Last night, I ended up sleeping in my bra—something that happens more often than I’d like to admit. Around two in the morning, my daughter, Emma, snuggled into bed with me, and by six, she had thoroughly soaked the sheets. Not just the sheets—my last clean bra too. By “clean,” I mean it was the least dirty of the bunch, and now it carries the unmistakable scent of urine. There’s no way I’m wearing this bra today.
“Sorry, Mama,” Emma mumbles sleepily, rubbing her eyes. At five years old, she’s well past the diaper stage, but it’s hard to stay mad at her in the morning with those rosy cheeks and messy blonde hair. Plus, it’s Sunday—no biggie. I have a kid’s birthday party to attend at 3:30, which gives me ample time to tackle some laundry.
“It’s alright, sweet pea,” I reply. “Let’s head downstairs to your bed.”
We both strip off our wet pajamas, and in my half-awake state, I grab some clothes from next to my hamper—yesterday’s jeans, already worn twice, and a sweater speckled with yogurt from the day before. By the time we reach the bottom of the stairs, Emma is wide awake.
“I wanna watch something!” she shouts. Emma has developed a strong affinity for certain Netflix shows, and while she’s never heard the term binge-watching, she might as well have coined it. After a feeble attempt to engage her in some interactive play, I relent and turn on the TV.
“I can get things done this way,” I assure myself. And I do. Pancakes are made. Sheets are washed and dried. Facebook is checked. The comforter gets washed and dried. Dishes are done. Facebook checked again. The floor is swept. I check Facebook one more time.
Every so often, a nagging worry about Emma’s well-being and the effects of screen time creeps into my mind, putting a damper on my parenting style. I like to think of myself as a blend of Uncle Buck and a pinch of Martha Stewart. Mostly, I’m well-meaning but clumsy, a bit clueless, always late, and occasionally embarrassing. Yet, sometimes, I tap into my inner Martha—an ambitious and oddly crafty perfectionist.
I glance down at Emma, who is mesmerized by the flashing colors on the screen. “Hey!” I shout. She’s glued to a PBS show called Wild Kratts, which is genuinely fantastic. It features two real-life brothers who teach kids about wild animals and their habitats. The show starts with the brothers in real life, who then morph into animated versions for the rest of the episode, embarking on “creature adventures” and always posing the question, “What if?”
“Emma!” I wave my hand in front of her face. “What if we go creature adventuring in REAL LIFE!?” This is a stroke of genius, I think. We’ll head outside! Why didn’t I think of this sooner?
She looks at me, puzzled. “Do you know what hiking is?” I ask. She nods, albeit slowly. “It’s when you go outside and walk around in a circle. In the woods! Doesn’t that sound awesome?” I find that speaking with enthusiasm and using the word “awesome” does wonders for igniting excitement (though the list of things this strategy doesn’t work on seems to be growing).
“Yeah!” she yells.
We could wander around our backyard observing squirrels or take a stroll around the block, but that would be the expected path. This is when my inner Martha kicks in. You know, when twelve-year-old Martha would go above and beyond for a book report, crafting a ten-page masterpiece complete with a hand-made cover. Like Martha, I refuse to settle for the mundane.
I glance at the clock, and a tiny voice in my head reminds me about the birthday party at 3:30. Maybe I shouldn’t go too overboard. I chuckle at this voice and decide we’re going to conquer the 3.2-mile White Bison trail at Lone Elk State Park, just thirty minutes away. “One hour hike,” the internet assures me, and I’ve been trusting the internet ever since it told me Tom Cruise is a gay alien (it all makes sense now). One hour? That’s nothing! If I can survive Disney World with Emma during the Frozen craze, I can handle this.
Preparing to leave is another story altogether. Even if I’ve convinced Emma that she wants to do something, she typically resists getting ready. Lately, I’ve been encouraging her to dress herself, but she usually ends up with her leg stuck through the waistband of her underwear and shirts worn inside out. Today, in an effort to save time, I dress her myself.
“I’m too cold,” she whines.
“What are you talking about?” I respond. “Putting on clothes will make you warmer!” I yank a shirt over her head.
“I’m too tired.”
“What are you talking about? I’m doing all the work!” I snap on her pants.
“But my butt itches!”
“Oh for goodness’ sake, Emma, learn to multitask. Scratch it and give me your foot!” I grab a foot, shove on a shoe, and head to the kitchen to pack essentials like toilet paper and yogurt.
When I return, she’s taken off the warm socks and sturdy shoes I had put on her for the hike (at this point, I’ve started to envision this day as epic, like something out of a Tolkien tale, filled with challenges but ultimately leading to wisdom). There she is, sitting on the floor in her white sandals, insisting on hiking in them.
“Sweetheart, it’s chilly outside,” I say.
Nothing.
“Those don’t protect your feet.”
Blank stare.
“Guess someone doesn’t want to go on a creature adventure,” I say in my best Eeyore voice, slumping my shoulders for effect.
Emma occasionally channels the temperament of Veruca Salt from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Today is no exception. “Want… want. WANT, WANT, WANT!” she insists, crying real tears.
I sometimes wonder if this behavior reflects my shortcomings as a parent. Maybe my Uncle Buck side is too lenient. But then I remind myself that the Martha side is a bit much. Ultimately, I tell myself that every kid acts out like this, but I’m not entirely sure.
After about an hour of negotiating, I finally have her dressed and our bag packed. We hit the road by noon. Three and a half hours until that party—plenty of time for exploration and still looking presentable! I realize as I settle into the car that I’m still braless and in my dirty clothes. But that’s just part of my Uncle Buck lifestyle; we’re just going hiking. Still, I briefly contemplate the lack of support. Meh, thinks Uncle Buck, not wanting to waste time coaxing Emma in and out of the car again.
After a half-hour drive and a slight detour due to a miscommunication between my phone and me, we finally arrive. Thank goodness, because I could not have sung another verse of “Old McDonald.” After exhausting our farm animal repertoire, we moved on to creatures of the African savanna, jungle beasts, and extinct animals. There was an endless cycle of “roars.” You know, “with a roar roar here and a roar roar there, here a roar, there a roar…” But thirty minutes of singing the same refrain is what it takes to keep Emma entertained in the car without her getting antsy for the phone. And I need that phone; I’ve forgotten how to navigate anywhere without it.
“White Bison Trail,” reads the sign at a small, unmanned visitor center. “3.2 Mile Loop… Difficult… Hiking Only.” No skipping, noted. But more importantly… “Difficult.” The internet didn’t mention that! I gulp audibly.
“Are we gonna see buffalo, Mama?” Emma squeals, spotting a picture on the sign.
“Um, I’m not sure, sweetie. I think it’s just called that,” I say. There are buffalo in the park, but it’s hard to imagine we’ll be walking among them.
“Yay, buffalo!!” she cheers. Great, now anything less will be a letdown, like the final season of Dexter or my love life.
Another sign warns, “Elk Mating Season – Use Extreme Caution – Do Not Approach The Animals.” Oh wonderful. My panic meter shifts from yellow to orange. Repeat: we are at threat level orange (my anxiety never drops below yellow, thanks to being responsible for a wildly unpredictable little being with no concept of danger).
“What does that sign say?” Emma asks, tugging at my hand as we explore our surroundings. I explain it to her.
“What is mating?” she inquires.
“Uh, it’s when the daddy elk and mommy elk try to make babies.”
“Oh, then it’s okay. Let’s go,” she says, pulling my hand.
“Why is that?” I ask.
“Because I don’t look like a mommy elk.”
She makes a valid point. Plus, I had seen a couple with a child younger than Emma a few moments ago, so I consider it safe.
We walk from the small parking lot toward a trail marker at the foot of a hill, where I had seen the couple enter the woods. A small lake to our right anchors the trail, serving as the backdrop for the hike. The loop around the lake resembles the shape of a cypress tree—plenty of twists and turns, but ultimately circling back on itself. The land rises around the water like a blanket’s folds, and I notice steep drops along the narrow, winding road leading into the park. Tall oaks, hickory, and birch trees line the hills, allowing sunlight to filter down in patches. A cool breeze rustles the rust-colored leaves overhead. It’s a perfect autumn day. I can almost hear Tolkien narrating our climb as we begin our expedition: “The two eager travelers, full of ambition, set forth on their adventure…”
In summary, navigating the chaos of parenting often involves spontaneous decisions that lead to memorable adventures, even when faced with challenges. From dealing with wardrobe malfunctions to negotiating outdoor excursions, the journey can be both messy and rewarding. For more insights on home insemination, check out this excellent resource from the CDC, or explore ideas for boosting fertility.