On Motherhood and Mud Pies

Like most mothers, I reflected a lot yesterday on what it means to be a mom. I thought about the "successes": The lessons that sank in. The boo-boo's kissed. The beautiful moments between mother and child. And I thought about how often I have flat-out messed it up: The distracted interactions. The cuddles cut short. The childhood I haven't always allowed them to experience because it was, well, messy. Only by grace did my children remember more good than bad on Mother's Day.

I woke up yesterday to cards and kisses and breakfast in bed, but just the day before that I woke up to buzzing insects, and muddy flip flops, and wet grass. Because this Mother's Day weekend, we went camping. Which is something that I believed would never happen. Ever. Seriously, never. But yet, here we were, loading up our car on Friday afternoon. The children yelping with excitement. My husband trying to find the rachet straps for the kayak. And me, grabbing a bottle of wine and hand sanitizer, both of equal importance. See, I'm not comfortable in–well–nature. I'll hike in the woods all day long, but tell me to stay out after the sun has set, and my attitude shifts slightly.

I need to stop here and say that my girlfriend took our camping trip to a whole new level. I've never slept in a tent before, but even I knew that a flowery bedspread and a throw pillows atop a queen-sized air mattress was special.

My friend Serrine calls it "glamping" and that, my friends, is what it is.

Was I afraid that my children were going to slip on the bank and float away in the James River? Uh-huh. Did we see a snake in the outhouse bathroom? Don't ask. Did we have to strip Harper down and wash her tush with a hose because she'd evidently been bathing in mud? Yes. Did we have a fabulous night eating brats and s'mores, looking at the stars, and sitting up late around the campfire sharing stories with our dear friends? You bet. Amid all my worry about ticks and mosquitoes and dew on the grass, I was reminded that for one day, my children were free to roam. Free to explore. To make mistakes. To shout without being shushed. To collect snail shells and dig in mud. To have all my attention without interruption.

So I'm going to try to allow more this year: More risks. More messes. More impulsive adventures. Because I want us to build memories out of sticks, and dirt, and pails, and clams. And then, let's all take a bath.