Perspective
Today is Victoria Day, the final day in the first weekend of the summer season. Although its stated fucntion is to honour the birthday of Queen Victoria, its unofficial name more accurately describes how it’s celebrated in my neck of the woods. Around here, we call it the May 2-4. That’s “‘’two/four,” like the slang for a case of beer. And that pretty much sums up the point of the holiday right there: Camping and beer.
Well, it used to, anyway. I remember a time when this weekend was one of breathless anticipation. Skipping school to get a good spot in the campgrounds. Pitching a tent without bothering with timewasters like groundclearing, tarps, or any clue as to how the poles aligned to create a working structure. And drinking. Lots and lots of drinking.
These day, not so much. These days, my holiday weekend is a lot more reminiscent of my childhood than my misspent youth. Because what idiot decided that the third weekend of May would be the perfect camping weekend? Did I mention that this is Canada? And that we sometimes still measure the temperature in windchill at this time of year?
I remember enjoying huddling together for warmth inside a nearly collapsing tent, listening to the rain drip into the corner where the tarp hadn’t been properly secured. I remember not minding so much being woken up at the crack of dawn by the incessant twittering of birds, knowing that I could simply pull the pillow over my head and sleep off the hangover. Somehow my adult self refuses to believe that these activities could possibly be fun.
Partly it’s the knowledge that unlike nature, small children cannot be ignored in favour of recovering from indulging in the previous night’s excesses. It’s just a fact of life as a solo mom: No matter what you did the night before, you’re still the one who is going to get up with the kids. And everyone knows, the hour they wake up is inversely proportionate to what time you went to bed. But even without the partying, I’d rather stick flaming toothpicks in my eyes than brave the elements with a bug phobic Diva Girl and a barely pottytraining Zen Baby. So now, instead of campfires and cute outfits and drinking ’til dawn, it’s sparklers and jammies and bed by ten. And really, I’m ok with that.
Except for the sparklers part. No sparklers here this year. I’m a pretty laid back mom, but I kind of draw the line at giving toddlers fire to play with. I’m mean that way. (Or at least, that’s what Sabrina tells me.)