Chequamegon: I Can Spell It

Pictures and stories from a vacation to Chequamegon National Forest.

When Kevin and I were dating, he never wanted to hold my hand, and he never wanted to go for walks.  I wanted both.

Rock skipping at Amnicon Falls

When our kids were old enough to walk a half mile on a groomed trail, even when they agreed to hold hands, they too resisted walks.  I still wanted both.

Geo-caching at Copper Falls

Over the years, I have worn them all down.

They recognize that to struggle is useless.  We go for walks.  Sometimes we hold hands.

Power to triumph over St. Peter's Dome.  Our longest, toughest, and most spectacular hike.

But mostly we carry stray gloves and geo-cache loot, hand out snacks and remind each other that at the end of the hike, there is beer for some and pizza for all.

Autumn is your favorite too, admit it.

There is a lesson to be learned here, family.  And I think it's pretty obvious.

Walking sticks will be used as weapons.  Always.

The lesson is: I know what's best for you, so just do what I say.

Watch out for hobbits

Or: Resistance is Futile.  However you want to put it.

Back at the cabin

There is one, though, who likes to walk.  The one with the shortest legs doesn't whine when we pull into another trail head parking lot.  She even asks to be taken for a hike.

Sunset sister

I like her.  When she gets tired of holding hands, I sometimes carry her.

We saw powerful waterfalls and had lovely weather.

Big Manitou Falls

We hiked, obviously, but also spent a lot of time driving, listened to Lemony Snicket on audiobook, played on iScreens until we were carsick, and watched cable TV at the beginnings and ends of the days.

Cartoon Network, not pictured

There was something in it for everyone, and enough rocks, pine cones and sticks near enough bridges and riverbanks to keep most of our family content for hours.

Oh, that's why I've been having nightmares of my children plunging from heights into cold and rocky rivers.  I see.

Thank you, Northern Wisconsin.  You were lovely, as always.

Magda photobombs Noah's heel click

Ta-Da!

I am not a born teacher.  I try, for the sake of my children, to let them help with things like washing dishes, making pancakes, and using scissors.  But really, I'm not even good at letting them measure their own flour or crack their own eggs during said pancake-making.  And I generally rewash all of their washed dishes.

Kevin, thank goodness, is the opposite of me.  When he says he can teach our daughter to play the drums, he means it.  He can.  He can break it down into pieces and present complex information in a way a beginner can understand.  Without getting frustrated.  Without just taking over to do it himself when she doesn't catch on quickly enough.  It's no surprise they care more about rocks and maps than about blood and guts.

I have patience issues.

If Kevin could also teach our children to sew and to swim, they would be making their own back to school clothes between swim club practices.  Sadly, children, I'm all you've got.

Last week, a small victory for Greta and I.

The cuts are uneven, but only a little.

The seams are imperfect, but that is my style of sewing too.

She's well on her way to conquering her fear of the sharp, speeding needle.

Ta-Da!  A bag the perfect size for collecting parade candy.

Name That Tune

Tantrum, tantrum, tantrum

Tantrum, tantrum, tantrum

Tantrum, tantrum, tantrum

Tantrum, tantrum, floor nap 

Taking Flight

How many times this summer have I shared a our kids are getting so B I G with a friend?

They are.  I put them to bed {sometimes not until nine-thirty} and when they wake up hours and hours and hours later, their arms and legs ache from all the nighttime stretching.  The summer sun and wind and rain are no joke, and we're soaking up as much of it as we can.

As if to prove that a person can, in fact, grow and even thrive on a diet of four bowls of cereal and six Popsicles a day.

As they grow, they become more like us at their age {skinny, but strong} {sassy, but smart} and less like us at any age {more courageous, more self-confident, and far, far funnier}.

Noah, Greta and Magda are not the only ones sprouting this summer either.  This is the season we nurtured a small deck garden of giant kale and lettuce that my kids willingly eat {!} and whole kiddie pool full of our local pond's {glorified puddle} tadpoles into grown up frogs, with help from Grandma and Google.

This is also the summer that my kids are both big enough and small enough to run with me.  Noah and Greta can bike four or five miles without {too much} complaint, and Maggie is still content in the stroller.  I'm learning that an eight o'clock run will nearly always result in a sleeping toddler within two miles, and for a girl who has very strong, very loud, and sometimes very physical opinions about whether or not it is her bedtime, this great news.

Tonight's adventure will be deck camping if I can swing it.  Happy Independence!

Adventure is Out There

This happened today.

We went for a hike (groan).

In a state park (noooooo! there's not even a playground there!)

Lucky for everyone, I am not above taking parenting advice from my kids' nanny.

Nobody wants to go on a nature hike.  Ever.  What the people want is an Adventure Hunt.

You mean if I spend 56 seconds with my morning coffee and list nine things on three scraps of paper, I get a 90-minute walk in the forest with no whining?

It's true. Item #3 | A purple wildflower.

Hunting for Item #8 | A beetle.

Thank you, Kirstie.