No Bears, oh my!

Took my son on his first camping trip. Since he's only 3 1/2, we kept it close to Los Angeles, winding our way through the Angeles National Forest above La Canada to a gorgeous, mountainous area called Buckhorn. Bear country. Fir and pine trees all over the place, the hillside littered with the carcasses of long living, recently dead redwoods. A stunning place.

Zach was an absolute trooper, helping put up the tent as much as he could, laying out his new dinosaurs in the dirt and doing everything I asked of him. Pleasantly, we met a family of three with their 20 month old up for the whole weekend. Zach became the quick big brother to Jack, who he insisted on calling 'Jack Jack' throughout. He had his first smore, which was like Bubbles' heroin need on "The Wire". Needless to say, he was hooked. After the whole experience, Zach insisted his favorite part of the trip were the marshmallows. Then demanding an answer on his second favorite thing... marshmallows. Requesting insight into his third favorite... marshmallows.

I still think he had a good time, though.

The Buckhorn campground is filled with warnings about bears. They're indigenous to the area, and prevalent, and it's not uncommon for them to raid a camp in search of a free meal. This makes them fairly harmless, because they've been domesticated by the easy access to food. For better or worse, however, we never saw one. Zach couldn't decide if he was happy or sad about that turn of events. Honestly, neither could I.

The entire trip was great, although Zach became painfully aware of the difference between our campground and our neighbors. Zach and his daddy, and Jack and his daddy... and momma. Late at night, Zach sobbed in a way that seemed WAY too mature for his years, saying "A kid should have a daddy AND a momma to take him camping, like Jack!". It broke my heart. Because he's right, and he doesn't have that. If he ever does have it again, it'll be a weird merging of families and people, that one of the real mommas or daddys can't take part in or understand. It broke my heart, and his.

Late that night, I sat around the fire with the parents - two very nice, sweet people - who generously were passing around the pot pipe, and learned that the mom's parents separated when she was 3. Lots of similarities there. But the takeaway was that she admitted that it crippled her relationships with men until very recently in life, and she was probably pushing 42 or so. And she was a counselor and spiritual healer, so not one out of touch with her emotional side. Of course, sometimes it seems the therapists are the most screwed up, but she certainly seemed to be pretty well-balanced.

In the midst of the natural wonder, the starry night, and the wonderful time spent with my son, it was almost as if I could hear bears rustling through the undergrowth.

Oh, DARN IT!

Under the "kids say the darndest things" category.

Recently, my son has been watching his fair share of the Olympics, and in particular, fell in love with womens gymnastics. This is understandable because he, A) takes gymnastics, and B) likes girls. In fact, he'll tell you this frequently. His love of girls has extended to his frequent declaration that he wants to be a girl. When I tell him it's not going to happen - and that he's a wonderful boy who will turn into a wonderful man - he gets all bummed out.

Now, his response is to take the phrase I've learned over recent years to use in frustration - "darn it" - and leverage that to a given situation. Now, I'm not a "darn it" kind of guy. I'm more of a "fuck" and "damn it" kind of guy, but I'm also a good father who's been prepping for the parrot-routine for a couple of years.

So this morning, Zach is watching his morning cartoons as I get ready for work, and playing with the Star Wars figures I pulled out of the closet to share with him earlier this week. Yes, he loves them, but my nostalgia gets kicked into high gear, especially as we play with the out-of-print Creature Cantina my estranged, sometime-to-be-ex wife gave me many years ago in anticipation of the "Phantom Menace's" release. Oh, if only we knew the horrors to come...

Anyway, Zach announces that he doesn't want to go to preschool today, because he wants to "stay at daddy's house and play Star Wars and wear a leotard".

Yes, a leotard.

Zach's been on this leotard kick for the last week, and I found one that Momma wears, and in it he broke into a gigantic smile. Only to follow that up with grumpy sadness that she didn't own a pink one (it's black, incidentally). Now, you're asking yourself - "doesn't he worry that his son is gay?". No, not at all. And if he was gay, that'd be perfectly fine and great. But he's 3, with a well-defined sense of self and inner confidence that prevents any need for him to obsess over pre-determined gender roles. Sure, if he was wearing a leotard to 5th grade gym class, I'd be nervous, but c'mon... The kid's an athletic dynamo, never stops jumping, adores Superheroes and cars, and fart jokes. He also happens to like Strawberry Shortcake and leotards and girls. Bully for him, frankly. If only the rest of us were so unselfconscious and free with ourselves.

Anyway, I told him that A) he had to go to preschool, and B) he can't take his Star Wars figures to preschool, and C) we'll have to wear the leotard another time.

So he spends the whole ride going, "OH DARN IT! I just want to play Star Wars and wear a leotard".

I don't know if I'll ever hear that particular collection of words, in that particular order again. Bless you, Zach...

(I wonder if they make a Star Wars leotard)

Are other people debilitated by the knowledge that you should do something, are supposed to do something, and NEED to do something... but you don't do it? I'm in that place.

A major life turning point, and the onus appears to be on me to do something, but I can't pull the trigger. Because I know that it will irreparably change my life, and as far as I can see it, not the better.

It's kind of like the moment before you jump out of a plane. Except the point of jumping out of a plane is the rush, the fun, the excitement (I've done it, so I can relate to that). This is the exact opposite: there's nothing but dread, and fear, and uncertainty on the other side.

But when is enough enough? What about the uncertainty that I'm living with? Is that worse? It makes me think that I wouldn't do well with coping with the onset of a major disease - because I am better off in the uncertainty, where I can will myself to believe that things might turn around from being dire, even when the evidence is piling up that it won't.

I should do it. But I can't.

Divorced. Single. Father.

Those are three horrible words when used together.

I have to get used to them.