Last night, I went to bed in my bra again. It’s becoming a trend. Around two in the morning, my daughter, Lily, snuggled up next to me, and by six, she had soaked the sheets—my bra included. Great. That was my last somewhat clean one. Now it smells like pee. No way I’m wearing this today.
“Sorry, Mama,” Lily mumbles, rubbing her sleepy eyes. At five years old, she’s officially out of diapers, but it’s hard to feel annoyed at her when she looks so adorable with those rosy cheeks and wild curls. Plus, it’s Sunday, and I have plenty of time to do laundry before the birthday party at 3:30.
“It’s fine, sweet pea,” I reply. “Let’s get you back to your bed.”
We both peel off our soaked pajamas. Still half-asleep, I throw on yesterday’s jeans and a slightly stained sweater. By the time we reach the stairs, Lily is fully awake.
“I wanna watch something!” she declares. Lily has a serious Netflix addiction. Although she’s never heard the term binge-watching, she might as well be its poster child. After a futile attempt to engage her in something interactive, I give in and turn on the TV.
“I can get things done this way,” I reassure myself, and I do. Pancakes are cooked, sheets are washed, Facebook is scrolled, comforter is dried, dishes are done, and the floor is swept. Every so often, a nagging worry about her development and the effects of screen time creeps into my mind, restricting my parenting style. I consider myself a mix of Uncle Buck and Martha Stewart—well-intentioned yet hapless, unprepared, and often running late, but occasionally, I can summon my inner Martha and become an overachieving perfectionist.
I glance down at Lily, who’s mesmerized by the colors flashing on the screen.
“Hey!” I shout. She’s watching a PBS show called Wild Kratts, which is actually pretty cool. Two real-life brothers explore various wild animals and their habitats, starting as themselves before transforming into cartoons for the adventure. Each episode begins with the question, “What if?”
“Lily!” I wave my hand in front of her face. “What if we went creature adventuring in REAL LIFE!?” This is genius, I think. Why hadn’t I thought of this sooner?
“Do you know what hiking is?” I ask. She nods.
“It’s when you go outside and walk around in circles. In the woods! Doesn’t that sound awesome?” I raise my voice and gesture wildly to encourage enthusiasm.
“Yeah!” she yells.
We could have just explored our backyard or walked around the block, but my Martha Stewart side doesn’t settle for mundane. I’m not going to let this day be ordinary. I glance at the clock, and a small voice in my head warns me about the birthday party, but I ignore it and decide on the 3.2-mile White Bison trail at Lone Elk State Park—only half an hour away. The internet claims it’s an hour hike. I’ve trusted the internet before, so how hard could it be?
Getting ready is another story. Even when I’ve convinced Lily she wants to do something, she suddenly becomes resistant to getting ready. I’ve been trying to teach her to dress herself, but she often ends up putting her legs through the waist of her underwear and her shirts on inside out. Today, though, I decide to dress her myself to save time.
“I’m too cold,” she whines.
“What are you talking about? Clothes will make you warmer!” I pull a shirt over her head.
“I’m too tired.”
“I’m doing all the work!” I snap her pants on.
“But my butt itches!”
“Oh, good grief, Lily, learn to multi-task. Scratch it and give me your foot!” I hastily put on her shoes and head to the kitchen to pack essentials like toilet paper and gogurt.
When I return, she’s taken off her warm socks and sturdy shoes. “I want to hike in my sandals!” she insists.
“Sweetheart, it’s chilly outside,” I say.
Nothing.
“Those won’t protect your feet.”
She just stares blankly.
“Guess someone doesn’t want to go on a creature adventure,” I say in my best Eeyore voice, slumping my shoulders for effect.
Lily can sometimes transform into one of the kids from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Today is no exception. “Want… want. WANT, WANT, WANT!” she cries, tearing up.
I wonder if this behavior reflects my parenting skills. Perhaps my Uncle Buck side is too lenient, but then again, my Martha side is incredibly demanding. I tell myself that every kid is like this, but I’m not entirely convinced. Maybe the internet will provide answers later.
After about an hour of negotiations, I finally have Lily dressed and our bag packed. We’re on the road by noon. Three and a half hours until that party, I think—plenty of time to explore and still look presentable! I realize, however, that I’m still bra-less and in dirty clothes. But we’re just hiking, right?
After a half-hour drive and a minor detour due to a miscommunication between my phone and me, we arrive—thank goodness, because I couldn’t sing another verse of “Old McDonald.” We covered farm animals, African plains animals, jungle animals, and extinct creatures, which all resulted in many “roars.” Thirty minutes of that is what it takes to keep Lily entertained in the car.
“White Bison Trail,” reads the sign at a remote visitor center. “3.2 Mile Loop… Difficult… Hiking Only.” No skipping, I note. But “difficult”? The internet didn’t mention that. I gulp.
“Are we gonna see buffalos, Mama!?” Lily squeals at the picture on the sign.
“Uh, I’m not sure, sweetie. I think it’s just named that,” I reply.
But Lily is thrilled. Anything less than buffalo will now disappoint her. Another sign warns, “Elk Mating Season – Use Extreme Caution – Do Not Approach The Animals.” Oh boy. I raise my panic level from yellow to orange. My worry never drops below yellow when I’m responsible for my unpredictable little one.
“What does that sign say?” Lily asks.
I explain, and she responds, “What is mating?”
“Uhhh, it’s when the daddy elk try to make babies with the mommy elk.”
“Then it’s okay. Let’s go,” she says, grabbing my hand.
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“Because I don’t look like a mommy elk.”
Fair point.
We head from the parking lot towards the trail marker, with a small lake to our right anchoring the hike. The loop around the lake resembles a cypress tree’s perimeter—lots of twists and turns but eventually connecting back to itself. The land rises and falls around the water like folds in a blanket, and I notice steep drops along the narrow, winding road leading into the park. The hills are dotted with tall oaks, hickories, and birches, allowing sunlight to filter through in spots. A cool breeze rustles the leaves above. It’s a perfect fall day.
In Summary
This humorous recount of a mother’s early morning adventure with her daughter highlights the chaos and joy of parenting. It showcases the balancing act between fun and responsibility, all while embracing the unpredictability of a child’s whims. For more insights into home insemination and related topics, check out these resources: