Babes in the woods

I've always been an outdoor kind of girl. When I was a child, we had a black and white TV, and didn't get a VCR or video games until I was in junior high. My play time was spent outside, wandering around the neighborhood, making up games using sticks, rocks, and the few toys I had. I would run just for the feeling of running, search for interesting leaves and feathers and bugs, watch wild animals, and ride my bike until it became too dark to see.

It's always been important to me that my children learn to respect and enjoy nature and the outdoors. As an adult, a growing interest in backpacking and other outdoor sports solidified the importance of exposing my kids to the natural world. These days, so many children spend their leisure time in front of a television or computer, growing fat and unhealthy and disconnected from reality. People seem to live from house to car to mall to car to house, never stopping to feel the breeze on their cheek or to watch a flock of birds go by. People run from raindrops as if they will melt, and pass by beautiful flowers without a glance. Instead of climbing a hill to watch the sun set, they get on a treadmill at the climate controlled gym, with iPod or television blaring. They settle down onto their couches at night to watch the imaginary lives of others, rather than living their own.

I'm determined that my son will not squander his youth in front of the noisy box. He will know how wonderful it feels to hike through the woods, listening to the bird calls and the wind in the treetops. He will bate a hook to catch fish, jump in a leaf pile, climb a tree, and follow deer tracks across a snowy field. He will understand, through firsthand experience, the importance of preserving nature as it is, and limiting human encroachment. He will know our Mother for what she is, and hopefully feel the call to love Her and to care for the world She created.

NATURE, the gentlest mother,
Impatient of no child,
The feeblest or the waywardest,—
Her admonition mild
In forest and the hill
By traveller is heard,
Restraining rampant squirrel
Or too impetuous bird.
How fair her conversation,
A summer afternoon,—
Her household, her assembly;
And when the sun goes down
Her voice among the aisles
Incites the timid prayer
Of the minutest cricket,
The most unworthy flower.
When all the children sleep
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light her lamps;
Then, bending from the sky,
With infinite affection
And infiniter care,
Her golden finger on her lip,
Wills silence everywhere.

~ Emily Dickinson

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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