A couple of weeks ago, about an hour before Tanya and I were about to leave the house on a Friday night, Sophia asked me why the baby sitter was coming over.
I told her I was going to try stand-up comedy at an open mic in Old Town, and that I was really nervous.
“What’s stand-up comedy?” Sophia asked.
“It’s where you get up on stage and try to tell jokes to make people laugh.”
“Dad, you’re the funniest guy I know,” she said. “You make me laugh, like, every minute of the day. You’ll do great!”
I could tell by my 7-year-old’s face that she was not, um, joking. Yet, while her comment allowed me to breathe easy for a few seconds, my nerves didn’t fully settle down. Why didn’t the compliment from my daughter make me feel better about my chances?
Confession time: I sometimes ask my 7- and 10-year-old daughters for their opinions just to make them feel good, not because I think they will provide sage counseling. They’re just kids, after all. They couldn’t possibly have enough experience or intellect to be able to offer good advice. Right?
I’ve always been the independent type. The upside of such a personality is having a high level of self-confidence, knowing that I can always find answers within myself and accomplish my goals. The downside is it’s often difficult for me to trust others, which can lead to undesirable consequences.
I’ve started to realize this over the years, and I’m now more apt to accept help than I ever was. It’ll probably be something I work on for the rest of my life.
My initial thought was, “How could this kid possibly know what it takes to succeed?” But children offer an entirely different perspective than we adults are used to hearing. As I went over my notes before the show, worried I would forget my routine and die a horrible death in front of all those people, I started to understand.
Yes, Sophia is biased (she doesn’t know that many funny people). But her wisdom emanates from — not in spite of — her relative ignorance of social norms and expectations. She could have done what many adults might have and retreated quietly, fearful of saying the wrong thing. But no, my soon-to-be second-grader somehow knew what, if anything, might allay my anxiety: encouragement. I know this because Tanya, the person I trust the most, told me the same thing about an hour later, and it made me feel better, or at least capable of finishing my set.
Despite my nerves, I summoned the courage to climb on stage as planned. Unfortunately, Sophia’s prediction was wrong. I got a few laughs, but for the most part, I heard the uncomfortable sound of moving air—"crickets"—as they say. I left the stage slightly embarrassed, and the victory of simply getting up there felt somewhat hollow.
Sophia never asked me how the show went, thank goodness. I still might be the funniest guy she knows, at least for now.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Monday, July 22, 2013
Is Loyalty Unconditional?
In June I took the kids camping up the Poudre Canyon. The fire danger remains high, so fires in campgrounds must be contained within built-up, enclosed metal pits. I readied our pit for dinner, loading it with branches, and struck a match. Within seconds, the pile of wood had erupted into a volcano of flames, sending devil-red ashes floating on unpredictable wind gusts. I quickly doused my creation with water.
Sophia asked me why I was panicking. “I didn’t want the fire to get too big,” I said, my heart still beating wildly at the prospect of such an awful, yet realistic, possibility. “If I start a forest fire, I’d be in serious trouble.”
Ella put an arm around me. “Don’t worry, Dad. I wouldn’t have turned you in,” she said.
I appreciated my 10-year-old’s allegiance to dear old dad, but the idea of her unwavering loyalty brought up an interesting point — from my side of the coin. Parents always say they’d sacrifice themselves for the well-being of their children no matter the cost. But is there a logical limit to parental loyalty?
From the instant our kids enter the world, we are entrusted with unprecedented levels of responsibility. We also develop, seemingly instantaneously, sharp protective instincts. As a result, the only people who can truly understand the nature of parental love are, well, parents. When someone says, “I’d do anything for my kids,” believe it.
But those same precious babies eventually make a few poor decisions. They get in trouble with authority. They do things to challenge our ability to sustain those feelings of unconditional love and support. Yet despite the wide spectrum across which these instances occur, most parents rarely stray from the need to protect their offspring.
My kid would never do that.
Those parents should teach their kid some manners.
Maybe little Johnny needs some boundaries at home.
We’ve all said things of this nature. And many times, we may be right. But it can’t always be someone else’s fault. Surely our kids aren’t always angels.
Resolute loyalty and the need to protect our young are necessary to ensure survival. But those same behaviors can lead to unclear thinking. In certain situations, we might actually help our children more by ignoring our instincts.
Simply by virtue of being human, children are fallible from birth to death. And if mistakes are part of life, we might, by protecting our children at all costs, actually be doing them a disservice. To survive in our modern, hypercompetitive world, they’ll need to learn to take responsibility for their actions when they mess up and do what’s necessary to correct them, without the biased input of their greatest fans.
With my second attempt considerably less of a risk to the national forest, I cooked dinner and s’mores for me and the girls. I enjoyed my night immensely, relieved that Ella wasn’t the one who almost burned down the forest. She saved me from a decision I would not have wanted to make.
Sophia asked me why I was panicking. “I didn’t want the fire to get too big,” I said, my heart still beating wildly at the prospect of such an awful, yet realistic, possibility. “If I start a forest fire, I’d be in serious trouble.”
Ella put an arm around me. “Don’t worry, Dad. I wouldn’t have turned you in,” she said.
I appreciated my 10-year-old’s allegiance to dear old dad, but the idea of her unwavering loyalty brought up an interesting point — from my side of the coin. Parents always say they’d sacrifice themselves for the well-being of their children no matter the cost. But is there a logical limit to parental loyalty?
From the instant our kids enter the world, we are entrusted with unprecedented levels of responsibility. We also develop, seemingly instantaneously, sharp protective instincts. As a result, the only people who can truly understand the nature of parental love are, well, parents. When someone says, “I’d do anything for my kids,” believe it.
But those same precious babies eventually make a few poor decisions. They get in trouble with authority. They do things to challenge our ability to sustain those feelings of unconditional love and support. Yet despite the wide spectrum across which these instances occur, most parents rarely stray from the need to protect their offspring.
My kid would never do that.
Those parents should teach their kid some manners.
Maybe little Johnny needs some boundaries at home.
We’ve all said things of this nature. And many times, we may be right. But it can’t always be someone else’s fault. Surely our kids aren’t always angels.
Resolute loyalty and the need to protect our young are necessary to ensure survival. But those same behaviors can lead to unclear thinking. In certain situations, we might actually help our children more by ignoring our instincts.
Simply by virtue of being human, children are fallible from birth to death. And if mistakes are part of life, we might, by protecting our children at all costs, actually be doing them a disservice. To survive in our modern, hypercompetitive world, they’ll need to learn to take responsibility for their actions when they mess up and do what’s necessary to correct them, without the biased input of their greatest fans.
With my second attempt considerably less of a risk to the national forest, I cooked dinner and s’mores for me and the girls. I enjoyed my night immensely, relieved that Ella wasn’t the one who almost burned down the forest. She saved me from a decision I would not have wanted to make.
Friday, July 12, 2013
A Leap Forward...addendum!
Once again, for some reason the videos don't post to email subscribers. So click here to go straight to the blog so you can see the video. It's worth it. Oh, and listen to what Ella says at the very end. It's pretty funny.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
A Leap Forward
Many of us experience a singular moment in our lives that defines who we are, or who we are destined to be. Those moments often don't elucidate themselves to us in a blatant way at the moment they happen; it's only after time has passed that we come to realize how pivotal the moment was. And only after we reflect on that moment through the twin lenses of history and life experience can we truly appreciate its gravity in shaping our lives.
I think I might have witnessed that moment for one or both of my daughters yesterday.
I took the girls camping again. (This is quickly becoming one of our favorite summer activities: Ella, Sophia and I all have so much fun it should be illegal.) At our favorite campsite, a 10-foot rock looms over the fast-moving Poudre River as it bends around a spot called the Lower Narrows. If one were to, say, jump off that rock, the landing spot is safe for two reasons. First, it's deep enough that one can't even see the bottom. Second, it sits far enough toward the shore and away from the foaming current that makes the Poudre one of Colorado's prime whitewater rafting spots. After the jump, all that's left is a quick 15-foot swim to the left bank, where plenty of rocks await for support. If, that is, you can handle the ice-cold shock of entering the 60-degree (on a good day) water temperature.
The last time we camped at the Lower Narrows (scroll down to my post from June 25), we met a guy named Drew and his 5-year-old son, Kieran, who fearlessly, at least to an observer, jumped off that very same rock. I had deferred because, I'll be perfectly honest, I was scared. For myself, yes, but also for my kids in case anything happened to me.
Sure enough, this time around we met another affable and absurdly friendly camper named Kris, who appeared to be, as fate would have it, also a bit of an experience-seeker. He jumped—flipped, actually—and convinced me to do the same. So I did. (Not the flip.) Four times. With my kids watching in what appeared to be awe. I was the coolest dad ever, but more importantly, I showed courage. Hitting the icy water from that height felt great, no doubt. But the real rush came from simply conquering my fear.
The next afternoon after Kris, his wife Brie, and their adorable baby daughter Ariella had headed back to Fort Collins, I took another dip in the Poudre. And then, the big surprise.
"Dad, I want to jump," said Ella. I was shocked. This is, after all, my cautious, pensive, highly rational, 10-year-old eldest child. She simply doesn't do things like this.
"Okay," I replied. I gave her some tips about where to aim, what to do when she surfaced, and told her that I'd be right there in case anything went wrong. I also made extra sure to pile on the ambivalence. If she was to do this, she needed to decide for herself, and do it for herself only. "Whatever you decide, I'm behind you."
She did it. I was in shock. And drowning in a rushing current of pride, considerably more intense than the class II-III rapids that backdropped our campsite.
Those of you with multiple children surely know what came next.
"I want to do it too," Sophia said. Sophia is seven.
Each girl on her first time spent a bit of time atop the rock surely steeping in some mixture of fear, contemplation, deliberation, and consciousness-bending existentialism that only they could fully grasp. But most importantly, and for whatever internal reasons drove them forward, they eventually took the plunge. Ella jumped four times, Sophia three.
As a parent, the only thing I could do was shake my head and wonder how making this decision would shape these kids for the rest of their lives. After watching their faces and hearing their school-aged versions of bravado and newfound confidence once they got feeling back in their lips, I was certain of only one thing: this was only the beginning of a life of taking chances.
I think I might have witnessed that moment for one or both of my daughters yesterday.
 |
| Sophia and Ella, campers extraordinaire |
I took the girls camping again. (This is quickly becoming one of our favorite summer activities: Ella, Sophia and I all have so much fun it should be illegal.) At our favorite campsite, a 10-foot rock looms over the fast-moving Poudre River as it bends around a spot called the Lower Narrows. If one were to, say, jump off that rock, the landing spot is safe for two reasons. First, it's deep enough that one can't even see the bottom. Second, it sits far enough toward the shore and away from the foaming current that makes the Poudre one of Colorado's prime whitewater rafting spots. After the jump, all that's left is a quick 15-foot swim to the left bank, where plenty of rocks await for support. If, that is, you can handle the ice-cold shock of entering the 60-degree (on a good day) water temperature.
The last time we camped at the Lower Narrows (scroll down to my post from June 25), we met a guy named Drew and his 5-year-old son, Kieran, who fearlessly, at least to an observer, jumped off that very same rock. I had deferred because, I'll be perfectly honest, I was scared. For myself, yes, but also for my kids in case anything happened to me.
Sure enough, this time around we met another affable and absurdly friendly camper named Kris, who appeared to be, as fate would have it, also a bit of an experience-seeker. He jumped—flipped, actually—and convinced me to do the same. So I did. (Not the flip.) Four times. With my kids watching in what appeared to be awe. I was the coolest dad ever, but more importantly, I showed courage. Hitting the icy water from that height felt great, no doubt. But the real rush came from simply conquering my fear.
The next afternoon after Kris, his wife Brie, and their adorable baby daughter Ariella had headed back to Fort Collins, I took another dip in the Poudre. And then, the big surprise.
"Dad, I want to jump," said Ella. I was shocked. This is, after all, my cautious, pensive, highly rational, 10-year-old eldest child. She simply doesn't do things like this.
"Okay," I replied. I gave her some tips about where to aim, what to do when she surfaced, and told her that I'd be right there in case anything went wrong. I also made extra sure to pile on the ambivalence. If she was to do this, she needed to decide for herself, and do it for herself only. "Whatever you decide, I'm behind you."
She did it. I was in shock. And drowning in a rushing current of pride, considerably more intense than the class II-III rapids that backdropped our campsite.
Those of you with multiple children surely know what came next.
"I want to do it too," Sophia said. Sophia is seven.
As a parent, the only thing I could do was shake my head and wonder how making this decision would shape these kids for the rest of their lives. After watching their faces and hearing their school-aged versions of bravado and newfound confidence once they got feeling back in their lips, I was certain of only one thing: this was only the beginning of a life of taking chances.
 |
| Ella and Sophia...after the plunge |
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Wee Wisdom: Leave me alone...when I'm ready
Last week, Sophia and I ran into one of her babysitters, who excitedly informed us that she was applying for a job at the police academy. Once my 7-year-old realized what that meant, she wrapped her favorite babysitter in a tight hug.
“Cayley won’t babysit us anymore?” Sophia asked me afterward.
“Probably not,” I said. “But in two years when Ella turns 12, she’ll be allowed to stay home alone with you.” I became slightly anxious at this prospect, so I tried to lighten the mood. “But I have a feeling that as soon as we leave, Ella will say, ‘Let’s party!’”
“Yeah, I’ll probably have to tell Ella to get to bed,” Sophia said. “Maybe you should get security cameras.”
Sophia’s suggestion made me wonder about how hard it is to trust our children — and the people who watch them. And regarding the inevitable transition away from babysitters and into independence, the question remains: Is there a right time, or a wrong one, to leave our kids to their own devices?
Babysitters have always played a role in allowing Tanya and me to have some time alone. Ella and Sophia actually get excited about spending time with their young, energetic playmates, and that has helped us feel confident leaving them. We’re fortunate to have had a number of responsible and reliable sitters during the years.
But the older our kids get, the more responsible they will have to become. Training them to manage alone at home is a step in that direction. According to the Colorado Department of Human Services, a child must be 12 years old to be legally left alone at home. This standard is based on the state Child Labor Law, which deems 12 as the minimum age for employment. The website (Colorado.gov) also justifiably points out that children’s maturity levels vary widely, so parents should use good judgment when making the decision on whether to hire someone or trust their kids alone.
Teenagers and college-age students comprise the typical babysitting corps — people to whom we entrust our vulnerable children — yet they also constitute a demographic notorious for making unsound decisions. While most parents would prefer to have their kids in the care of another adult or family member, that isn’t always possible. So we parents need to do our part.
We could certainly ease the transition by teaching our kids, from a young age, to police themselves. Obviously, we should follow the age guidelines set by the Colorado DHS, impose firm rules, and let them gradually ease into their unsupervised time, as well as check in periodically. And I suspect giving some kind of reward for success also makes sense. The time alone will surely build confidence.
Emergencies do happen, but the remote statistical chance of calamity opens the door for our kids to develop necessary life skills. We shouldn’t invite disaster, but let’s be realistic: It can happen to anyone at any time, regardless of who’s in charge. There must be a middle ground.
And Ella and Sophia can always call Officer Cayley.
“Cayley won’t babysit us anymore?” Sophia asked me afterward.
“Probably not,” I said. “But in two years when Ella turns 12, she’ll be allowed to stay home alone with you.” I became slightly anxious at this prospect, so I tried to lighten the mood. “But I have a feeling that as soon as we leave, Ella will say, ‘Let’s party!’”
“Yeah, I’ll probably have to tell Ella to get to bed,” Sophia said. “Maybe you should get security cameras.”
Sophia’s suggestion made me wonder about how hard it is to trust our children — and the people who watch them. And regarding the inevitable transition away from babysitters and into independence, the question remains: Is there a right time, or a wrong one, to leave our kids to their own devices?
Babysitters have always played a role in allowing Tanya and me to have some time alone. Ella and Sophia actually get excited about spending time with their young, energetic playmates, and that has helped us feel confident leaving them. We’re fortunate to have had a number of responsible and reliable sitters during the years.
But the older our kids get, the more responsible they will have to become. Training them to manage alone at home is a step in that direction. According to the Colorado Department of Human Services, a child must be 12 years old to be legally left alone at home. This standard is based on the state Child Labor Law, which deems 12 as the minimum age for employment. The website (Colorado.gov) also justifiably points out that children’s maturity levels vary widely, so parents should use good judgment when making the decision on whether to hire someone or trust their kids alone.
Teenagers and college-age students comprise the typical babysitting corps — people to whom we entrust our vulnerable children — yet they also constitute a demographic notorious for making unsound decisions. While most parents would prefer to have their kids in the care of another adult or family member, that isn’t always possible. So we parents need to do our part.
We could certainly ease the transition by teaching our kids, from a young age, to police themselves. Obviously, we should follow the age guidelines set by the Colorado DHS, impose firm rules, and let them gradually ease into their unsupervised time, as well as check in periodically. And I suspect giving some kind of reward for success also makes sense. The time alone will surely build confidence.
Emergencies do happen, but the remote statistical chance of calamity opens the door for our kids to develop necessary life skills. We shouldn’t invite disaster, but let’s be realistic: It can happen to anyone at any time, regardless of who’s in charge. There must be a middle ground.
And Ella and Sophia can always call Officer Cayley.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Summer Camp Nerves
On Sunday, June 30, we dropped Ella and Sophia at summer camp for a week away. I think it was harder for me than it was for them.
Those who know me well might wonder how that is possible, given that I preach endlessly about wanting to have independent, confident kids, and about how much I loved sleepaway camp. Still, I didn't expect to feel like I did.
Ever since we dropped Ella at the YMCA Camp Santa Maria for a week last summer, Sophia has been asking to go too. Our youngest daughter turned seven in February, thus qualifying her to attend a weeklong session. I thought she was a bit young to be away for that long, but she made it very clear on many occasions that she was ready to keep up with Big Sissy. So we signed her up.
Camp Santa Maria is located in the heart of the rocky mountains in Grant, Colorado, a two-hour drive from Fort Collins. It's small enough to feel familial, yet is expansive enough to allow kids to experience the true grandeur of the great outdoors. In other words, it was the perfect place fo Sophia to begin her life as an enthusiastic camper like Mom and Dad both were.
The Pathfinders consisted of 7-10 year old girls. This would be the only year Ella and Sophia could possibly be in the same cabin. Tanya and I did not request that they be together or apart; they'd have to deal with whatever situation they were handed. We let Sophia know ahead of time that she and Ella may not be together, to lessen the shock if things turned out that way. But a couple of nights before camp was to begin, Sophia told Tanya, "Mom, I think it would be better if I wasn't in Ella's cabin. That way, I can make my own friends." We were proud.
Under a light rain and surrounded by the unmistakably pure smell of mountain pines and moist dirt roads, we walked the kids down to their cabin—Logan—and set their duffels by their beds. With the aplomb indicative of an experienced mother and former camper herself (Tanya attended camp in New Hampshire every summer for 14 years as a kid), my wife dutifully helped Sophia set up her bed, as well as helping to organize her toiletries and shoes, and generally ease the transition into her temporary weeklong home.
"I could tell she needed a little help getting started," Tanya told me later that evening. "It can be scary that first time."
No doubt. I was already starting to freak out.
Sophia was the only 7-year-old in a bunk full of 9- and 10-year olds. She didn't seem worried; her best friend and playmate is also ten. But as I glanced around the cabin, I spotted a sign that my "baby," despite her high social aptitude and intellect, still might have some catching up to do with her older bunkmates. While the rest the girls had simply laid out their pillows at the heads of their beds, Lola, Sophia's precious stuffed bunny, leaned quietly against her dolphin pillow pet on hers.
I exhaled when the girl in the bunk above Sophia's reached her hand down and introduced herself. "Hi, I'm Gabi." Sophia shook her hand timidly, but her face lit up with a grin that, ordained with vocal capabilities, surely would have offered, "Everything's going to be okay."
Ella had already begun the time-honored ritualistic summer camp activity of ignoring her parents by diving into a rapid-fire socialization session with her excitable peers. I let her do her thing and turned toward Sophia across the cabin. While Tanya chatted with the smiley teenage counselors, Sophia stood quietly by her bed, looking more like the slightly anxious kid she can be sometimes be, and less like the confident little lady who begged us to let her go to camp with Ella. She didn't cry or ask us to stay, or exhibit anything more than the expected butterflies that presage new experiences. I hugged her tightly, and whispered in her ear how proud I was of her bravery to try new things. Like she had done when Gabi broke the ice a minute earlier, Sophia smiled demurely.
Tanya and I said our goodbyes to the girls and left the cabin. After the door shut behind us, Tanya and I looked at each other. "So, that's it?" I asked. "We're alone for a whole week?"
She shrugged. "I guess."
"I can't believe how nervous I was. Am," I said. "I know she'll do great"—not mentioning Sophia by name, but we both knew to whom I was referring—"making new friends and having fun. But I can't help but feel protective. She's the only 7-year-old!"
"They'll probably think she's pretty cool," Tanya said. "They'll take her under their wing. She'll be fine."
We walked toward the parking lot, up the wet, rocky path through the softly dripping pines. We drove eastward toward Denver, leaving our kids for one full week away, without Mom or Dad to soothe or hug them, or to mediate the inevitable conflicts. I wondered how long it would take for Sophia to get comfortable. Tanya supposed sometime around bedtime, maybe the next day's breakfast.
I was okay by Tuesday.
Those who know me well might wonder how that is possible, given that I preach endlessly about wanting to have independent, confident kids, and about how much I loved sleepaway camp. Still, I didn't expect to feel like I did.
Ever since we dropped Ella at the YMCA Camp Santa Maria for a week last summer, Sophia has been asking to go too. Our youngest daughter turned seven in February, thus qualifying her to attend a weeklong session. I thought she was a bit young to be away for that long, but she made it very clear on many occasions that she was ready to keep up with Big Sissy. So we signed her up.
Camp Santa Maria is located in the heart of the rocky mountains in Grant, Colorado, a two-hour drive from Fort Collins. It's small enough to feel familial, yet is expansive enough to allow kids to experience the true grandeur of the great outdoors. In other words, it was the perfect place fo Sophia to begin her life as an enthusiastic camper like Mom and Dad both were.
The Pathfinders consisted of 7-10 year old girls. This would be the only year Ella and Sophia could possibly be in the same cabin. Tanya and I did not request that they be together or apart; they'd have to deal with whatever situation they were handed. We let Sophia know ahead of time that she and Ella may not be together, to lessen the shock if things turned out that way. But a couple of nights before camp was to begin, Sophia told Tanya, "Mom, I think it would be better if I wasn't in Ella's cabin. That way, I can make my own friends." We were proud.Under a light rain and surrounded by the unmistakably pure smell of mountain pines and moist dirt roads, we walked the kids down to their cabin—Logan—and set their duffels by their beds. With the aplomb indicative of an experienced mother and former camper herself (Tanya attended camp in New Hampshire every summer for 14 years as a kid), my wife dutifully helped Sophia set up her bed, as well as helping to organize her toiletries and shoes, and generally ease the transition into her temporary weeklong home.
"I could tell she needed a little help getting started," Tanya told me later that evening. "It can be scary that first time."
No doubt. I was already starting to freak out.
 |
| Sophia's bed...Lola's already asleep |
I exhaled when the girl in the bunk above Sophia's reached her hand down and introduced herself. "Hi, I'm Gabi." Sophia shook her hand timidly, but her face lit up with a grin that, ordained with vocal capabilities, surely would have offered, "Everything's going to be okay."
 |
| Ella beginning a week of forgetting her parents |
Tanya and I said our goodbyes to the girls and left the cabin. After the door shut behind us, Tanya and I looked at each other. "So, that's it?" I asked. "We're alone for a whole week?"
She shrugged. "I guess."
"I can't believe how nervous I was. Am," I said. "I know she'll do great"—not mentioning Sophia by name, but we both knew to whom I was referring—"making new friends and having fun. But I can't help but feel protective. She's the only 7-year-old!"
 |
| The Counselors |
"They'll probably think she's pretty cool," Tanya said. "They'll take her under their wing. She'll be fine."
We walked toward the parking lot, up the wet, rocky path through the softly dripping pines. We drove eastward toward Denver, leaving our kids for one full week away, without Mom or Dad to soothe or hug them, or to mediate the inevitable conflicts. I wondered how long it would take for Sophia to get comfortable. Tanya supposed sometime around bedtime, maybe the next day's breakfast.
I was okay by Tuesday.
 |
| Sophia: happy to be there |
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Jumping into Hard Rock
Summer often ends up being a time for unexpected discoveries.
I took the kids camping on Monday to our favorite site up the Poudre canyon, the Lower Narrows. The eight-site spot sits at a bend of the beautiful Poudre river, it's calm and quiet and is a perfect escape from busy city life and all its trappings. Ella and Sophia always expect to meet kids their age because the last two times we've gone, we met families with young children with whom they could play for hours and hours, without a passing thought to screens and electronics. Just like the good old days.
This time, our neighbors were a man named Drew and his five-year-old son, Kieran, and Drew's two buddies, Sharif and Luke, who had driven up from Denver for an escape of their own. Drew entertained us by jumping off about a 10-story rock into the freezing river, and then doing the same with Kieran, who didn't seem the least bit afraid. The girls and I politely declined their offer to join in the fun. We did, however, learn that the water below that rock was deeper than any of us had thought.
Around late afternoon, while the kids played and explored along the trail that crosses through the campsite, I enjoyed a half-hour of peace in my comfy chair, reading my book and listening to the soothing flow of the water. I had a few beers with the Denver guys, then built a fire in the pit and cooked dinner: all without the slightest sense of urgency or adherence to any sort of schedule. We spent many hours under the sun's caress, drawing power also from the welcome breeze that flew down the canyon, dipping our feet in the cool river and enjoying the sounds of birds and rushing fresh water. It was perfect.
After dinner, the girls, along with their young apprentice, found a butterfly stuck on the front grill of Drew's car. It couldn't fly. The kids tended to the injured creature and, sensing the gravity of the situation, created an elaborate ceremony to send her—they named her Claire—to Lepidoptera heaven. We marveled at their compassion and creativity.
And then Sharif broke out the Metallica.
"Your kid is amazing," Sharif said after I had returned from getting the marshmallows from my campsite just down the path. "Ella recognized the 'The Ocean' by Led Zeppelin and told me it was her favorite song. I couldn't believe it."
"Yeah, we love Zeppelin and AC/DC," Sophia chimed in. I beamed with pride.
While we stuffed ourselves with s'mores, "Master of Puppets" thundered in the background, complete with Kirk's hard-core guitar solos, Lars' obscene percussion skills, and James Hetfield's masterfully pained voice. "I like it," Ella said as she downed her third s'more, a perfectly toasted marshmallow filling the center.
The Denver guys were as incredulous as I was. Zeppelin is one thing, but Metallica is entirely another. I guess those summer discoveries happen to us all.
I took the kids camping on Monday to our favorite site up the Poudre canyon, the Lower Narrows. The eight-site spot sits at a bend of the beautiful Poudre river, it's calm and quiet and is a perfect escape from busy city life and all its trappings. Ella and Sophia always expect to meet kids their age because the last two times we've gone, we met families with young children with whom they could play for hours and hours, without a passing thought to screens and electronics. Just like the good old days.
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| Poudre River |
This time, our neighbors were a man named Drew and his five-year-old son, Kieran, and Drew's two buddies, Sharif and Luke, who had driven up from Denver for an escape of their own. Drew entertained us by jumping off about a 10-story rock into the freezing river, and then doing the same with Kieran, who didn't seem the least bit afraid. The girls and I politely declined their offer to join in the fun. We did, however, learn that the water below that rock was deeper than any of us had thought.Around late afternoon, while the kids played and explored along the trail that crosses through the campsite, I enjoyed a half-hour of peace in my comfy chair, reading my book and listening to the soothing flow of the water. I had a few beers with the Denver guys, then built a fire in the pit and cooked dinner: all without the slightest sense of urgency or adherence to any sort of schedule. We spent many hours under the sun's caress, drawing power also from the welcome breeze that flew down the canyon, dipping our feet in the cool river and enjoying the sounds of birds and rushing fresh water. It was perfect.
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| Me and my girls at Lower Narrows, outside of Fort Collins |
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| Claire The Butterfly |
"Your kid is amazing," Sharif said after I had returned from getting the marshmallows from my campsite just down the path. "Ella recognized the 'The Ocean' by Led Zeppelin and told me it was her favorite song. I couldn't believe it."
"Yeah, we love Zeppelin and AC/DC," Sophia chimed in. I beamed with pride.
While we stuffed ourselves with s'mores, "Master of Puppets" thundered in the background, complete with Kirk's hard-core guitar solos, Lars' obscene percussion skills, and James Hetfield's masterfully pained voice. "I like it," Ella said as she downed her third s'more, a perfectly toasted marshmallow filling the center.
The Denver guys were as incredulous as I was. Zeppelin is one thing, but Metallica is entirely another. I guess those summer discoveries happen to us all.
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| The kids tending to Claire |
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| Claire in her final resting place |
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