In Bloom

The golden crocus reaches up

To catch a sunbeam in her cup.

Walter Crane

Sadie and I have been taking a lot of walks lately. Nature discovery walks. Through town, around the neighborhood, in the woods. Just to see what we can see. As spring arrives in Newburyport, there has been a lot for us to gaze upon. Tiny buds dot the gray limbs of waking trees. The backyard grass has turned green, its blades reaching tall toward the sun’s warmth. Spring flowers are blooming, too. First the crocuses came, followed by the bright, full forsythia, then the daffodils—and by the looks of the thick green leaves pushing through the mulch, the tulips just might bloom in time for Easter.

Sadie is full of wonder at the changes she sees. She wants to stop and feel the soft petals of the flowers, and stick her nose deep into the blooms. She reaches up to pinch the tight tree buds between her fingers. She stops and silences me until we find the unseen, but very talkative bird, or makes me follow a cat to its favorite sunning spot. Sometimes it takes 30 minutes just to make it a couple of blocks. But that’s what the walks are about. We’ve nowhere to go, no place to be. Just together, the two of us. In between our slow steps, and her soft soprano chatter, though, I notice she’s growing up and that the discoveries on our walks also belong to me.

Sadie Leigh. Her name actually means princess—but, I swear it was unintentional ... okay, secondary at best. Truth be told, I chose her name because it sounded sweet on my tongue, like banana pudding in summertime. Her middle name, Leigh, comes from her great grandfather, my grand daddy and namesake, Howard Lee. And like banana pudding, her name is something of a tribute to the deep southern roots on my mother's side of the family.

So many people, upon meeting little Sadie, have a story to tell about a Sadie they once knew. Every one of them is a tale of a woman remembered for her kindness, beloved for her goodness. Each time we hear such a story, it’s as if a message is being sent out into the universe to remind me of the special person who has been placed in my care.

But, as you know, before Sadie came Henry—the awesome little guy this blog is usually about, the fellow who has probably stolen the spotlight most days of Sadie’s babyhood, which I think is natural. When she came into the world, he was just coming into his own. He was working on using the potty, starting school, learning to ride a bike, and we were just starting down the path with ADHD. And she was, well, mostly sleeping. I think for any parent, when the second child enters the picture, it takes time to fully realize you have a whole new being in your midst, that this new child is her own person—she will sleep differently, eat differently, and speak differently than your first child (the one you now know so well). She will grow differently, learn differently. Everything about her will unfold differently. It’s a game changer for certain, but it’s also a pretty cool adventure. Now that Sadie is almost two-and-a-half (on Easter Sunday to be exact), I’m seeing her in ways I never have before. This is her time to come into her own.

Lately, she’s been walking around with a big sequined purple tiara (that’s constantly sliding down her forehead), bracelets on both arms and a bright, metallic handbag in which she carries her Minnie Mouse cell phone, one yellow-haired Little People girl and a Littlest Pet Shop puppy dog. She often slips on my high heels—her favorite pair is a set of red canvas, open-toed wedge heels with flowers on top—and pulls a dress (any dress) on over pajamas, and just clicks around the hallway full of pride. She has many thoughts to express, and even more observations. She wears her heart on her sleeve, which means tears can come easily—when she feels sad she sticks out her bottom lip and her big brown eyes fill up with water like tiny flower vases. One tear melts you and you feel you would trade your right arm to make her smile again. But her sensitive nature also means she always has a hug, a kiss and an “I love you” at the ready, and she knows just by looking at you if you need one (or all). She's smart. She" tells it like it is." She uses her manners impeccably well for age two, so long as it suits her. If she could, she would stay in her jammies all day. She sings when she’s happy. She says hello to everyone she meets. She will almost always choose fruit over candy, and she's never met a Cheerio she didn't like. Her legs are so strong. She's like a miniature Mary Lou Retton (or should I say she's like a Mary Lou Retton). Climbing, jumping, running. It's pretty typical to find her in her downward-facing dog pose doing her daily "yoyo" (read: yoga). And she already swims like a champ.

Her baby days have come and gone and suddenly in front of me, stands a little girl. Her [finally-growing] hair is a glossy, flossy mix of caramel and gold, framing her round rosy cheeks, but not yet hiding those trademark inquisitive ears. Love for life and innate joy leaps out of her in invisible, yet palpable waves of energy that draw you in. She is a southern spirit after all: sweet and feisty. Pure fun to watch, pure love. I feel very blessed to be with her right now, and to watch the many layers of who she is unfold, petal by petal, blooming into the beautiful person she was meant to be—even before she had her name: Princess Sadie.

How to Believe

For even the most spiritual among us (and I am one of them), believing in what we cannot see, touch, measure or mark on a calendar can be pretty challenging—especially when we’re faced with a seemingly insurmountable problem or when we’re asked to understand a concept so abstract that our brains shut down and announce, “Sorry, no template found.” But to be able to believe is to be able to hope, and hope is one of our greatest allies in life.

So how do we even begin to teach our children how to believe?

Last week Henry lost the teeny-tiny key to a very special bank he’d received from his grandfather at Thanksgiving. Every night Henry’s been pouring the change from the bank onto his bed, counting it and placing it coin-by-coin back inside the bank. It’s been a soothing and important activity for him. So in some respects, his reaction to the lost key was understandable. You see, before he even looked for the key, he burst into tears: “What if I never find it? What if I can never open the bank again?” He was so paralyzed with grief he was unable to believe—even when logic might have told him that the key was probably still right in his bedroom.

I sat down on the floor with him and hugged him and I told him that we would find the key, but that he had to believe we would find it, too. Finally, he nodded and stood to help me look. We found it within a few minutes nestled deep in a bin of Hot Wheels cars. “See,” I said. “I knew we would find it.” His response: “But, how did you know?”

“Faith” is coupled with the word “practice” for good reason: to believe in the face of hardship takes work. It takes patience and a positive attitude. It takes the repeated daily action of squelching worry and releasing the mind to a healthy dose of magical thinking. It also takes trusting in the goodness of the world and the people we’re sharing it with. Some days we just need to pull on our invisible t-shirts that say “Everything is Possible” in big bold letters, and face the day. Of course, what’s possible might take a different or unexpected form from what we originally envisioned, but if we don’t purposely widen our eyes, the possible might never come into view.

That’s why I think teaching our children how to believe starts by cultivating their capacity for awe—exposing them to wonder as much as possible and teaching them to not only take time to marvel at something, but to appreciate the feeling they get when they witness the impossible. Out in the woods, down by the pond and in your own backyard—this is where awesome is happening all the time. You don’t need to go far to find something in nature that defies logic … from the ant carrying a load five times her size over unimaginable distances to the seed that pushes through a clump of dirt to become a beautiful flower. It’s the way a snowflake looks through a microscope, and then the way it unites with other snowflakes to beautify and quiet whatever it falls upon. Or, how Venus dazzles even on a cloudy winter night.

But, it takes more than just pointing out these miracles. We also need to demonstrate our own amaze-ability in front of our children. Maybe that means shutting off the radio in the car to enjoy the full moon in silence, or going on a special trip after dinner just to watch a blue summer sky melt into orange and pink and purple over the horizon. Maybe it simply means saying “Wow!” a little more often, and, “Can you even believe that?!”

Because moment by moment, wonder by wonder, they just might. And when they do, everything really is possible. That’s what I think, anyway.

Merry Christmas!

Moss Grows Fat on Our Countertop

One recent, gently overcast fall afternoon (after kindergarten let out and before dinner needed to be on the stove) we decided to take a stroll through the Little River Nature Trail, a short but richly diverse trail that runs between Hale Street and Storey Avenue in Newburyport—a project maintained by the good people of the Parker River Clean Water Association.

With a bag of Goldfish crackers in hand and boots on our feet, Henry, Sadie and I padded down a thin, sloping and softly muddied trail that led to an expanse of worn blacktop, which used to be part of the old I-95. Sadie took a few stuntman-like tumble-rolls over tree roots hidden by fallen leaves before we reached the blacktop, but when we did, both children went running down the “trail.” They were very excited. We had come to Little River trail in the hopes of seeing the “Happy Beaver Family” that is said to inhabit the marshes, in a dam about a quarter mile down the path.

When we reached the vantage point with the green sign pointing to the beavers’ dam, we sat and ate crackers and waited. And waited. And waited some more. We talked about the work it must have taken to build the sturdy dam, and told stories about how we thought the beavers spent their time (Henry suggested they played board games). When our stories were spent, we tried to tempt the beaver family out of hiding with Goldfish crackers, but the tiny colored fish just made rings on the still water, spinning and drifting in solitude. Finally, we decided to head back. It was nearing 5 o’clock, the clouds were thickening and the air was turning cold. 

Our heads hung low because the adventure we’d planned did not happen as we had hoped. Henry dragged his chosen walking stick through the mud and leaves and along the bountiful strips of moss that grew so heavily on patches of dirt all along the old highway, up the trees and over the rocks. He noticed that the tiny green plants gave way easily under the point of his branch, and he stopped to write his name in a bed of cushion moss. Sadie mimicked him. I tucked my icy fingers into my coat pockets and sat down beside them as they played in the moss.

Moss is magical after all (not just because it had the awesome power to siren in my two young children) ... it's actually a tough little plant that predates the dinosaurs. Its allure has given it major garden cred, too, especially in Japanese gardens. Personally, moss has always been a central character in the archetypal forest of my childhood imagination, growing where fairies and nymphs hide behind ferns and painting every surface of the shadowy woods in bright green Rorschach shapes. I also read that during World War I moss was used to dress wounds due to its absorbency—and long before then, pre-industrial people used it for building, clothing and more (even diapers). Today, moss, a component of peat, is mined for fuel. Some varieties of moss take on even loftier roles, like smoking the malt for Scotch Whiskey. Who knew? (Wikipedia. That’s who.) But the moss at Little River has a simple, humble purpose—to lie around and just be beautiful.

To our untrained eyes, we could discern two different types of moss growing along the trail: cushion moss (named for the way it grows in a circular pattern and has a puffed pillow appearance) and hair cap moss (which grows in sandy soil and has tiny starburst leaves that reach up and out like upside down tree roots).

I particularly “liched” the hair cap moss because it was so intricate and yet so soft to the touch. It looks hard and spiky, but feels like feathers. I wouldn’t even let Henry disturb it. The cushion moss did not fare as well. We turned over its underlying dirt and broke it apart, built tiny dirt roads for passing ants and we poked gaping holes in its landscape. When at last the trail began to get dark, Henry pocketed two clumps of cushion moss—one in each side of his jeans.

At home, we gave the two green clumps a small bowl to share and some fresh water. They looked like two scoops of chocolate ice cream with lots of green sprinkles. We still care for them lovingly every day—and, for now any way, our pet moss works better for us than a new puppy.

The Once and Future Playground

If you’ve been reading The Mud Pie Mission since its inception, you know I am a believer in fate. The concept of the Nature Movement, especially in regard to helping alleviate symptoms and provide alternative coping methods for children with ADHD, was introduced to me at a time when I was very much seeking answers for my five-year-old son, who was diagnosed in spring 2011. Now that we’re a few months into our mission, I can tell you with certainty that the purposeful reintroduction of nature into my son’s daily life, and more importantly the commitment to unstructured time in nature has impacted Henry in so many positive ways. On our outdoor adventures, I’ve watched with a full heart as all the beautiful parts of him shine forth easily and comfortably. He is not overwhelmed; he is calm and focused. The anxiety and pressure I sometimes see him struggle with in structured situations is a faint memory. In the quiet of the outdoors, he is confident and bold—he is in his element. Like love, Nature empowers us to be and embrace our true selves. And there is nothing quite like Henry being Henry.

I think fate was at work again in August when, coincidentally, during our visit to my childhood home (West Chester, Ohio), the Cincinnati Nature Center was unveiling its new Nature PlayScape—one of the nation’s largest pioneer efforts to provide a safe area of natural playing ground for children. How fortunate that we would have the opportunity to experience what will surely become a model for families, communities, schools and churches across the country that subscribe to the Nature Movement and all it has to offer our children at this particular time in history—when technology’s impossible pace and hyper-yet-sometimes-vapid connectedness is, in some ways, stealing away our essential selves and our innate abilities to connect, heal, renew and, well, be human ... Because now, I get to share it with you.

The Marge and Charles Schott Nature PlayScape, located inside the Cincinnati Nature Center’s preserve of land in Milford, Ohio, offers 1.6 acres of “native plants, fallen logs, boulders, rocks, water and soil … and very few man-made structures,” as described by Kristi Masterson of the CNC. What’s even more special is that the land devoted to the playscape is fenced in for safety—something parents cite as a major obstacle when it comes to letting their children fully embrace nature in the way they did when they were young (and the world was a better place, etc.). The CNC partnered with the University of Cincinnati Arlitt Center to make the playscape a reality, and even consulted with Richard Louv, author of “Last Child in the Woods,” to help guide them in this important project.

Now to tell you the experience of this magical place.

At first, as we moved our eyes over the gently sloping hills and trails, the rocky creek with its grand waterfall, and all the mysterious tree-shaded alcoves, it felt like we had simply happened upon a really great “neck of the woods”—everything that makes a forest fun all in one place, yet still wide open. Just leaves, trees, pebbles, and fallen branches. Even the benches and gathering areas were rustic and unassuming.

That said, I carefully watched the eyes of the children who entered—knowing some of them had never been to a playground such as this. Even Henry who had come to love the woods, questioned why I had even called it a playground. Where was the slide? No sandbox? No rope climb or zip line? What about the big, giant pirate ship to look out for the bad guys? This was a different kind of playground, I told him. This was a place where you get to choose your own adventures.

As we turned the corner into one of the many discovery zones along the trail (some even specially designed for the preschool set like Sadie, my littlest), we found children playing in a wide and (what seemed to them accidental) pool of pebbles. They were scooping them up and letting them run through their fingers, making pictures with sticks they’d found lying nearby, filling up hollowed out tree stumps that doubled as tiny seats. This was a sandbox! We had similar experiences throughout the playscape. Children hunted and gathered for the items they needed to create their own toys and tools—and instead of everyone fighting over a shovel or truck, they each had exactly what they wanted and needed born of their own imaginations.

Down at the edge of the creek, children didn’t even stop to ask before pulling off their shoes, peeling away their socks and tip-toeing through the shallow water. Some took leaves and made boats, others dropped in rocks to watch the rings they’d create on the surface of the water. Henry and I sat at the top of the waterfall where we could listen to its sounds and feel the heat coming up off the rock. After that, we came upon a sculpture of tree branches that had been shaped into a sky-high tee-pee; and we added to it! By then, Henry was having real fun. We raced each other up and down the trails. We lifted our noses in the air and tried to identify scents of flowers that came on rogue breezes. We discovered completely untamed sections of the playscape that we claimed as our own. And we followed the map to the great gray boulder, where Henry stood and looked out over the playscape. Who needs a pirate ship?

It was an awesome experience. And it makes me hope along with the CNC that this special place will inspire others to create similar playscapes throughout the country. Masterson said the Nature PlayScape has already welcomed visitors from far and wide, coming to Ohio specifically to experience this new way of play.

I wrote this piece today to do my part to spread the word, to plant the seed of possibility—to be part of the movement.

You can view the slideshow of our day at the Cincinnati Nature Center’s Nature PlayScape by visiting the Mud Pie Mission on Facebook. I encourage you to learn more about this project and read the rest of the story at CNC and University of Cincinnati online. Note that the Nature PlayScape is open year-round, providing children an all-seasons experience with nature in a safe, accessible environment. Check out the special events they'll be hosting throughout the fall and winter featuring stories by the bonfire, hot chocolate—and even maple-sugaring.

Beyond Boundaries

When I was a little girl, I was the type of child who’d carefully study my mom, dad and older siblings (anybody, really) in order to ascertain the exact right way of doing everything, from riding a bike to behaving in church to blowing bubblegum. I could focus my attention so pointedly during my observations that I could discern and then replicate, for example, the ideal length of chewing time, proper positioning of the mouth, exact isolation of the tongue, and optimal release of air—to achieve the perfectly rounded, perfectly nose-touching (watermelon-flavored) Bubblicious bubble. It took me about two hours one summer afternoon when I was six years old (I’m still pretty good at it).

What I’m trying to say is that I’ve always applied the watch-and-learn, never-surrender-until-it's-right model, and I’ve always found success with it. Okay, almost always.

There is but one awesome entity that has tested this heretofore tried-and-true method, one challenge so massive that it can be conquered by no single method at all, one insurmountable force so powerful that it might very well be beyond mastery. That force is Parenting. It’s unpredictable, it’s messy, it has no set rules, and if/when, after grueling research and a series of failures, you finally manage to establish rules … the game changes.  It’s a perfectionist’s [recurring] nightmare.

Only after the birth of my second child did I start to learn how to let go of the idea of perfection, or the exact right way of doing things. Quite simply, it became too defeating to live like that, and it was taking away from the joy of parenting. Releasing myself from certain standards has been a process, though. I’m still learning to let go, to go with the flow, to live in the moment—all that stuff. But I feel like I’ve come a long way. I remain a proud perfectionist in much of what I do, but as for parenting, I am now a happy (somewhat calmer) realist, and that feels great.

I was reminded of this personal journey earlier in the week when I brought the kids to one of our favorite local playgrounds—Woodman Park. This park is off the beaten path, it’s small, it’s surrounded by woods and it’s almost always empty. That’s kind of why I like it. It’s a place I can go with the kids and have real one-on-one time with them. While one or two playmates are ideal for Henry and serve to bring out the best in him, a crowd of children can sometimes be over-stimulating for him and (being his mother’s child), he gets overwhelmed trying to pay attention to everyone and everything in the very intense manner he wants to; as a result, he might shut down, melt down or go totally wild (which can be totally fun, but totally exhausting).

At Woodman, we can spend an hour sitting quietly together in the toddler play structure make-believing it’s a Delta airplane headed for Ohio. Henry pilots the plane and even stewards from time to time. We’ve gone as far as Hawaii! We’ve also learned how to shoot baskets at Woodman, how to be brave and climb the taller play structure, and how to race down the dueling side-by-side slides. But what’s even more special about this park is that it sits in the middle of a wooded area, allowing us to sometimes wander off up the nearby trail or across the field to play in the open grass. Since embarking on our mission to spend more unstructured time outdoors, I’ve noticed we’re wandering off more often than not—and having even better adventures.

On Thursday, a little girl—probably two-and-a-half years old—and her grandma came to play at Woodman while we were there. She had her dolly with her and she laughed and smiled as she pushed her dolly in the swing. She was somewhat timid about things like climbing too high, and going too fast down the slide; but she loved watching Henry and Sadie fearlessly scrambling up and through the structure. I could see the admiration in her eyes and the light of motivation going off in her head. Her grandma encouraged her, but followed close behind ready to assist and ward off accidents. Still, the little girl wasn’t quite ready yet. Neither was grandma. In that moment, I recalled being in the grandma’s shoes with Henry at this exact playground when he was almost two, and holding him back from climbing for fear he would lose his balance—all the while the rest of the playgroup kids were jumping, hanging and climbing like monkeys.

Things were different now. This particular day was proof because the kids were playing so freely and competently, and I felt secure in their abilities (and in my instinct to trust). But soon enough, Sadie tired of the slides and swings. I called her over to look at a black-and-orange flying bug—the very same type of bug we’d watched ride the waves at the beach recently. We decided to follow him. He led us beyond the boundaries of the playground and over to a tasty and shaded leaf at the bottom of a small nearby hill. We sat watching it and talking. Henry came over, too.

The little girl and her grandma were intrigued by our stillness, wondering what had instantly captivated two rambunctious children to the point of stillness and silent wonder. They, too, wandered off the playground to get a closer look. I got the sense that it was the first time they had done that.

Our bug-watching turned into races up and down the grassy hill. Henry and Sadie laughed and laughed as they tried to steady their pace and bodies on the downhill runs. Henry was happy to win most of the races. Every once in a while, they’d scoot down the hill on their bottoms, even with slides a stone’s throw away—it was just more fun this way.

The little girl still stood and watched. Her grandma encouraged her again to join the fun and run with us. Surprisingly, she started running. She felt safer in the grass, and after just one or two runs she was visibly more confident in her own abilities. She wore a proud smile as she conquered the hill. I could tell from the waving of her arms and the spinning of her skirt that she felt free and happy.

By then, Henry had run past the field all the way out to the tree line to collect sticks (and possibly use the bathroom, sorry to say). Sadie had taken to curtseying to each of the white button-top mushrooms dotting the field right before lopping them off by the neck and tossing them in the air. I got up off the grass and followed after her. When I looked back across the field, I saw the grandma and the girl still playing on the hill. I felt happy that we had helped them have a new, spontaneous adventure that day. And I was grateful to recognize that I had finally arrived at a point where I not only welcomed spontaneous adventures, but enjoyed the heck out of them. The perfectionist in me felt satisfied, too, because in the imperfect world of parenting, I had managed to shift my definition of perfection and be happy with who I am as a parent (for now).

Seagulls Don’t Like Lettuce

In an alternative reality, this blog post would have been about the awesome experience I had with my children watching the sun set over the beach … how we’d all lounged together peacefully atop the quilt Granny Solomon had stitched for Henry when he was born … eaten freshly-picked strawberries and Trader Joe’s snacks … watched the sky turn from blue to orange to night … all while humming Kumbaya. But the real story of what unfolded the day we sought the sunset is slightly different, and more bird-brained.

For one thing, we’d picked up “freshly made” Subway sandwiches and Doritos for our picnic dinner. And for another, the tune we’d been rocking out to on our drive was “Sunglasses at Night” (we’re in a collective Corey Hart phase right now).

In fact, the song was still running through my head as we laid down Granny’s blanket (that part is true), because I remember being surprised at how blindingly bright and high the sun still was at 6:15 p.m. It was scheduled to set at 8:11 p.m. A lot of earthly rotation needed to happen in two hours, I thought to myself.

We sat down and unwrapped our sandwiches. Henry and Sadie split a foot-long tuna sub, as always, and, it was a complete and immediate mess, as always: mayonnaised tuna fish smeared on cheeks and fingers, strands of shredded lettuce falling to the blanket like confetti, flimsy pickles stuck in the sand. The good news is that while moms do not love messes, seagulls live for them.

Within seconds, a gang of five silver-backed gulls inched toward us, led by a particularly hungry-looking elder with red eyes and ruffled feathers. We were easy targets because the crowd of beach-goers had dissipated substantially by that time. When Sadie, the bird lady, saw the gulls, she dropped her sandwich, stood up and started dancing and clapping. Her convulsions did nothing to faze the scavengers. The pack separated, but only in order to surround the blanket on all sides. They stood at a safe but still intimidating two feet from us, tamping their gray toes in the sand and periodically squawking their demands for food. Sadie and Henry squawked back, and I could see in their eyes how much they wanted to share their dinner with the birds.

“Don’t feed them,” I said. “If you feed them, more will come.”

As soon as I spoke those words, I regretted it. What I should have said was, “If you feed them, they will go away and never come back, and won’t that be sad?” But it was too late.

Henry started throwing food to the gulls … but the boy loves a Subway tuna sub, so what he threw to the gulls was … lettuce. He just scooped up all he could off the bread and tossed it at them. The birds nearly collided heads darting for the shreds of lettuce, each one greedily grabbing a mouthful.

To my surprise, just as quickly as they’d gobbled them up, they’d spit them back out. Seagulls don’t like lettuce! Mother Nature’s trash collectors don’t like lettuce. They’re not big fans of pickle either. The birds waddled backward in the sand, disappointed.

Suddenly, I felt bad we’d let them down.

I looked at Sadie who had taken three bites out of her sandwich. I knew she wouldn’t finish it. I also knew the kids wanted to see the birds happy (or maybe I did). So, I broke my own rule. I opened up her sandwich and scooped out some seriously generous portions of tuna and flung them toward the gulls, divvying up the food as fairly as I could: first to the elder, then to each of the younger birds.

“What seagulls really like is tuna,” I said.

“Yeah,” Henry said. “Seagulls love tuna!”

We all joined in, feeding the seagulls probably more than what any of us actually ate. (Seagulls like Doritos, too.) Luckily, we did not draw a huge flock of other seagulls. As you know, seagulls can be aggressive and downright dangerous sometimes. A Jersey Shore gull once stole a whole funnel cake right out of my sister-in-law’s hands in Atlantic City. They aren't the cleanest birds around either. But, these twilight gulls of ours were pretty friendly, all things considered. Sadie, of course, was over-the-moon with the experience.

Speaking of the moon, we never made it long enough to see the moon rest over the beach that night. After dinner, the kids played in the surf a little, but eventually Sadie became too tired to tolerate the beach. She hung on my leg crying. She laid herself in the low tide and moaned. She dipped her pacifier in the sand and stuck it back in her mouth, then cried more. I had no choice but to abort the sunset mission.

Still, we enjoyed our dinner with the gulls. When we got home, I was able to sneak in one book with sleepy Sadie: “Salty Seagull: A Tale of an Old Salt,” by Suzanne Tate. Sadie closed her eyes before the last page, but she still had a smile on her face.

Make Outdoor Time Outstanding

I love Todd Christopher’s book, “The Green Hour.” It’s a helpful go-to guide for getting the most out of being outdoors with your kids, and it’s broken down into useful chapters based on location, too: backyard, trails, meadows, shore, etc. What I want to share with you today are a few quick tips he gives for making those experiences enjoyable, rewarding and memorable every time … mixed in with a few points of my own to support Christopher’s wisdom.

Simple and Flexible

“Wonder unfolds at a child’s scale and pace, which are necessarily smaller and slower than an adult’s.” – T.C.

Generally speaking, I try not to do too much or expect too much during our outings. I don’t count on the kids to last very long, and I don’t set my standards high. As Christopher says, there will be frequent stops and even more frequent questions. With one of my children firmly planted in the why stage at 5 1/2, and the other teetering between timid and needing to be tamed at 21 months; I never know what our adventures will bring. Sometimes I am running back and forth between them, shouting answers to one, and just plain shouting at the other (DON’T EAT THAT!). There are days we might walk a mile, and there are days we might walk only a yard or two. That’s why I very rarely “plan” the adventures. Things run more smoothly when I slow down and go at their pace. The kids are my compass. I read their interests and supplement our experiences based on what is happening in the moment. That becomes part of the adventure. Because we go into it blind, we can't help but come out with something surprising and special—whether it’s a new discovery, a renewed sense of spirit, or the memory of being wildly silly together.

Positive and Powerful

“… knowledge isn’t a prerequisite for exploration. There’s nothing at all wrong with saying, ‘I don’t know.’” – T.C.

Reading this, I’m pretty sure I exhaled. I mean, I’m no walking encyclopedia. I know some obscure things and some general scientific explanations, but overall, ask me something about nature and I’m more inclined to tell you a good story about it without actually answering your question in a useful way. So when I'm out and about exploring with the King of Why, I like to turn his questions back on him. When he asks me why bugs bite, for example, I ask him what he thinks first. Okay, for one thing that buys me time. But, I always love his guesses. I like to watch the wheels turning behind his brown eyes. My mind takes a snapshot of his imagination at its finest. Then, I might take a stab at an answer, or I might admit I don’t know. Christopher says this connecting moment of "I don't know" is a powerful and positive one, because it puts child and parent on even ground when we can say, “But, let’s find out, together.”

On this note, he suggests never showing fear. Children so easily mimic and internalize the reactions we put forth, and worse, they might take them on for themselves, which is the last thing we want. We all have stories about where our deepest nature fears stem from: "this one time, at ____ camp ..." Why not do what we can to put on a brave face? Fake it a little. I admit I have some work to do in the bat-and-bug department on this one (their ninja-like qualities freak me out), but it is kind of fun pretending to be the super heroes they think we are. For Sadie, I know this has had a positive impact. Just the other day we had the chance to experience a park interpreter's "pond aquarium" at a nature seminar. Sadie just stuck her hand right into the murky, smelly water and helped look for the elusive turtle we were after. Impressive stuff.

Pure

“Remember that while childhood takes time, it is precious and fleeting.” – T.C.

You’ve worked hard to provide your children the opportunity to build a personal relationship with nature, and to connect as a family unit. Don’t squander it. The best thing you can do is be in the moment—with them. Remember what it was like to be a child. Remember the wonder that comes from watching ants working. The dreams that are born in the color of a flower.  The mystery of a rustle in the brush. Experience it all again, with your children. You will not only give them the beautiful parental excitement and animation that children thrive on, but you will send joy your own way. You'll make these fleeting moments last forever in your mind and, most importantly, in the pages of your children’s childhoods.