Last night, I went to bed wearing one of my less-than-fresh bras. It happens more often than I’d like to admit. The trouble started when Lucy snuggled into bed with me around 2 AM and decided to pee the sheets around 6 AM. She really soaked them, and my poor bra didn’t escape the disaster—my last somewhat clean one. Now, it smells distinctly of urine. Clearly, wearing it today is not an option.
“Sorry, mom,” Lucy mumbles, rubbing her eyes. At five, she’s long since out of diapers, but it’s hard to feel annoyed at her in the morning, especially with those rosy cheeks and wild curls. Plus, it’s Sunday, so I have time to sort things out before the 3:30 PM birthday party.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I reply. “Let’s get you back to your bed.”
We both change out of our wet pajamas. Half-asleep, I grab some clothes from near my hamper—yesterday’s jeans (worn twice) and a sweater that still has some yogurt stains from the day before. By the time we reach the bottom of the stairs, Lucy is wide awake.
“I wanna watch something!” she exclaims. Lucy is hooked on certain Netflix shows, and while she might not know the term binge-watching, she practically invented it. After a futile attempt to get her to engage with something interactive, I give in and turn on the TV.
“I can knock out a few chores this way,” I reason with myself. And I do. I manage to whip up pancakes, wash and dry the sheets, check Facebook, tackle the comforter, do the dishes, and sweep the floor. Each task is punctuated with a quick Facebook glance.
Yet, a nagging worry about Lucy’s screen time and her development occasionally breaks through my focus, cramping my “parenting style.” I would describe my method as a blend of Uncle Buck’s laid-back attitude and a pinch of Martha Stewart’s perfectionism. More often than not, I’m well-meaning but a bit hapless, perpetually late, and sometimes embarrassing. Yet, every so often, I channel my inner Martha and become an overly ambitious perfectionist.
Watching Lucy fixated on the screen, I shout, “Hey!” She’s engrossed in a PBS show called “Animal Explorers,” which, to be fair, is quite educational. It features two real-life brothers who teach kids about various animals and their habitats. The show starts with real footage of them before morphing into animated adventures where they pose imaginative questions.
“Lucy!” I wave my hand in front of her face. “What if we went on a REAL animal adventure?” This is genius! Why didn’t I think of this sooner?
She looks puzzled. “Do you know what hiking is?” I ask. She nods.
“It’s when you go outside and walk around in the woods! Doesn’t that sound amazing?” I emphasize the word “amazing” with enthusiasm, hoping to spark her interest.
“Yeah!” she yells.
We could have explored our backyard or taken a stroll around the block, but my Martha Stewart side kicks in. Why settle for something ordinary? I think, channeling my inner Martha, that we need to make this day epic.
I glance at the clock, and a small voice reminds me of the birthday party at 3:30. “Maybe don’t go too wild,” it whispers, but I laugh it off, deciding we should tackle the 3.2-mile Longhorn Trail at Lone Elk State Park, just half an hour away.
“An hour hike? Piece of cake!” I think, recalling how I survived a trip to Disney with Lucy during the height of Frozen’s popularity.
Getting ready proves to be a different story. Convincing Lucy to get ready is always a challenge. I’ve been trying to empower her to dress herself, but she often ends up tangled in her clothes like a character from a comedy. Today, in a bid for expediency, I dress her myself.
“I’m too cold,” she complains.
“Putting on clothes will warm you up!” I insist, pulling a shirt over her head.
“I’m too tired,” she whines.
“I’m doing all the work!” I reply, pulling up her pants.
“But my butt itches!”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Lucy, multitask! Scratch it and give me your foot!” I manage to get her dressed and head to the kitchen to pack our essentials, like snacks and a first-aid kit.
By the time I return, she’s swapped her sturdy shoes for white sandals, determined to hike in them.
“Honey, it’s chilly outside,” I say, but she remains unresponsive.
“Guess someone doesn’t want to go on an animal adventure,” I sigh dramatically, channeling my inner Eeyore.
At times, Lucy morphs into a character from “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” Today is no exception. She insists with tears in her eyes, “Want! Want! WANT!”
I wonder if this behavior stems from my parenting style. Perhaps the laid-back Uncle Buck side is too lenient. But then I think about the perfectionist Martha side, which might be too overbearing. Yet, I remind myself that every kid has their moments.
After about an hour of persuading, we’re finally dressed and ready to go. We hit the road by noon, with three and a half hours to spare before the party. I realize I’m still braless in my less-than-pristine clothes, but that’s just part of my parenting style now.
After a half-hour drive, filled with a song about Old McDonald that evolves into an endless loop of animal sounds, we finally arrive. I couldn’t sing one more verse.
“White Bison Trail,” reads the sign at the visitor center. “3.2 Mile Loop…Difficult…Hiking Only.” Oh boy. I hadn’t anticipated the “difficult” part.
“Are we gonna see bison, mom?” Lucy asks excitedly.
“Uh, I think it’s just the name,” I reply, trying to manage her expectations.
Further along the path, another sign warns about elk mating season. Panic begins to set in as I elevate my internal threat level.
“What does that sign say?” Lucy asks.
I explain it to her, and she responds, “Oh, then it’s okay. Let’s go,” dragging me along.
We walk toward the trailhead, with a small lake on our right. The path is shaped like a cypress tree—full of twists and turns, but ultimately connecting back to itself. The landscape is adorned with tall oaks and birch trees, sunlight streaming through the leaves. It’s a perfect fall day, and I can almost hear the voice of Tolkien narrating our adventure.
In the end, we may not have encountered bison, but the joy of exploration and the memories made were worth every moment.
Summary:
In this humorous recount of a chaotic yet delightful day, Jamie navigates the ups and downs of parenting while attempting to take her daughter, Lucy, on a real-life animal adventure. From dealing with unexpected accidents and wardrobe malfunctions to embracing the challenges of getting ready and the excitement of hiking, Jamie’s journey reflects the beautiful chaos of motherhood. The narrative captures the blend of fun and frustration that comes with parenting, all while highlighting the importance of making memories together.