The Dad Hike
This weekend, my husband and four oldest children are on a two-day backpacking trip in Montana. It’s an annual event we very creatively call “The Dad Hike,” and since its inception in 2014, it’s become a whole thing, with t-shirts, traditions, and lots of instant oatmeal.
There are really only two rules of eligibility for The Dad Hike. First, you have to be one of our kids. Second, you have to be at least eight years old (although the age might increase depending on how our seven-year-old’s personality shakes out in the next year). The copious eating of Swedish Fish in the car on the way to the trailhead is not a hard and fast rule, but is nevertheless non-negotiable, according to our 12-year-old.
Logan and the kids head to a different spot each year, usually within a few hours’ drive of home. Last year, the air quality was so bad that they didn’t go further than the mountains around Coeur d’Alene, in case they had to call the whole thing off mid-hike. I really didn’t want that to happen, because the three of us left at home were having plenty of fun going to movies, eating at McDonald’s and playing at splash pads, and an early return of the hikers would’ve ruined our mojo. But regardless of how much fun we left-behinders have, even I’ll admit that The Mom Hang Out at Home doesn’t hold a candle to The Dad Hike.
On The Dad Hike, our kids purify water. They swim in freezing lakes. They scramble to the tops of mountains. They get up at two in the morning to watch meteor showers. They lay in hammocks and talk about anything and everything (which I’ve heard from multiple kids is their favorite part of the whole thing).
But I think that the best part of The Dad Hike is the fact that I’m not there. I don’t want to be there, and it’s not just because hiking is harder than watching Netflix; it’s because my husband parents our children completely differently than I parent them, and I want my kids to reap the full benefits of that. Where I’m all lists and schedules, he’s all spontaneous trips to the lake and playing basketball in the driveway well past bedtime. My heart races if they stray too close to an edge; Logan encourages them to jump off—and then lobs a frisbee for them to catch on their way down. I believe that heavy exposure to his laissez-faire attitude—without me wincing or panicking in the background— does our kids a world of good.
My favorite example of this yin and yang parenting style happened about seven years ago when we woke up one morning to find our oldest son, George, mourning his pet fish, which had died sometime during the night. (His little brother later fessed up to “playing” with it at some point the previous day, which is really not a great activity for any fish). George stared at Sky the Fish floating sideways in its bowl for a long time, and my very mom-like grief management skills kicked into high gear. “Do you want to have a funeral for your fish, buddy?” I asked him. Sullen head shake. “Do you want to talk about what happens after we die?” Depressed shrug. I left his side so I could get dressed for the day, and emerged from my bedroom minutes later to the sound of delighted laughter coming from the Death Zone. Turns out that Daddy had come across the sad scene and told George he could play a game on his iPad, which he was gleefully doing almost literally over the fish's dead body. George never mentioned his fish again.
The way I see it, our kids get enough of my schedules, fretting, and fairly balanced meals throughout the year. A couple days spent just with their dad, eating freeze-dried lasagna as they talk over a campfire, helps bring their world into balance.
But if at any point this weekend they catch a fish, I hope they know I’m standing at the ready to plan the funeral.