In which I go for broke

The festival season is upon us. All you Pagans out there know of what I speak: the circuit of art, dance, music, and religion fests that simply can't be missed. Entire campgrounds taken over completely by robed (and disrobed), henna-dyed, jewelry covered hippie types, frolicking over the fields and fens in all their tie-dyed and hemp bedizened glory. If you're a mid-Atlantic Pagan, you simply must attend a summer festival. My choice for this year is Starwood, the mother of all Pagan fests. Starwood is the east coast Burning Man, but with less dust and more love.

Not only is this my first Starwood, it's also my first camping trip of the year, and my first time going away with my 4-month-old. T (the husband), being the godless sort and not one for public nudity, will not be attending. Which brings me to the issue at hand - camping with an infant.

I've been a serious backpacker for a few years now. I own enough equipment for two backpackers to be comfortable at any time of the year. But can I attend Starwood with the equipment I have? Of course not. In order to have a comfortable and successful trip with the wee one, I need enough gear to fill a Babies R Us and a Cabela's. (Note to self: start up a new store, "Babies R Camping," and make a fortune off your first customer) New tent, camp chair, cooler, diapers for over a week, toys, stroller, carriers... You name it, I had to buy and/or pack it. And because I'm riding up with two friends - one of whom has a 19-month-old - space in the car is limited. I've been sorting the pile and sorting again, tossing back everything that I don't absolutely need for the trip. Guess who's things make up the majority of the toss back pile? Two guesses. If you guessed N (the babe), you're wrong. Because apparently a 15 pound person needs five times more camping gear than a 130 pound person does. Go figure.

So, the car seats were installed today (borrowed car), the gear will be packaged by Friday, and Saturday morning I make the long drive out to Brooklyn to pick up my friends, and then onto points unknown. A nice, simple, relaxed camping trip. Just me, N, and a mountain of large and expensive camping gear.

Gods help me...
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Win a Bum Genius 3.0 Starter Kit from Nature's Child - Wholesome Goods for Mothers and Babies
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A warning would have been nice

Why didn’t anyone warn me that I’d love you like this? That the sight of you sleeping would make me tear up, and that the sound of your cry would make my heart race. That no matter how much I love your father – an all-encompassing love, the kind that can rattle my whole world and take my breath away – that no matter how much I love him, that love would be like nothing compared to my love for you. Why didn’t anyone tell me that my arms would ache for you when we’re apart?

I became a new person the day we met. My love for you rose up like a wave and smashed so many of my fears, my insecurities, my shallowness. The day we met you took over my mind, but I did not “lose myself” as I had sometimes feared, in the darker moments of my pregnancy. I have lost nothing, but gained everything. Though I have always been a complete person, my completeness has solidified since meeting you. It has more texture now, more depth. Though you did not give my life purpose, you have made my purpose, and everything I do, so much more meaningful that I ever could have imagined life would be.

Sometimes, while you nap, I stand in front of a mirror and look at what has become of me, physically. I think about the fears of pregnancy – that I would get fat, that horrible stretch marks would form, that I’d never “get my body back”. As I look in the mirror I think back to that, and smile. If only someone could have told me then that I’d cherish the roundness my belly has now, and will likely always have. If only they could have warned me that I would still smile and caress that spot, your former home, even after you had vacated. I wish I could have known then, while you were safe and warm and protected inside me, that I would miss those days so much now.

Every day you grow and change, almost before my eyes. Each time I look at you, you are bigger and stronger and more like a little person, exploring the big and exciting world. Every day you become more like yourself, you draw away from me just a little bit more, and I know that this will continue until, someday, you will move away. And the thought of that day makes a hole grow in my chest – a bottomless pit of fear and sorrow and pride. Why didn’t anyone warn me?

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