Animal House and the Birthday Girl

 

(google image via digitalinkreport.com)

It’s late March, 1992. My mother is standing by the piano with an overturned hat in her hands. In the hat are four folded squares of paper. On each square, she has written one of each of these names:

• Allegheny College, Meadville, PA
• Centre College, Danville, KY
• Miami University, Oxford, OH
• Ohio Northern University, Ada, OH

I’ve applied and been accepted to eight different schools, although I’m not sure why I went after so many. I guess I want options, option, options, and now that I have them, I’ve narrowed them down to the four that “fit best.” I don’t exactly know what that means, but I can say the past four years have been tough ones. (Isn’t high school tough for everyone?) I want to go somewhere new, completely start over. I want to go by gut feel alone.

My mom shakes the hat and peers over its brim. “Are you ready?” she asks.

“I think so.”

In the middle of the dining room table there sits a large bouquet of purple and white hyacinths. The room is steeped in their sticky-sweet scent. I breathe them in as my mom reaches into the hat.

She opens the square slowly at first, then quickly and triumphantly. “Allegheny!” she says with naked delight.

My mom hails from Pennsylvania. She hasn’t said so, but I know Allegheny is her first choice. She and my dad took turns slogging through all the campus tours and overnights with me, and at Allegheny, she was different. She was more relaxed, maybe, like she’d found the place she’d feel comfortable enough to let me try myself out for a while.

Now her eyes squint. Her face is flushed. “Allegheny!” she says again.

“Allegheny!” I say to let it roll around on my tongue. It doesn’t feel right. I say it again just to be sure.

She watches me for a moment. Then she drops the square into the hat and reshakes the collection. “Best two out of three,” she says brightly.

I hold my breath as she pulls the next square.

“Centre College!” she says.

My heart skips. I grin all over myself.

She surveys my response. The square goes in again. And then it comes out.

She holds it up to my face and then places it in my hands. I feel sure of this square, sure of her handwriting, sure of this final decision. And while part of me feels guilty—Centre is the farthest away, the most expensive, the one with the smallest scholarship—the other part of me wraps my life around it.

My mother smiles. She gives me a hug, and for a while neither of us lets go.

~*~

I think about how impossible it must be to let your children strike out on their own. I know it’s impossible because I can’t bear the thought even now, with the boys as small as they are. Occasionally, I drive them past Ohio State University. “There it is, guys!” I exclaim. “Look, Ohio Stadium! Maybe one day you’ll be Buckeyes just like Pa. It’s close to home; I’ll bake you brownies whenever you want them.”

They kick their feet happily and peer through the car windows. I nod smugly, because I’m not above brainwashing. I’m not above doing whatever it takes to keep them here.

This is how I know my mom is a better mother than I am.

~*~

You can’t know at 18 what it means to tell a college to expect you in the fall—how the next four years will influence the decisions you make from that point. You’ll cull your knowledge and prospects and social mores from those first years of adulthood, and those years will shape everything else. I look around me and know that everything I have, everything I strive for, all my beliefs and convictions—everything, everything—comes from the foundation my parents set for me, and the person I grew into at school.

My mom helped me prepare, helped me pack, helped me go. She helped me come home when I needed to, then helped me go back out again.

In my life, I’m grateful for so much. But that moment in the dining room, with my mom and the hat and the hyacinths and the hope I held in my hands—that’s the moment I’m most grateful for, because it led to everything else.

Love you so much, Mom. Thank you for everything. A very happy birthday to you. Here’s to your finest year yet.

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#31: The Family-that-Nearly-Wasn’t Leaves Chicago

I should explain that we didn’t just drive to Chicago for the St. Patrick’s Day parade. We came to the city for much more than that—or at least I did. Last weekend’s visit marked our first Chicago stay in almost a decade. But more importantly, it’s the first Chicago visit we’ve made with our boys.

“Really? You call that a first?” you ask. “Isn’t that a stretch? Aren’t you cheating a little?”

On the surface, maybe. Maybe I am. But read more. You can decide for yourself.

~*~

It’s Sunday, March 13, and we’re closing out my tenth Chicago visit with a trip to the Children’s Museum at the Navy Pier. Already, I’m feeling a sense of disconcerted awareness: It’s time to go; we really, really want to stay.

I’ll get into all of that in a minute. But first, I need to explain how my obsession with this city was born.

• Trips 1 and 2: Fresh from graduate school, I took a job with a three-person firm that raised sponsorships for some of the larger events in Columbus. My boss also held part-ownership in a few running magazines, so in the summers we flew to Chicago for an annual sporting goods convention. I got a lot of free stuff from Nike on those trips, but never saw much of the city. I vowed to go back and explore the place on my own.
• Trip 3: My mom, cousin and I decided to hit the town with no purpose other than to shop, eat marvelous food and check out the night life. My quest for adventure was a little different back then; I remember taking a taxi back to the hotel while my companions stayed out to the wee-est hours. I shake my head at this now, for obvious reasons.
• Trips 4, 5 and 6: When a friend announced she was engaged, we hopped a plane to Chicago to “field study” her bachelorette party. We spent our first two trips scouting out ideas for a girls’ weekend, and spent the sixth trip absorbing whatever the town had to offer with all the women in her wedding party. On those trips, I dug into the city to see as much of it as I could. Until then, I’d never been brave enough to seek out new experiences. In fact, I’d never really been game for anything much at all. But those weekends, I got a taste of opportunity. The city and I just clicked. I felt like I’d slipped into a skin I could mold into whatever I wanted, so I could learn to not be afraid of so much. It was a really good fit, and I liked it, and suddenly, everything was different.

Later, I tried to convince GB that we should scrap our jobs and move somewhere other than Columbus, where the opportunities were better and we could plot a new course together. I think he was tempted—there’s always something tempting about starting fresh—but in the end, we never set the wheels in motion. We agreed to be satisfied with frequent visits. That’s how trips eight and nine came about:

• (Trip 7: This stop almost doesn’t count; it was a business trip, and I didn’t even stay the night. Why? Why, exactly? Help me make sense of this, current employer!)
• Trips 8 and 9: Eventually, GB and I decided to pursue MBAs at a local university that allowed us to work full time and attend classes at night. One of our finance professors offered a course that involved killing time most of the semester until we could fly to Chicago and tour the financial exchanges. I took the class and brought GB as my guest. A year later, GB returned the favor.

I think it’s trip nine that I remember the most.

It was almost eight years ago. After months of considering a childless future (not because we didn’t want kids, but because I thought I’d be a horrible parent), GB and I had a collective change of heart and decided to start a family. On Father’s Day, we told our parents they’d be grandparents by mid-February. We ate homemade sour cream coffee cake on a bright summer morning to celebrate. The next day, I lost the baby.

A few days after that, we hopped a plane to tour the Fed, the Merc, and the floors of the Chicago Stock Exchange. I remember walking along Michigan Avenue and stopping at FAO Schwarz®. I watched other parents watch their children as they gaped at all the marvelous toys. Then I grieved for a family I was sure would never be.

It took two years to finally prove myself wrong.

~*~

Well, you know and I know this story has a happy ending. Although there isn’t an FAO Schwarz in Chicago anymore, there is one H and one O. I never would have foreseen this eight years ago.

It’s strange how hard it is to see forward through the face of loss. No matter what the ugly circumstance may be, well-meaning people will insist it will all work out for you in the end. Back then, I wanted to clutch those people by the shoulders, shake them and beg them not to make false promises. Because how could they possibly know what rights and wrongs could come out of this. And how could they not know how much not knowing could hurt.

That’s what faith and patience are for, though. Not every story has a rose-colored conclusion. But some stories do.

That’s why standing here in Chicago with my three best guys for the first time feels like a very big deal. GB and I went from wondering if we wanted this, to wanting it more than anything. We couldn’t grasp hold of it, and then suddenly we could, like a brightly wrapped box had been handed to us in a quiet flourish.

Now, we walk out of the Chicago Children’s Museum and pile into the car. As GB drives down Lakeshore Drive, I ask the boys what they’ve liked best about the trip.

“All of it, I fink,” H answers.

“That’s what I’ll say, too, Mama,” O agrees.

“Me, too,” I say. “All of it, for sure.”

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Side Story: Big Day for Gus!

My dad, O, H and my mom

When I was a little girl, my dad’s voice was my alarm clock. I’d hear him belting out a song from the shower just below my childhood bedroom.

Up in the morning out on the job
Work like the devil for my paaaaaay
And that lucky old sun has nothing to do
But roll around heaven all daaaaaay

He has the nicest baritone, and he still uses it to make himself laugh. When I still lived at home, he sang the silliest songs while making coffee. I’d chuckle my way down the steps.

At night, he’d come home, shout a cheerful hello and pull off his tie on the way upstairs. My brother and I would creep into his room and say, “Daddy, make your feet smoke!” He’d raise an eyebrow and rub his stocking feet together until a puff of foot powder snaked into the air. “I worked so hard, my feet are on fire.” he’d deadpan, and we’d laugh all over ourselves.

When I was a teenager, he told me it was time to take a class in music appreciation. (It didn’t matter that I’d studied classical piano and choral music for years.) We spent the evening listening to Ravel’s Bolero, Rossini’s William Tell Overture, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and some Billy Joel for good measure. He’d punctuate the music with “Listen to those horns!” “Here come the drums.” And, “Those speakers sound great!”

In fact, he always did—and still does—have a thing for speakers. He likes to show them off at Christmas parties, and he’s quite protective of them. A few years ago, he searched the house for a few small missing items and found them stuffed in his subwoofers—which had apparently become my older son’s makeshift toy box.  My dad thought that was hilarious, but gently made it clear that speakers do not a toy box make.

My dad loves to garden. When I was little, he let me water his rose bushes while he weeded the other beds. “Just give them a nice, long drink,” he’d say, and when I’d ask him how long, he’d say, “Until they stop looking thirsty.” Now, when my boys ask to water our roses, we have the same conversation.

At Christmas and on his birthday, when I ask him what he wants, he waves me off with a “Nothing!” and launches into George Carlin’s old “Stuff” routine.

We usually buy him grilling utensils, stacks of non-fiction, or a subscription to The New York Times. Today, on his 71^st birthday, I’m writing him a post to say I love you, Big Guy. Have a very happy day.

(P.S. Don’t worry, The New York Times will be there in the morning, too.)

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Other Firsts: Bring It, Puppet.

google image: blog.ivman.com

I went to high school with an engineering genius.

The guy was wicked-smart, very easy on the eyes, and my friends and I were kind of sweet on him. His dad was a well-known local engineer, so we all knew where he’d gotten his smarts. We called him “The Physics Professor” behind his back.

Even so, he was our competition. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t beat him. I’ll use a few of our old Physics assignments as proof:

• Drop an egg from a 50ft platform. The egg must not break. While my classmates and I attached hand-made parachutes to feather-stuffed boxes, The Physics Professor filled a small Tupperware container with hair gel, slipped the egg into the middle, and shoved it off the top of the football stadium bleachers. My egg broke. His was unscathed.
• Build a mousetrap catapult. My catapult had a 15-foot trajectory. The Physics Professor’s distance? Far. Like, 75ft or something equally crazy.
• Build a 12-inch structure strong enough to hold a brick. Use only toothpicks and putty. I Lincoln-logged a tower. It took dozens of toothpick boxes to make that mind-blowing bit of engineering happen. The Physics Professor rigged a to-scale replica of the Golden Gate Bridge. And? It held two bricks.

We shook our heads at him, because we all knew: His dad did his homework. That was the only plausible explanation. His near-perfect SAT score had nothing to do with it.

~*~

Assignment: This week, we’ll read Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Choose a character in the story,
make a puppet, and bring it to school on Share Day.

H is hopping on one foot. “Make a puppet?” he asks between jumps. “What kind?”

My index finger skims the page. “You pick. Stick puppet, finger puppet, sock puppet, paper puppet…”

“SOCK PUPPET!!!” he shouts, hopping faster in his excitement.

I should have known H would pick the thread and needle option. Clearly, his heart is set on it. But since my adorable son can’t sit still, and he’s only 5 years old for godssake, I realize I’ve just signed up to sew my kid’s homework.

“Let’s make the Mama Bear,” he says decidedly. He walks to the craft closet and pulls out a piece of blue paper. “I’ll draw the blueprints. Let’s get to work.”

Let’s get to work, indeed.

~*~

Mama Bear is 90% fuzzy brown sock, 5% cotton stuffing, 1% plastic (for the eyes and nose), 1% decorative feathers and 3% lace doily. I hold her up to the boys, who are now three-inches deep in crayon sketches of hearts and smiley-faced robots.

“Whaddaya think, guys?” I say. “Does she look more ‘kangaroo/rat’ than ‘bear’?”

“She does kind of look like a rat,” H says kindly.

“I don’t fink she wooks wike a bear!” O decides. “I don’t fink she wooks wike anyfing.”

“I should move her eyes and ears closer to her nose. That might help.”

H points to the blueprints. “I think you just need to start over.”

But I do not start over. Instead, I sew and sew and sew that bear until I can sew no more. In the end, I’m fine with the result, but I’m positive The Physics Professor’s dad would have done a better job.

~*~

The summer before I left for college, The Physics Professor and I went on a few dates. Instead of asking him about his favorite color or song or what movies he wanted to see, I asked him this question: “Did your dad help you win all those science fairs?”

He very politely drove me home. And he never called again.

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#18: Maura Goes Cold Turkey on the F-Bomb

google image from http://www.legaljuice.com

Five-year-old H and I are reading a book on the couch. He laces an arm through the crook of my elbow and looks up at me cautiously.

“If I ask you somefing, will you promise not to laugh or be mad at me?”

Uh oh. What’s this? “I’ll make you a deal,” I say, closing the book. “As long as you’re asking me honest questions, I’ll promise to never laugh or be mad.”

He sighs, then shyly flips me the bird. “What does it mean when you hold up your middle finger like this?”

I stare blankly until I notice how closely he’s watching me.   

“H, honey, did you see someone make that gesture?”

“A kid at school. He showed one kid his finger and then ran away. So I showed it to William, and he said it meant the worst word in the world.”

“Wow. William is right. It is a bad word.”

“The worst?”

“Well, one of them, anyway.”

“What word is it?”

I laugh. “H, I’m not going to tell you. But when you flip your middle finger, you’re telling people you’re really angry at them, or that you don’t like them very much. It’s not a very nice thing to do.”

He frowns. “I didn’t know dat.”

“It’s ok, buddy. I know you’re not that kind of kid.”

“Who is, doh, Mama? Who would ever be dat way?”

Well, me, I guess. I guess the answer is me.

~*~

I swear a lot, ok? Not constantly, and certainly not when the boys are around. But there are times when I have the potty-est of potty mouths, and gargling with soap won’t help. I don’t feel badly about it, either, because to me, swearing is a pure and legitimate form of self-expression. So when the situation warrants it, here comes the trucker talk! 

“You know, when people swear a lot, they just sound uneducated.” GB throws this one at me from time to time. [Unless he's watching the Buckeyes lose] he almost never swears, so he’ll use the “I thought you were smarter than this” tactic on me when I get out of hand with my language. It always makes me think of my dad’s old and equally outdated theory that a woman isn’t truly “cultured” unless she knows something about jazz and good wine.

So, I go through periods where I take GB’s feedback to heart, and tuck away a lot of my favorite words and phrases. In my head, I still swear like a teenage boy, but the actual words never pass my lips. The result is a strange, staccato speech pattern, and I don’t feel right in my skin. I keep it up until I can’t take it anymore. And that‘s when I fall off the wagon.

But this? My son flipping the bird at school? Maybe GB’s right. Maybe I should rein it in. It’s not like H learned that gesture from me, but he could always learn the verbal equivalent. Which means it’s time to go cold turkey on the f-bomb. Or at least resign myself to 36×37 assignment #18: “Go a Whole Week Without Swearing.”

~*~

Have you ever gone cold turkey on swearing? It’s effing hard! For instance if you’re a Broken Social Scene fan like I am, you might totally bust yourself 12 hours into your strike because you’re singing along to their excellent “Texico B*tches”:

Again if you’re like me, you can’t believe you’ve screwed up so easily! Still you refuse to give in, so you reset the “I’m not going to swear for a week” clock to zero.

Or, let’s say you’re walking toward The Venetian in Las Vegas, and you’re making conversation, and you spout a sentence that includes an innocent little word like “damn,” and everyone with you agrees that “damn” is fairly innocuous, but still, you’re committed to keeping your language clean for a week. So what do you do? You set the clock to zero again, and mentally drop the f-bomb like crazy, because #^@*! #^@*-ing #^@*!!!

~*~

This assignment is hard. Really, really hard. But in the end, I get the hang of it, and actually get a little creative. For instance, here’s what I say at 3 AM when I step on a Lego on my way to the bathroom: “Son of an effing Miiiiiiiitch!!!”

That’s all it takes. That’s it! I sound so stupid, so ridiculous, that I finally see the error of my foul-mouthed ways, and have no trouble completing the last three days of the assignment.

So. Yesterday (Sunday), after 12 days of trying to go seven straight days without swearing, I can finally cross this one off with a clean conscience. My curse-free mouth feels minty fresh.

Before I sign off for the day, two unrelated notes:

• We’re half-way there! I’ve hit my goal of completing 18 36×37 assignments before October 17, the project half-way point! So, bully for me!
• Today’s the big day! I’m getting braces at 10AM Eastern time. Depending on when you read this, I’m either preparing to have my teeth pimped, or I’m in the middle of the pimping, or I’m walking around with some new, old-skool bling on my chomps. More on that tomorrow…

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Sporties for Shorties

A few weeks ago, a good friend told me she’d hired a personal trainer to help push her workouts to the next level. “It’s totally worth it,” she said. “It’s expensive, but I’m afraid to back down from whatever he has me doing that day. Have you ever used a trainer?”

“Oh sure,” I said. “I have two. They work for free. But they’re more like drill sergeants. Plus, they’re a lot younger than me. Best workouts I’ve ever had.”

~*~

“Mama, I’m HOT!”

“I know, kiddo. Drink your water.”

“There’s no ROOM in here!”

“H, scoot over and make room for O.”

“It’s too HOT!”

The stroller comes to a halt. We are exactly three miles from home, and the boys are *this close* to a full-on meltdown. I understand. I’m close to a meltdown myself. It really is hot, and the boys are just slightly too big for this monolith of a running stroller. Still—and if this sounds selfish, so be it—it’s been a week since I’ve squeezed in my last work out. If I don’t get exercise today, I’ll be tired and cranky. Tired. And. Cranky. Trust me. It’s better for everyone if I finish this.

“H, move over a little. O, sit up, buddy. That will help.”

“WE want OUT!”

I sigh and take a knee so we’re on eye-level. “Listen, guys, I’ll make you a deal. Let’s keep going. No complaints. And when we get to the park, you can tell me how fast I should run.”

“How fast?”

“Yep. And you can tell me how to run, too—circles, zig-zags—anything you want.”

They look at each other, smiles creeping across their faces. Then they look back at me.

“It’s a deal, Mama.” H says.

~*~

The next two miles are peaceful. The boys talk quietly without ever breathing my name. No complaints about the heat. No complaints about the close quarters. When they first see the park, O shouts “Now! Go, Mama!”

Well, it’s earlier than I intended, but since they kept their end of the bargain, so will I. I pick up my pace.

“Is that the best you can do?” H shouts. I go a little faster.

They laugh devilishly. “Fast, Mama, FAST!” O demands.

So I sprint.

“Keep going, Mama! Zig zags!”

I’m sprinting and zagging and they’re laughing uproariously. “Maybe I should slow down?” I gasp.

“NO!” H barks. “Keep going, Mama. Quit your compwaining! You can do it.”

~*~

Merciless! By the time we finish at the park, I’m a wheezy, winded mess. My face is hot and flushed, and I’m far sweatier than I’d like to admit. It’s like I’ve never run a day in my life.

“You did great, Mama!” H says. “That’s the fastest I think you’ve ever run.”

For the record? I’m happy for my friend. She feels good about her workouts because she has a personal trainer to cheer her on and make sure she’s pushing herself. That’s awesome. But I feel like I’m getting the better deal. For the past 15 minutes, I heard nothing but laughter. Most of it came from my boys, but some of it came from me.

And I didn’t even have to pay for it.

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My (First) List of Ridiculously Great Things

When I was in high school, I had this book called 14,000 Things to be Happy About, by Barbara Ann Kipfer. The premise was simple: Each time the author thought of something that made her happy, she added it to a list that eventually turned into 14,000 happy things.

I carried the book with me everywhere—even to college and graduate school—and made notes in its margins. I jotted down memories, added my own “things,” and linked those “things” to people and places I knew. Every person and everything I cared about back then was in that book.

Recently, I stumbled across Neil Pasricha’s blog 1,000 Awesome Things. It should be on its own list because it’s ridiculously great. It’s detailed. It’s universal. It’s funny and poignant and sweet. And now it’s also a book—The Book of Awesome.

It makes me want to flip through my old copy of 14,000 Things. Except that I can’t find it. Anywhere. I can say this because I looked for it tonight. I don’t feel right not knowing where it is, so I’m going to draft a quick list of 20 Ridiculously Great Things. Because I want to, and because I can’t think of anything else to write tonight.

Maura’s List of 20 Ridiculously Great Things

1. Waking in the dead of night to discover you still have two hours left to sleep.
2. Getting up early to run, and then coming home to a sleeping house.
3. Realizing that someone you know knows someone you know. And she has gossip. And it’s juicy.
4. Taking that first bite of Jeni’s bourbon buttered pecan ice cream, then taking the next bite and the next bite and the next bite.
5. Spotting a Great Dane. (Bonus if there are two or more.)
6. Finding out that the meeting you’ve been dreading has been canceled. (Actually, I think Neil mentioned this in a recent post.)
7. Rereading Hemingway’s The Snows of Kilimanjaro, and acknowledging that, even though it’s not the best thing you’ve ever read, it’s still pretty damn close.
8. Rediscovering this song and this song and this song.
9. Reading your parents’ old love letters.
10. Writing on a rainy afternoon, with a hot mug of tea to your right, and peanut M&Ms to your left.
11. Meeting an old friend’s new baby.
12. Honestly believing your significant other is even better with age.
13. Handing your child an invitation to a birthday party, then watching his reaction.
14. Sifting through your childhood treasures, and deciding you still can’t part with any of them.
15. Discovering that the song in your head is also on the radio, then secretly wondering if you’re psychic.
16. Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations.
17. Walking into a restaurant where the staff knows your name, and they already know your order, and it gets to the point where you’re embarrassed about that, but still you keep going back, and they continue to be happy to see you.
18. Meeting up with old friends who are so happy to be together again you all just talk over each other, then laugh, then talk over each other some more.
19. Deciding it’s time to call it a night when your child wakes up in the wee hours, comes downstairs, sits with you while you’re writing a blog post, then falls asleep on your lap.

Have your own ridiculously great things? Add them below. Bloggers love comments, especially me, so gimme the goods.

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Other Firsts: Sunset in Paris

(Pssst. It’s Wordless Wednesday. Here’s what I had the pleasure of watching this weekend in Paris, KY.)

I wish you could have seen it. It was jaw-dropping. (Not bad, iPhone camera!)

(Check back tomorrow for a post with lots of words. I don’t have a topic yet, so it will be a surprise for both of us!)

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Guest Blog Post #3: The Drill Sergeants

Now drop and give me 20.

 

Look, I’m a tightly wound person. Stress gets to me, so I work out a lot. Lately, I’ve been training with these two guys who really are more like drill-sergeants. Plus, they’re a lot younger than me. And they work for free. Best workouts I’ve ever had. 

Forget The Shred. See what these guys have in mind. Visit www.bondwithkarla.com right this moment for my weekly guest blogging gig, and I’ll tell you the whole story…[read now] 

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Other Firsts: Maura Vs. Wild – Watch Out, Bear Grylls (Part 2! And Part 1!)

Is the tent too close to the bonfire, do you think?

I married an outdoorsman. 

When a little boy is born on the Chesapeake Bay, that’s what he’s bound to become: the rugged type. In GB’s case, he spent his first six years catching Maryland Blue Crab in great steel pots; poking at jellyfish with long, dull sticks; and playing in the sunshine until his hair bleached white. 

When his family moved to Kentucky in 1984, he searched the ground for shoreline, and finding none, took to the woods. That’s why our basement is like an Orvis store: Backpacks, fly rods, tackle boxes, tents, army surplus sleeping bags. There’s a kayak in our garage; he launches it on warm Sunday mornings and returns a changed man, with pictures of large-mouth bass on his Blackberry. 

He tells our sons about the places he’ll take them when they’re older—out west, up north, through mountains, down streams—and thinks I wouldn’t want to join them. He sees me at home curled on the couch with a book, or out with girlfriends, or relaxing in a pedicure chair. 

What he doesn’t know is that he married an outdoorswoman, too. I’ve never been fly fishing, but I still can cast and reel with the best of them. Just ask all the bread bags and shoes I caught from the Scioto River as a child. And then there was the night of my junior prom, where I slept on the deck under the stars because I couldn’t find the key to the front door. So see? I’m no stranger to nature. Obviously. 

I’ve hidden my love for fresh air quite on purpose. That way, no one would ever expect me to be a proper gardener. I like a good pillow and a hot shower and a quick swipe of lipstick in the morning. Even so, give me a tent and marshmallows for toasting, and I will not say no. 

~*~ 

This past Saturday was the National Wildlife Foundation’s Great American Backyard Campout. I had big plans for the three guys in my house: cook out, pitch the tent, unfurl the sleeping bags, roast marshmallows, catch lightning bugs, and finally prove to GB that his prissy wife can survive a night in a tent, exposed to the elements and away from her iPhone. 

All went almost according to plan. The event began the way every campout should: With a grill full of brats and a table full of bacon-laden German potatoes, sweet corn, and big, leafy salad greens.    

Clockwise from left: SC (brother), Gus (dad), H (son, 5yrs), GB (husband), O (son, 3yrs)

When dinner was over, my dad headed home. SC, GB and I pitched the tent around two excited little boys… 

 

 …who learned to toast the marshmallows themselves (with heavy supervision), and then stack them with graham crackers and chocolate for one enormous, delicious bite. 

 

They proved to be stealthy lightning bug hunters, too. 

 

I inspected my brand new sleeping bag, carefully selected by one GB (who, after witnessing my profound tent-building skills—sans instructions *ahem*—finally agreed I can hang when it comes to outdoor livin’). The bag is luxe, for sure. I kinda think the old boy still likes me a little. 

“Ok!” I said. “It’s late. Time for little boys to use their sleeping bags.”   

Cue thunder, of course, and the gathering mass of storm clouds I’d hoped would pass. “I think we’ll be fine,” I said. “Let’s give it a try. As long as we’re dry, we should just stick it out.” 

That’s when lightning cracked its whip across the sky. 

~*~ 

We spent the night curled up in sleeping bags on the living room floor. The boys watched fishing shows with GB, and marveled at the giant catches. I closed my eyes and listened to happy whispers, and in the morning, listened again as my boys rehashed what they called “the best night ever.” 

I still have mosquito bites up and down my legs, and we were all exhausted on Sunday. But I tell you, I would do it all again, 1,000 times over, just to hear those happy whispers in the dark. 

When I checked out the tent the next morning, it was completely dry. Which means we can strike out into the actual wilderness next time—a place with giant bugs and bears and rocky terrain and no showers to speak of—without any silly fears of the rain. We’ll cook a whole meal by campfire. Maybe hike a little. And maybe GB will have a chance to launch that kayak somewhere new. 

I’ll have my guys all to myself. Off the grid. Uninterrupted. And I honestly cannot wait. 

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37    

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