Mountain High, River Deep, Person Tired

Years ago, when I was younger, stupider, and a lot more energetic than I am in my current incarnation, I used to go backpacking with my friend Karin and her mother.  Karin was, and is, tall and athletic, which became an issue because she was the one who used to set our hiking routes.  "Now, this part is going to involve some climbing," she'd say, pointing to an area on the topographical map where the little lines indicating rise in elevation were so closely packed together, they formed a black blotch on the paper, "but then we'll be traversing all through here!"  She'd point to an area that looked like easy hiking by comparison.  All of this would be true, of course, for people with legs approximately five feet long.  For stubby people like me,the trip would be one endless round of trying to hoist myself up, over, and around obstacles twice my height and keep up with two people who were both significantly faster hikers than I was.  Then (here's where the stupid part comes in), after bitching and moaning my way through the weekend, I'd let Karin talk me into going out again the next weekend on the ride home.

Finally Karin's mother and I begged her for a nice, easy hike - something scenic, please, that would take less than ten hours of hiking per day, with maybe just a teeny-weeny bit of a climb at the end.  She said she'd found one for us, a hike that took us past a picturesque waterfall.  As far as easy, part of the hike was on a boardwalk!  We were sold.  Which is how we found ourselves "climbing" on our hands and knees with full packs on our backs, desperately clinging to roots and branches on the Flume Slide Trail while skeptical day hikers looked askance at us as they traveled the other way.  See, Karin had confused the Flume Slide Trail, one of the hardest day hikes in the White Mountains, with the Flume Trail, which was the aforementioned scenic-hike-with-boardwalk.  By the time we got the issue sorted out, we were too far along to turn around and go back. The only way out of it was through.  So we just kept on plugging, stopping occasionally to catch our breath and take in the view - which was stunning, by the way, or would have been if we hadn't been too afraid of falling off the mountain to do more than glance over our shoulders.

Parenting young children is a lot like hiking the Flume Slide Trail.  At first you think it's going to be all panoramic views and gentle inclines, and no amount of proof to the contrary will convince you.  Then the reality of your situation hits: There's a lot of slogging uphill with your eyes planted on the ground in front of you, a lot of wiping noses and prompting thank-yous and tying shoes, and only occasionally do you get a chance to turn around and appreciate the view.  But recently we've had glimpses of a new phase.  We caught a peek when the girls spent half an hour - an eternity in little-kid time - playing contentedly downstairs in the playroom; and again when we went to a family potluck and the girls scattered, India to play with a pack of chattery little girls while Celeste towed an old dolly around the room in a toy stroller.  We find ourselves together while the kids are occupied elsewhere, and for a few golden moments they don't need our assistance or want our company.  At those times I briefly entertain thoughts of a world where I won't be on call 24-7 to do the million and one mundane things little kids can't do for themselves that we grownups do without even thinking:  Cutting up dinner.  Buckling seat belts.  Putting on pants right-side-out and facing in the right direction.  As much as I loved having little babies around the house, I love hearing the sound of little voices playing and talking together without needing me around even more.  I sometimes even allow myself to think that just maybe, this hike won't last forever and just maybe, we're actually managing to raise two reasonable human beings who are happy and healthy and at least somewhat well-adjusted.  Those moments make it possible for me to put my head down again and go back to slogging.  "Just you wait," Karin, who has an elementary school-aged daughter now herself advises, "it keeps getting better." So, even if believing what Karin tells me is a calculated risk, given our past history, I choose to believe her again now.

(P.S. For those of you who want to harsh my mellow by reminding me that if childhood is the Flume Slide Trail, adolescence is Mt. Everest; let me live in my little world a few years longer.  I work with subhumans on a daily basis, don't forget, so I know exactly what we're headed for.)

Comments

[Nancy]

My dear old - no young friend,
Be careful what you wish for....
The treasurer of the "you know what" club.

[Simi]

I liked this article very much.Its will very different message and interesting as well.I really like your attitude.Enjoy your life with great fun my friend!