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Encounters of the Kid KindLife With A Man |
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Give Me The Great INdoors! |
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© 2003 Carole Moore |
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I am at home with the great indoors, addicted to climate-controlled air. I don't want to sink my toes into a grass carpet – I want the real thing: nylon, wool or Berber – the pile doesn't matter as long as there aren't any ants crawling around in it. The outdoors is overrated,
anyway. It has bugs and erratic weather and lacks plumbing, pillow-top mattresses and microwave ovens. I'm one of those women who shouldn't spend the night where I can't plug in my hairdryer. Knowing that,
you'd think I'd have enough sense to marry someone with my same sensibilities. A soul mate – a man who holds his breath from the house to the car so he doesn't breathe unairconditioned air. But, no. I chose one with a
boat, an outdoor cook stove and thermoses in three different sizes. At first, we both harbored secret ambitions of converting the other. I saw us curled up in front of a gas fireplace sipping champagne on our
anniversary. He envisioned us under the stars, zipping into the same sleeping bag. My husband seemed content enough, spending his weekends unwashed, sitting around a campfire with his buddies, the smell of
freshly caught emergency hotdogs roasting over a fire. Meanwhile, I curled up in our king-sized bed on his camping weekends and slept late. Life was good. Then we had children – two in two years. That
kept us too busy for camping or sleeping late – at least most of the time. But it never occurred to me that one day they'd grow up and err on their father's side of the DNA fence. I – the committed indoor woman – had
birthed outdoor kids. Hot and sweaty is fine with them. In fact, the hotter and sweatier, the better. And they like to sleep on the ground without the benefit of clean sheets, eating food blackened over a camp
fire, going potty behind a tree. I slaved to avoid this recreational arc and, for years this worked: my spouse and kids appeared quite happy without me. Then, one day I was ambushed by a particularly persuasive
child. My son, who always seems to find my emotional center, looked at me with big, blue eyes and stabbed me to the core. "Mom, will you go camping with me?" I tried reasoning with him. I told him how
there were so many things I needed to do here at the house. I had laundry piled to the sky. I had an article to write. Someone needed to feed the cats. Plus, it took so long to drive to the park and find a place to camp.
"And I haven't had time to pack anything," I added, pointing out that the weekend was almost gone. He looked downcast. I crumbled. "One weekend soon, honey, I promise." I blurted out, then slapped my
hand over my mouth. Since then, I've had to work hard to avoid being turned into a pu-pu platter for mosquitoes. And I continue to beseech the Fairy Godmother of Useless Indoor Women to show mercy upon me and
help me to stall. Every time the subject comes up, I cringe and silently beg my child to understand I wasn't meant to sleep on the cold, hard ground where lots of bugs can crawl across my defenseless, sleeping form.
And so far, it's working. He's respected my wishes and probably, deep down, understands that his dear old mother belongs inside the house at night, not out of it. And, besides, he's a good boy who loves his mom.
That, plus I doubled his allowance.
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