Big Plans

Although it’s pretty much delightful, I didn’t always plan on life as an M.O.B. (Mother of Boys). I wasn’t totally prepared for the noise, the dirt, or conversations like the one the other morning wherein Wade and T stood in the kitchen and explained to me the finer points of pee splatter.

But one thing I’m learning to count on is that little boys like to make big plans.

Image from here.

Saturday is Scotty’s favorite day of the week because he can count on a binge of Japanese Anime and going to 7-11 for Bug Juice with his dad. He gets up, makes his bed, and gets dressed in a fraction of the time these tasks usually occupy. He saves his favorite shorts for the occasion. He hesitates when he gets invited to a birthday party on a Saturday afternoon. The kid’s a creature of habit.

T’s plans are more spontaneous, but more involved. This morning we had to practice jumping off his bed and pantomime swimming for when he becomes a sky diver. Every few days he puts a new concoction in the freezer, usually one involving layers of peanut butter, and which I am severely chastised for cleaning out. The other morning he required my watering can because he was making a swimming pool for the ants—and after spending a few hours luring them with cracker crumbs, he had quite a colony ready for the plunge.

For months now, we’ve all been planning a big camping trip. We used it as a bribe to get the kids to eat healthier food. We had a chart on the fridge where we tracked our “superfood” servings for a month. Wade (the master planner) made reservations for 50 campers at the Spruces. We bought eggs and watermelon and plastic food storage bins. Scotty and I practiced dumb camp games and silly songs.

And we had a great time . . .

But in the middle of our second night—after Johnny woke up four times, Thomas battled intermittent night terrors, and Wade quelled Scotty’s panic attack over his swelling bug bites—Thomas sat up, belched, and barfed all over the tent. The second that acid hit the mountain air, Wade said decisively, “We’re going home.”

So we abandoned our plans, along with our camp, and at 3:30 wove our way down Big Cottonwood canyon, vomit punctuating our journey. After his third purge, T said weakly, “I think I’m sick.”

“Nothing like a little barf to ruin your appetite for camping,” I whispered to Wade.

“What do you mean, ruin?” Scotty asked, “This is fun!”

T chimed in, “Yeah, when can we go camping again, Dad?”

So we’re recovering and making some more big plans for another camping trip, later this summer.

After the sleeping bags get back from the cleaners.