First things first.
I have a guest post today over at The Kir Corner. She is one of my most enthusiastic, loving
cheerleaders supporters here in Sluiter Nation, and when she asked if I would share one of my proudest Mom Moments at her place? I simply could not say no.
I will warn you, however, that I chose to go with something very recent and maybe not that exceptional for most moms. In fact, I am pretty sure it is totally run of the mill for most mamas of toddlers out there. But for me? And how stupid my PPD has been lately with this med thing? It’s a proud moment indeed.
So go read that moment before I take you back in time to this moment….
I cuddled down into my sleeping bag that had been laid out neatly next to my cousin’s. She was already softly sleeping, but I was yet vigilant.
I tried to close my eyes, but sleep didn’t come, so I stared up at the close green canvas.
I inhaled the dank, musty, comforting smell of my grandma’s tent camper as I listened to twigs pop and animals scurry.
The campfire had died down a couple hours ago, but its scent had permeated my hair, my jammies, and my pillow.
I rolled over carefully, knowing that any sharp movement would move the entire camper and draw out protests from my cousin.
As I slid my knees up to my chest, my bare feet felt the familiar friction of something.
We did everything we could to keep it out of the camper: shoes and sandals off outside on the mat, a towel to to dust any stubborn grains, even a special water jug just for rinsing. But somehow, there it was.
Sand in the bottom of my sleeping bag.
I wondered where they came from.
Most of the day was spent at the beach running across the hot sand to the lake to cool our scorched toes. Even in the water of the Great Lake sand had found it’s way into my bathing suit.
We had carried shovels and pails and strainers and boats and rafts and towels back with us, all covered in sand despite our best efforts to rinse and shake out.
However that evening after dinner we had all climbed the Dune. Maybe this sand came from there.
It was always a race to the top. All seven first cousins and an almost countless number of second cousins and other Camping Crew Kids that may or may not have been related to us sped up the mountain.
My aunt and Grandma were among the Dune climbers.
My Aunt Sandy would yell at us to be careful of the little kids, to not go into the undergrowth because of poison ivy, and good gracious this was a lot of work!
Grandma would encourage and hoot and holler as we kids made it to the top one by one.
Once to the top, the adults would have a sit down to rest while we all explored or just marveled at the Great Lake that stretched below us.
It wouldn’t be long before someone would make the call and begin the downward plummet back to the bottom.
Soon everyone would be hurling down the mountain, our legs getting carried away and turning to rubber.
Some of us would fall and roll in a spray of sand.
My aunt would pick us up, tell us to hold still, and attempt to rub the sand out of our hair, eyes, and crevices before we would all march exhaustively back to the camper or down the road to the General Store for ice cream.
Or maybe the sand at the end of my sleeping bag marched in from the campsite sand.
We would ride our bikes, play catch, and then bury our feet in the dirt by the fire as we made Hobo Pies and S’mores and listened to Grandma and her brother’s yodel and sing.
And maybe I had been too tired to get it all cleaned off before climbing into the bunk next to my cousin.
So now there was sand in my sleeping bag.
And it was only the first night.