Last night, I fell asleep in my bra—something that happens more often than I’d like to admit. Around 2 a.m., my daughter, Lily, snuggled into bed with me, and by 6 a.m., the inevitable happened: she soaked the sheets. It was a complete disaster, and to make matters worse, my last clean bra was included in the mess. By “clean,” I mean marginally so, but now it carries a distinct odor. Today, I’m definitely not wearing this bra.
“Sorry, Mama,” Lily mumbles, rubbing her eyes. At five years old, she’s well past the diaper stage, making it hard to stay mad at her, especially with her rosy cheeks and wild curls. It’s Sunday, so I’ve got time to tackle laundry before that 3:30 birthday party.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” I reply. “Let’s head downstairs to your bed.”
We both change out of our wet pajamas. I hastily grab some clothes from the hamper—yesterday’s jeans and a sweater spotted with yogurt. By the time we reach the bottom of the stairs, Lily is full of energy.
“I wanna watch something!” she exclaims. Lily has a Netflix addiction that rivals binge-watchers everywhere. After a failed attempt to engage her in something interactive, I relent and turn on the TV.
“I can get things done like this,” I reassure myself. And I do! Pancakes are made, sheets are washed and dried, Facebook gets a check, comforters are cleaned, dishes are done, and the floor is swept. I check Facebook again.
Every so often, a nagging concern creeps in about screen time and its effect on her brain. I describe my parenting style as a mix of Uncle Buck and Martha Stewart—mostly well-intentioned but often disorganized, running late, and sometimes embarrassing. Yet, occasionally, I tap into my inner Martha, becoming a perfectionist who is oddly crafty.
I glance at Lily, who is mesmerized by the screen, her eyes reflecting the vibrant colors. “Hey!” I shout, breaking her trance. She’s watching Wild Kratts, a fantastic show featuring real-life brothers who teach kids about wildlife. Each episode begins with a “what if?” scenario.
“Lily!” I wave my hand in front of her face. “What if we go creature adventuring in REAL LIFE!?” Brilliant idea! Why hadn’t I thought 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 a circle… in the woods! Doesn’t that sound awesome?” I raise my voice and gesture animatedly.
“Yeah!” she yells in excitement.
We could stick to the backyard or take a walk around the block, but that wouldn’t be adventurous enough. No, this is where my Martha Stewart side kicks in. I envision a grand adventure, not just a mundane stroll.
As I glance at the clock, a voice in my head reminds me about that birthday party. “Maybe don’t get too carried away,” it warns. I chuckle at the thought and decide we’ll hike the 3.2-mile White Bison trail at Lone Elk State Park, just half an hour away. One hour of hiking? That’s nothing! I survived Disney World during the Frozen craze; I can handle this!
However, getting ready turns into a saga. Lily often resists dressing herself, leading to outfits that could confuse anyone. Today, I opt to dress her myself.
“I’m too cold,” she protests.
“What are you talking about? Clothes will keep you warm!” I pull a shirt over her head.
“I’m too tired.”
“I’m doing all the work!” I snap on her pants.
“But my butt itches!”
“Oh for goodness’ sake, learn to multitask! Scratch it and give me your foot!” I grab a foot and struggle to put on her shoes.
When I return from packing a bag of essentials—like toilet paper and yogurt—I find her sitting on the floor, having swapped out her sturdy shoes for flimsy sandals.
“Honey, it’s chilly outside,” I say.
Nothing.
“Those won’t protect your feet.”
She gives me a blank stare.
“Looks like someone doesn’t want to go on a creature adventure,” I say, channeling my inner Eeyore.
Every now and then, Lily morphs into one of the characters from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Today is no different. She insists, “Want… want. WANT, WANT, WANT!” with tears.
I sometimes wonder if this behavior is my fault as a parent. Perhaps my laid-back Uncle Buck side is too lenient, but the Martha side is too controlling. I tell myself every child acts like this, but doubt lingers.
An hour later, I finally have her dressed and our bag packed. We hit the road by noon, with three and a half hours until the party—plenty of time for exploration! As I settle into the car, I realize I’m still braless and in yesterday’s clothes. But hey, we’re just hiking.
Thirty minutes into our drive, I sing “Old McDonald” at least a dozen times to keep Lily entertained. I’ve completely lost track of how to navigate without my phone—my brain now feels like a marble.
We finally arrive at Lone Elk State Park. The sign reads “White Bison Trail: 3.2 Mile Loop… Difficult… Hiking Only.” My heart sinks; I didn’t see “difficult” mentioned online.
“Are we gonna see buffalos, Mama?” Lily asks, excited by the picture on the sign.
“I don’t know, sweetie. It’s probably just the name.”
“Yay, buffalos!” she cheers. Great, now anything less than buffalos will be a letdown.
A little further along, another sign warns of elk mating season. My tension rises. “What does that sign say?” she inquires.
I explain, “It’s when daddy elks try to make babies with mommy elks.”
“Oh, then it’s okay. Let’s go!” she says, pulling me along. “Because I don’t look like a mommy elk.”
Fair point. As we continue toward the trail, I feel the picturesque autumn day envelop us. The trees, illuminated by sunlight, sway gently in the breeze, setting the stage for our adventure.
And so, our journey begins.