It's going to be utter chaos. Who cares?!

We took the boys to Wilderness State Park this weekend for our final camping trip of the season. For four entire days we played “parenting at an away game,” which is how it feels whenever we venture away from home with the kids.

Arriving at the campsite is always the hardest. Mom and Dad are working to unhitch, get the campsite set up, change diapers, and coax a toddler onto the potty after a long car ride, and the kids want to run wild. Of course they do.

We had an amazing campsite with a large grassy area for the kids to play, site 347, on the end of the loop overlooking Lake Michigan. It was perfect for our family, but also on one of the main walking paths, which we didn’t mind because the site was fenced in.

One woman walked by and said, “I honor you.”

“For camping with the kids?” I assumed.

She nodded. “You’ve got your hands really full.”

I was chasing a butt-naked toddler around trying to get him to—you guessed it—go on the potty again, and Kai was making a beeline for the campsite next door.

Later, another couple walked by.

“They look like our boys when they were young,” the woman said, staring at Loren and Kai. Their kids were 18 months apart, too. I asked the couple if they took their boys camping when they were little. They nodded and their faces lit up. “Oh yes we did,” the man said. “We’d give anything to camp with our boys now. Our youngest just got married last week.”

I asked if they had any advice for us because it’s obviously chaos. The husband spoke with clarity and affection, “It’s going to be utter chaos,” he said, beaming. “Who cares?!”

“They’re going to jump in the muddy puddle after you tell them not to get wet,” he continued. “They’re going to play in the sand after you’ve just cleaned them up for the night. You’ve got to enjoy every minute of it.”

Before kids, I prided myself on my efficiency, control, and planning, considering these qualities to be some of my greatest strengths, but now, part of my journey as a mom is learning to let go of these things, and realizing that sometimes these qualities are actually my weakness.

Shortly after I finished college, I drove over ten hours to Pennsylvania for a Welcoming Prayer Retreat. I guess I’ve been working on this “letting go” thing for a few decades. Whenever I feel the need to cling too tightly, to try and control the situation, or hold onto irrational fears, I find comfort in “The Welcoming Prayer” from Father Thomas Keating:

Welcome, welcome, welcome. I welcome everything that comes to me today, because I know it's for my healing. I welcome all thoughts, feelings, emotions, persons, situations, and conditions. I let go of my desire for power and control. I let go of my desire for affection, esteem, approval, and pleasure. I let go of my desire for survival and security. I let go of my desire to change any situation, condition, person or myself. I open to the love and presence of God and God's action within. Amen.

Keating’s words help me slow down, to appreciate more fully the stage that I’m in. It’s easy for me to get wrapped up in my old ways, like on the family hike we took at Wilderness, when both kids wanted to walk, touch every fern, pick up every acorn, and watch the water in the creek roll on by for what seemed liked forever. And there I was, trying to rush them, trying to get everyone to the finish line so we could wash up, have lunch, and take naps, or even move ten f*cking feet forward in the next five f*cking minutes.

But gosh, when I was able to pull back and realize how beautiful it was to watch my kids explore nature this way—the exact thing I was hoping we’d do by taking this hike in the first place—I could begin to let it go.

Yes, touch all of the ferns and acorns. Pick up the pine needles and marvel at the trees. Feel the bark beneath your fingertips. Say hello to the birds and squirrels. Call them friends. Pause to listen to the leaves rustling in the wind, to look at the funny mushrooms, to pick up a fallen leaf and examine its changing color.

Just because the trail has a beginning and an end, I’m constantly reminding myself that the goal isn’t simply to finish the hike—the task, the day, the road trip, whatever. I often catch myself barreling through a task just to say that I finished it, to check it off and move on to the next thing. It’s easy to fall into this mindset in today’s do-all, be-all society.

When I pause, however, I can see that the goal—the most important one—is to enjoy every step of the way, even if that means slowing down, letting go, and lingering. My kids are the perfect teachers right now, because this is what they do best.

Kai wanders to the water’s edge, sits in its wake, and picks up rock after rock, throwing it into the water, delighting in each simple splash. He wants to push his bubble lawnmower down the street while we walk, wants to stop and pick every dandelion, wants to see every digger, bus, tractor, and truck go by.

Loren runs back and forth in the sand, occasionally throwing himself down with glee. He collects sticks and stones and builds something new. It falls, he builds again. He rides his bike in circles around the campsite, weaving between the trees, and creating an obstacle course from Lynx Levelers.

After three years of parenting, I’m coming around. My values are shifting. Oh, do I love efficiency, planning, and progress. But you know what? I’m learning (again and again and again) how to love something even more.

---