Okay, people. You need to know that I’m conquering major feelings of personal inadequacy by writing a post with the word “camping” in the title. Even though I’ve gradually been learning to enjoy the sport, let’s just say camping isn’t exactly my forte.

It is, however, my husband’s. While we camped quite a bit* pre-kids, I’ve not felt up to giving it a go post-kids. I’ve skated through four summers with perfectly legit reasons why I couldn’t possibly entertain the idea of camping: two summers where I was humongously pregnant, followed by two summers chaotically spinning with two kids two and under. While I know camping under such conditions is a feat that’s been accomplished by many mothers (much more pioneering than me!), the hubs bought it and didn’t push too hard.

But this summer, agreeing to go camping seemed a heck of a lot easier than having another baby. (As they say, perspective is everything!) Humor aside, I really wanted to treat my man with a special birthday adventure. He’s been giving me a lot of room lately for my pursuits, and I admit to feeling a bit of remorse over last year’s gift: an IOU for a spanking-new, four-person tent, which never came to fruition because it felt irresponsible investing in new gear with a camping track record of, well, zippo.

So, with my husband excited that this was The Year, we spent hours upon hours packing and preparing for a camping getaway this past weekend to Fort Ebey State Park on Whidbey Island, just north of Seattle. As reality sunk in, I quickly forgot about all the noble reasons for the trip and instead felt pretty bitter. I was annoyed at how much work it took just for a two-day camping trip – all the gear required, to boot. I was practically bursting with foul frustration even as the chores had been completed and we finally hit the road, our car packed so full I had to rest my legs on a big bundle of firewood.

Checking in with myself, I realized that my hesitation to camp as a family is because it makes me feel so hugely, and uncomfortably, out of control. When it comes to camping, I have no clue what I’m doing. I can barely snap the poles of a tent together, let alone kindle me up a fire or prepare even the most simplistic oatmeal breakfast out of a packet. I’m unsure what lurks in the woods. Forget lions, and tigers, and bears. My city-slicker mind is certain the woods are full of serial killers, child molesters, ghosts.**

As we got closer and closer to our campsite, I really had to rev myself up. How am I ever going to maintain my parenting posture, and look like I’m in control, in this situation? I thought. It’ll be so obvious I’m out of my element. The girls will surely be on to me, sniffing out my lack of confidence just like the smelling salts I’ll be sniffing after my first fainting spell.

We got there, though, and it wasn’t so bad. In fact, dare I say – the weekend was a blast! Bolstered by the reassuring discovery that the park had actual toilets and real sinks with bona fide hand-soap, I was able to find my way. After all, I’ve chalked up plenty of experience leading my kids through an array of porcelain-filled bathroom activities. Surely I could manage a potty break and some hand washing while my husband set up the tent. And yeah, I thought, now on a roll, I can lead the kids on an adventure to get water, from that tap two campsites away! I can feed them snacks to keep occupied while the sleeping bags get unfurled! Maybe I’m not such a novice, after all!

My confidence continued to soar as our campsite came together, and so, we went on a hike. At first, our family hierarchy felt a bit rocky. My oldest daughter, almost four, was literally pushing the rest of us out of her way on the narrow trail, insisting, “Everybody follow me!” and proudly boasting, “I’m in the front!”

But her over-confidence was challenged when we stumbled upon an historic gun battery, which can best be described as a dark, prison-like tomb. My husband started exploring the battery-prison-tomb thing with our youngest daughter, while my oldest and I hesitated outside. It’s got to be teeming with rats and spiders, I thought. My speechless daughter seemed just as unsure.

Without my kids – especially my alpha-prone daughter – right there, there’s no way I could have squelched my fears. Instead, I saw it as a chance to settle her fears. I scooped her up and said, “Let’s do this! Mama’s got you.” Squeezing her tight, I ran at full speed all the way through the dark corridor. Of course, the echoes bouncing inside my head sounded more like this: Fake it till you make it!

Whichever mantra did the job, it worked! For the rest of the hike, my daughter deferred to me, asking me why I was walking in front, and then smiling at my response, which was, “I’m clearing the way for you.” She allowed me to carry her on my hip when we had an especially steep hill to climb – in fact, didn’t want to be put down until we got back to our campsite.

Meanwhile, at some point on that very same hike my youngest, very intuitive daughter, out of the blue said to me, “You’re not in charge. Daddy’s in charge!”

Let me tell you, I had to dig deep to avoid responding from a place of insecurity. After all, I’ve worked so hard at my parenting posture over the last two years since coming to the Neufeld material – what a low blow! I’m nowhere near a model of perfection, but I do have a fairly good handle on how to nurture and care for my girls, how to get ahead of their needs, how to generously give more than they request, and how to not to make my children responsible for my feelings. Could my posture really be lost so easily, while I kicked back and let my husband handle all of the “hard-core” camping particulars? Voila … just like that, I’d been trumped?

In those painful, grueling seconds while I kept my mouth shut, I decided that what my daughter was naming really wasn’t so tragic. It also wasn’t about me.

In my zest for getting a solid grip on the Neufeld material, I’ve inadvertently left my husband in the fog. Studying child development isn’t a passion of his. Since it’s a huge passion of mine, I’ve almost talked it up too much. What I consider my gusto can often come out in judgment – even if I’m “harmlessly” raising a brow or rolling my eyes when I hear him react to our girls in a certain way.

In such ways – along with more direct criticism – I’ve pecked at his parenting confidence. He’s already struggling with feeling out of control, especially when there’s loud whining and fighting and screaming he can’t stop. On top of that, he feels out of control to respond in a way that will meet my standards. He’ll often discipline the girls, then right away turn to me and ask, “Was that okay?”

A lot of times, frankly, I might not think his approach is okay. But telling him so is also not okay. Discovering real toilets at our campsite may have bolstered me when I was feeling out of control, but getting dogmatic in my parenting isn’t bolstering my husband in times where he’s feeling out of control. What I truly want, at the end of the day, is just the opposite: to instill a belief that he’ll get there, and that there’s room for him, too, to be their answer.

So while I kept quiet upon hearing my two-year-old’s remark, I realized that she was simply delighting in seeing Daddy in this new light. I mean, wow! The guy set up a six-person tent all by himself! He made a roaring fire! He whipped us up a gourmet dinner – appetizers and all. He unveiled all kinds of gadgets and gear we didn’t even know we had: speckled tin mugs, stainless steel bowls, tricky fork-spoon combos, fancy flashlights and lanterns, and wire hangers for the ultimate in marshmallow roasting! He even crushed a beer can with one loud stomp!

She was right. Daddy was in charge.

And Mommy was out-of-control camping.

I was faking it for the kids, in order to get in control. Daddy, feeling naturally in control and in his element, found his way, too.

It was an awesome adventure for us all, in every way. I can’t rave enough about the wonders of out-of-control camping!

*Quite a bit = Once a summer.
**Irrational, I know, but based on well-documented Urban Myths!

© Sara Easterly. All rights reserved.
This essay was first published as an editorial by the Seattle Neufeld Community.