Camping With The 1%

I am back on my soap box. We went camping. If you've been reading for a while you know I love to camp. The stars, the campfire, the great outdoors. We had heard about a great state park campground that has a swimming pool. I had been trying to get a reservation there for about two years. I logged in and found there were several spots available - that should have been my first clue.

We arrived to find a tired looking park ranger on the gate. Not tired in a I don't get enough sleep kind of way. Tired in a worn down, resigned kind of way. She told us the pool was "broken" - loud wails from the kids. She told us the trails were all closed because of multiple mountain lion sightings - worried whimper from mom. She told us the top bathroom was out of order - panicked look from increasingly deflated mom.

"Enjoy!" said the ranger with 'please don't take it out on me' written all over her face.

No problem - these are all things we can take in stride, not really a big deal. Our campsite was shady, large and had a trail down to a creek. Idyllic, with one exception - poison oak. The entire site was surrounded by it. It was around all the trees that the children hoped to climb in. It was around the tent on all sides. It grew over the trails to the creek, the bathroom, the water pump, the trash. It was literally out of control in the park. The bathrooms were dirty, old and broken in various ways. Sigh.

Here's why I am on my soap box. This camp ground is in the heart of California's Wine Country. All around are vineyards and winery tasting rooms. The towns are all full of shops selling incredibly expensive tchotchkes. The restaurants are $30 per entree affairs. The simplest hotel rooms are $250 a night. The entire region drips of wealth It is a 1% mecca. It made me sad. There are over 100 wineries in the area - where you pay around $30 in each to taste some wines and nibble on nuts, mustards and jams but there isn't enough money to maintain the state park in the region.

I know the issue is complicated - things involving politics always are. The California state park system is broken. The last several state park campsites we have stayed in have had major problems which apparently there is no money to fix. I find myself worried about our priorities. Preserving state parks, keeping places for our children to explore nature, allowing for the simple - should be important but it doesn't seem to be. I like to take a bite out of life and enjoy all things. I don't object to wine tasting or pricey art pieces - your money is yours to spend as you see fit but I do care that there seems to be less and less balance.

We seem driven to make everything sparkly and exclusive, thrilling or unique. We seem less concerned about stewardship of our lands. Have we learned nothing from history?
If each of the surrounding wineries donated $500 - significant repairs could be undertaken to preserve this community treasure. If each park visitor completed one job or repair in their stay think what could be achieved.
Food for campfire thought.

Empty Nest.

Our two little birdies flew the nest. Amazingly, I saw them both leave. Big bird went first in the morning. His parents came by and tweeted repeatedly at him in a somewhat frantic way. The bird equivalent of shouting. He hopped up onto the basket edge and flapped his wings a few times in an apparent avian pre-flight check then when his parents flew off - he followed. On leaving the basket edge he dipped in the air for his first few wing flaps then soared off over our roof.

Wilbur tweeted in what seemed to be a forlorn way for quite some time. He hopped up onto the basket edge and back down into the basket several times, eventually he settled back into the basket nest for a nap. Still much smaller than his sibling he retained some of the white fluff poking out through his feathers giving him the appearance of out of control eyebrows. He stayed hidden from view all day.

Around sunset I heard the frantic tweeting again. There on the roof were the parent birds and there on the nest edge was Wilbur. The parents flew off. Wilbur stayed put.
They came back around calling again. This time he hopped up onto a branch and flapped his wings. I found I was holding my breath. His parents flew off he leaned forward and flapped then hung his head and hopped back into the nest. His parents didn't return and I wondered if he would be left behind. They came back after an eternity of twenty minutes. This time he flew. On leaving the nest he lost height and went rushing towards the ground. My gasp brought the children out of bed. Wilbur though, would have his Hollywood ending, he recovered a mere foot of the ground and flew off over the roof with his family. I never saw them again.

I felt sad, unrequited. Why leave the neighborhood? If we were good enough for a safe nesting place why not live here? I had loved the birdsong.
The parallels for my own young eventually leaving clanged like a giant bell in my head.
I take things personally. I have a big soft heart that is easily bruised. I need to start preparing now - it might take me a long time to be brave about the leap. I need to allow my little birdies every opportunity to be away from me, independent and vulnerable. I need to practice watching them fly away in preparation for the day they move their nest. At least they will come home for the holidays, right?

School's Out.

Here's the universal truth of parenting. No matter how much you plan for a fantastic adventure, interest and excitement filled summer your children will remember something completely unrelated to your efforts.

Today we went to a marine hospital to see rescued seal pups. Cute, furry seals, a feel good message, a pretty setting with the beach in the background, a beautiful sunny day - what did my kids love? The gift shop.

The lesson is - don't try too hard. Listen to them - what do they really want to do.
Simplicity is usually the answer. Why won't I take my own advice?
Summer needs to interest me too. I have twelve (long) weeks stretching out in front of me. I will need to get some mental stimulation out of this time. It occurs to me that this is what it really is all about. The places we go are my choice. When we go - up to me. So I just need to be a little clever.

We can go see any museum exhibit that I want to see if I throw an ice-cream in at the end. We can trail round the department store as long as we ride the escalator and stop by the toy shop. We can re-plant my garden as long as there's a refreshing trip to the pool at the end. Luckily for my girls, Disneyland thrills me too.

I know that when my kids go back to school their essay on what they did this summer will not reflect the time invested, the effort made nor the care taken. Their summer will be measured by the number of popsicles consumed and the number of trips through the sprinklers. Ask me if I remember that at week six.

Underdog.

A few years ago I came across a blog called 'The Wind in My Vagina.' I was appalled but intrigued so I stepped in for a closer, self righteous, look. When I discovered it was written by a Dad about his little girl - my indignation, nay, outrage went higher. Then I read the story behind the tagline and decided that although I thought it tasteless and a bit exploitive for this Dad to tell this story about his little girl - it was innocent and really quite funny.

Fast forward to last friday when I took the four year old to the park. She is now a big girl swing fan. Complete with underdog and sky high pushes. On the swing next to us was a starry eyed toddler being pushed very slowly by her sleepy eyed Dad. On a park bench a few feet away was mom, nursing their three week old son. (Sleepy Dad now excused.)
The toddler was fascinated by the four year old. her constant chatter, her infectious giggle and her endless desire to go "HIGHER!"

The Dad and I struck up a conversation about newborns, sleep deprivation, do the questions and chatter of a four year old, ever stop? You know the usual parent small talk, until we are interrupted by my girl.

"Mom it tickles!"

"What does sweetie?"

"The wind in my bagina."

(We can save the conversation about correctly naming body parts for another day.)

"?"

"When you push me forward on the swing, the wind tickles my bagina."

"Thanks for telling me." I blithely retort, trying not to laugh or turn scarlet and hoping that I have stopped the need for a third affirmation of her new found big girl swing fun. I turn to make a flippant comment to the Dad about how much he has to look forward to and am met by crickets chirping. The family have bolted. I assume that I can take from this that the phrase is still as jarring as it was when I first came across it a few years back. The only difference is that I now understand the desire to blog about it.