves don't shove their tongues straight down your throat, fyi). To demonstrate, my family has created a series of photos to show you how to say a proper hello to a wolf:
It took Kent and his staff years to figure out that wolves want to see your eyes and lick your teeth in FRIENDSHIP--and in the context of my safe, little, seatbelt-wearing, rule-following life, I understand that to be quite BALLSY. As is welcoming all volunteers into your life's passion, and letting them have ownership over whatever they're interested in. Or walking 20+ visitors, including CHILDREN, into a pen of three wolves, without signing any sort of liability waiver. Or allowing said visitors, including CHILDREN, to grab a knife and help to quarter the dead horse that was dropped off that day by a farmer, to feed the wolves.
I don't think I will ever forget having a wolf come straight up to my face and lick my teeth, or staring into it's YELLOW eyes, or scratching it's belly through it's thick coarse fur; but mostly, I am really grateful for a place that ALLOWED and taught me (and my children) to do that. I suppose that I'm conditioned to fear, and because of that, I'm numb to how much of my world is conformed to it--some of it wisely, some of it preventatively, some of it ridiculously. But there is no doubt, my children are being impacted, in equal measure, from the things that are censored, and certainly, they are missing pieces of information that will help them REALLY see the world.
We were given the history of wolves, the story behind the sanctuary, personal tales of taking some of these bad boys across the country to help people understand that these creatures aren't menacing, but incredibly timid. Which is when Kent mentioned that people generally tend to kill what they fear.
Wolves. Bears. Crazy water slides, trampolines without nets, lawn darts, french fry serving sizes, crib bumpers. We're certainly taking the unknowns and the perceived danger out of life--but with it goes adventure and personal responsibility and fun, and a general understanding of how life works and what we trust in, and how we create boundaries aside from what federal regulators deem "safe".
As we left the visit, we walked passed the old, dead horse, hanging from a large, pole-like structure and waiting to be butchered. Our kids had just spent the morning learning all about the wolves, and the horses that are donated (upon death) from around the area, to help feed them. And so we stood there with them for a moment and let them see what that meant exactly, the idea of death, but without all the baggage that we attach to it. The actual circle of life among animals, which in that moment wasn't terrifying or full of anguish--and I'm so glad my kids got to see it, because there aren't many opportunities for that kind of thing, for these kinds of conversations, in the sheltered life we lead. And I have to believe that as my kids try a new sport, or attempt to do a flip off the diving board, or decide to run for student council, or have to make new friends, or leave home for college, or raise a baby that they feel totally unprepared for--that this will be one of MANY experiences that will add perspective into what they are capable of if they let go of the fear that holds us back.
My children have been displaying some SERIOUS, COMPULSIVE tendencies this week.
Said the mother who is obsessed with making miniature archery sets out of popsicle sticks and dental floss. True story, except that there is no way I'm gonna get that done before we head out for Colorado--and so I'll probably just take all that crap with me and obsess about it in the Rockies.
You know, it's not a vacation without an irrational craft project to pin my hopes and dreams upon.
It's been a helluva week, blog world. Because my husband got strep throat, while I have been averaging 3.5 hours of sleep a night--and that about damn near broke the camel's overtired, COMPULSIVE-tendencied, back. But Mike's been pumped full of antibiotics and is recovered enough to pack the van with 15-pool-noodles-that-are-soon-to-be-transformed-into-jedi-lightsabers, so we are currently existing in a (very) fragile state of "all-good".
If you haven't noticed, my summer blog schedule has been a bit...light. My hope is to get back on here with more consistency, but first I need to find a Wal-Mart in Kansas, and come up with a cowgirl outfit for Square Dance night at camp.
Have a great weekend, friends!!
Lakes had never scared me.
But once we had children, being on a boat or standing on a dock made me crazy for a lot of years; something about the dark, deep water, and the realization that I had nowhere near the number of eyeballs I needed to watch four young children, simultaneously, who were barely stable and unaware of consequences. I had seen my toddlers misjudge steps on a swimming pool, sinking with eyes wide--and the knowledge that they would be swallowed by that water in the time it would take to turn my head would sit heavy and anxious in my chest, until they were restrained in car seats for the drive home, or tucked into bed, asleep and safe from EVERYTHING that kills children.
I hate turbulence on airplanes, and even long car rides--the ones I used to take carelessly and without a thought--make me nervous now. There's the bad choices of other drivers to think about, and tires that could blow out at any second, and in the same number of seconds it would take to lose a baby in dark water, I am consumed and wondering just how reliable the brakes REALLY are. I am nervous about old electrical wiring in our house, and fires in our dryer vents; and just this morning I heard a story on the radio about flesh eating bacteria that lie in rivers and lakes, and I panicked (slightly) over swimming in a creek just two days ago, to avoid the summer heat that has everyone worried about hydration and body temperatures. When you have children, one becomes suddenly aware that EVERYTHING can kill you, and so we become obsessed with the expiration dates on car seats, and crib bumpers and eating organic everything. It's how we deal with the deep, dark--we control it.
***********************
Today, I went to the funeral of an 18-year-old girl. A beautiful, 18-year-old girl who died suddenly, and tragically. Her parents go to our church; and while I don't know them, I am devastated for them. Our entire church is, really--as is her high school community, and a good part of Kirkwood in general. It's the thing we are quietly, privately consumed with--not because we wonder HOW it could happen, but because we know it can. We understand that there is deep, dark water that is always surrounding our children; ice on roads and strangers, and disease, and moving trains. Eventually, there are hormones and heartbreak and expectations that my kids will be unprepared for, because they won't have the perspective to understand it yet--and that will be the HARDEST part for me as a parent, because I won't be able to control it with food choices, or time outs, or sleep schedules.
I'm not sure why I went to that funeral today, except that this family has been on my heart for days, and I ache for them. No one is ever invited to a funeral, and yet, the older that I get, it seems like we all struggle to know when to attend one--for parents of friends, or casual acquaintances, or a family you know by name at church. It seems to be widely believed that visitations are for the general public to pay their respects, and funerals are intimate occasions for family and close friends--and I was raised in a culture where I clearly remember keeping my aunt's body in an open casket at my uncle's house for two days before the funeral, so needless to say, I am not an expert in what is considered "traditional" in these cases. When you are in your 30's, however, you become the adult who just sort of figures these things out, and from what I can gather, "normal" etiquette is space and privacy and casseroles.
Except that I know something of this kind of grief, firsthand. And one of the things I've learned is that you don't RSVP to it, you just show up. It really started when I was on bedrest with the triplets, and friends would stop by to see how I was doing, and to (against protest) vacuum my carpet; and because I was still living with the delusion of "control", I would BEG them not to, because Mike could clearly do it, while single-handedly parenting our daughter, and working a full-time job, and stuffing me full of Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwiches. CLEARLY, we had this.
Except that WE didn't. WE eventually had horribly premature babies, and we lost a son.
And we were surrounded, almost instantly. One of our first visitors was someone I didn't know, who is now a friend--in fact, I wasn't in my room when she came by with a small care package, and I didn't put it together until YEARS later when I found the note she wrote us. YEARS. I held on to that note from a (then) stranger for years, because it meant something. As did the endless stream of family, and friends, and neighbors and acquaintances who poured into our hospital room in the hours, and days after Caleb died. Not a single person was invited, but the memory of what a church body looks like in those moments is...incredible. It is beyond what is expected, and normal and polite--and if I had to give up my facade of control while receiving visitors in a hospital gown, then every person who came to see us had to surrender fear and anxiety over what to say and how to comfort us.
Friends, when you drop those things, you get a pretty clear and unbelievable picture of what it looks like when Jesus weeps with us. And I suppose that I desire to be a part of ANY picture that Jesus paints in his body of believers.
What he calls us to is usually outside our comfort zone, but ALWAYS full of meaning--even if we have to wait years, or lifetimes for the perspective to understand it.
I would argue that there is nothing more breath-taking than fireworks under the St. Louis Arch on the 4th of July--or any national monument, for that matter. It's been a LONG time since Mike and I have braved the crowds to head downtown for the fireworks; these days, every suburb, park, country club and local McDonald's has their own extravaganza, which basically means that I could run out for a tank of gas and catch some sort of pyrotechnics display. And true to our country and the American way which we were celebrating, I tend to opt for what is cheapest and involves the least amount of effort, and maybe comes with a free 96-ounce fountain soda.
Except that this year, we are one warm wind gust away from spontaneous combustion, and so the fireworks show that happens every year, at the park that's ONE BLOCK AWAY from our house, was cancelled. Boo. Or YAY! for not risking a house fire.
Instead, we opted for the most COMPLICATED course of action, which is how we found ourselves heading downtown to the BIG show, with every pair of denim shorts in a 100? 200? mile radius. Dude, I have seen the alarming fashion trend of this generation, and it is HANDS DOWN, the demin shorts epidemic. More specifically: There is an entire age group of girls that fails to recognize the difference between shorts and UNDERWEAR.
Also, there was a Cardinal's game happening (three blocks from the Arch), and a pre-fireworks concert by Heart. As I was struggling not to lose my children amidst a SEA of drunk jorts, it didn't sink in that I was watching HEART, until they were more than halfway through "Barracuda". And I almost peed myself at the thought that they *might* end their concert by serenading the crowd (of denim) with "All I Wanna Do is Make Love to You", which you might remember from THIS POST, was a song that I knew all the words to when I was in seventh grade. And I guess you could say I've had one of those "full circle" moments, in which I realize it is ridiculous that a song exists about getting pregnant by a hitch-hiker, UNLESS you are surrounded by a mob of denim briefs, under the Arch, on Independence Day. Try as I may, I don't think I will ever, inadvertently, stumble into a Heart concert under those conditions, ever again.
{Sadly, they did not sing this song as their encore. WTH. This will OBVIOUSLY lead me to obsess over Heart, their touring schedule, and the circumstances that might find me in a similar predicament, and able to hear them sing that song LIVE. It's now officially on my bucket list.}
Despite not knowing who Heart is (parent fail), all the walking, the HEAT and the drunken crowds--the kids were amazing, which proves that childhood, after the age of 6, is kind of bad-ass and awesome. And if you're willing to break bed times and bribe with Blow Pops, and expose your kids to public urination--well, they are pretty good at rolling with the punches.
Whether or not you found yourselves (accidentally) at a Heart concert, or in a hot tub with Motley Crue, I hope you had a great 4th of July, celebrating the freedom that makes this kind of random crap possible.
I'm back. Sort of. I'm not sure if you heard, but we live in middle America, and around these parts, it's been 150 degrees for the past three weeks. Basically my body is doing this thing where it keeps me alive throughout the day, and then when I try to have a thought, or a conversation with my children or my husband, it comes out like this:
"STOP DOING THAT!!!!"
Or, my personal favorite,
"WHY is there a wet swimsuit in the snack bin???????" What energy is not zapped by survival is spent on mysteries of this nature. Including which little drunk person is stuffing their vitamin gummies underneath their mattress every night. This should be pretty OBVIOUS--but I am so damn hot, I don't even remember who sleeps where anymore.
And then when I try to sit down and blog, it comes out like this:
"Snurblezerblerwaggelflurbeehabreslaggle."
Clearly I am going brain-dead, because Little J has been attempting to try this Target-shopping-cart manuever for the past few months, and today I/ we couldn't think of a single reason as to why it wasn't the BEST IDEA EVER. You see, it's our ANNIVERSARY. Twelve wonderful, child birthing, traumatic, cancer surviving, juice cleansing-filled years. We actually celebrated with dinner last night, and our choices for today's festivities included an ice-bath, a visit to our zoo's climate-controlled penguin habitat, or shopping for something made out of cotton knit at Target. This is when I inadvertently realized that Target makes the BEST triple stroller, and that they are FREE in parking lots across America.
Also, we chose to watch the movie "Radio" (yes, Radio.) and to seek a local venue that sells cupcakes after 6 p.m. on a Sunday. DOESN'T EXIST. Way to go, universe, that's like killing a puppy, or something equally ATROCIOUS. Because I am one accommodating lady, I decided instead on a milk shake--but we had to drive around for a while to find THAT as well, because it's my anniversary, and I wasn't gonna settle for no Steak-n-Shake. Just keeping it classy, like a child pretending he's on an Olympic luge through Target's aisles.
Happy heat wave, friends.
