The Rogue River has a special place in my heart. It’s so gorgeous and wonderful and I’ll always remember hiking the trail in 2010 and writing afterwards, “What if home were closer to all of this? Thinking, planning, plotting. How to get from here to there.” We’ve camped in the area four years in a row now, and this past weekend was the second time we stayed at the Indian Mary campground with the boys.

Where to go: Just past Merlin in southern Oregon, about 140 miles from Eugene.

Why to go: The Rogue River is a must-see part of Oregon. Summers are hot and sunny and the scenery is unreal and you’ll never want to leave.

What to do: If your ideal family vacation includes shopping and spa visits, this probably isn’t the place for you. But if you like outdoorsy stuff, the options are limitless: hiking, boating, whitewater rafting, fishing, camping, etc. You can bring (or rent) a raft and do a brief leisurely float, or you can hire a guide and spend several days on the wild section of the river. (I did this once with JB years ago and it was absolutely amazing. I wouldn’t do it with the kids yet, though, because I’d be too nervous about their safety.) Next time we go I want to do a jetboat ride again, because those are crazy fun. You can hike a short section of the the Rogue River trail or walk the whole damn thing. You can park your ass in a chair in the sun and watch your kids throw rocks in the water for like 15 hours.

Where to stay: I can’t recommend the Indian Mary campground enough for families. It’s got great bathrooms, showers, a big playground, a disc-golf course, a basketball court, RV hookups, and so on. There’s a tent-only section that gets a little crowded, so here’s a tip: the very best spots are 54, 56, and 58. The camp is right on the river, and just a couple miles from the awesome Galice Resort where you can buy stuff at the little store or have lunch on their deck.

What might suck: Nothing will suck, except coming home and dealing with the giant pile of camp laundry.

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Anyway. Maybe there are a few things that were preferable back when the boys were pint-sized, mush-mouthed, dimple-elbow’d sniglets, but overall, I’m much happier parenting older children. There’s one particular newish aspect that really kind of sucks, though, and that’s the uncomfortable-to-confess feeling of truly disliking my kids.

Hold up: I don’t mean all the time, obviously. I’m talking about the occasional moment of frustration that’s the result of something that comes from a different place than those early years of OH MY GOD WHY WON’T YOU SLEEP or THAT NOISE YOU’RE MAKING IS BORING A HOLE THROUGH MY SKULL.

They’re people now, you know? Little people who don’t necessarily understand the impact of their words, sure, but they have personalities and they’re smart and articulate and the things they say sometimes make me feel like I’m living with a roommate who’s really kind of an insufferable asshole sometimes.

Take for instance what Riley said a few days ago when asked if he wanted to spend a Friday night at the cabin:

“Mehhhhh. The cabin doesn’t even have anything to do. There’s no stores around there, just the market across the street. And we don’t even own that much property.”

Setting aside the little factoid that the cabin belongs to JB’s parents, not us, and setting aside his maddening choice to conveniently forget every single thing about the cabin that makes it a goddamned magical childhood wonderland, where the HELL does this Rich Kids of Instagram get off bitching about how there’s not enough, like, acreage?

Ahem. What I’m saying is in that moment, I wasn’t just irritated with him, my brain was all, Dude. I don’t like you. Go to your room until I like you again. Maybe come out in a day or two.

That was sort of a throwaway complaint for which Riley was thoroughly schooled on the Fine Art of Appreciating Your Fucking Blessings (I’m guessing he won’t be whining about how our use-it-virtually-anytime river retreat isn’t fancy enough again anytime soon), but you get my meaning, right? When they’re little and they’re being obnoxious, you know their brains are basically a roiling mass of developing neural connections, so it’s forgivable that they suck sometimes. When they’re older, and they do things like tell you they like Daddy better than you (thanks, Dylan) or that they don’t want you to come on an outing (thanks again, Dylan), or that they would be so sad if Daddy was eaten by a shark but only a little sad if you were eaten by a shark (what the hell, Dylan), it’s just … a lot harder to get over it. In my experience.

It’s like when babies start growing up and their affections mean more because they’re deliberate. Like that, only the opposite.

But of course we do get over it, because parenthood is about unconditional love. It’s also about being the grownup and dealing with those moments, both externally and internally, and getting past any lingering resentments or wasted learning opportunities. Now that they’re bigger, it’s so much more than it used to be, really — deeper connections, bigger repercussions, stronger feelings.

It’s easier but it’s not. It’s better but it’s harder. It’s far more fun … but there are more murky confrontations that reveal the gap between the mother I want to be and the person I am.

God, growing a family is just such a wild and messy business. Things in them are tangled with things in me and it’s awesome and hurtful and crazymaking and beautiful, all at once.

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Where to go: Crescent Lake in Central Oregon, east of the Cascade Mountain Range. About 80 miles from Eugene.

Why to go: Ridicugorgeous scenery, tons of stuff to do. The lake has glorious sandy beaches, stunning blue-green water, and great fishing. All kinds of hiking, camping, biking, etc in the surrounding Deschutes National Forest.

What to do: Here’s what I recommend, because it’s what we did and we had a great time. Go to the Crescent Lake Resort and rent a 14-foot fishing boat for an hour for $30 (they provide life jackets). Noodle around the lake for a while catching absolutely nothing despite the monster kokanee salmon and rainbow/brown trout lurking below the surface who are presumably laughing at your incompetence, and just enjoy the view. Afterwards, drive around the lake to a deserted spot on the shore for more fishing, rock-throwing, and sand-wallowing. Later, go for a hike in the lodgepole pine/mountain hemlock-scented woods until everyone builds up enough appetite for a pulled pork sandwich and fries at the When Pigs Fly BBQ joint.

Where to stay: Lots of camping and cabins in the area, and we really liked the (well-reviewed) Willamette Pass Inn. Great staff and super comfortable rustic rooms that all have kitchenettes and fireplaces (we paid $135 for their “extra large” room, which was quite a bit more expensive than our usual roadside motel stopover, but a worth-it splurge to have the space). They have a huge video library onsite for the groovy old-school VHS players in each room, which the kids loved. (I loved how it shut them up for two hours. I did not, however, love the repeat viewing of The Phantom Menace. My GOD, Lucas. MEESA HATE YOU SO MUCH FOR JAR JAR BINKS.)

What might suck: It’s still early in the season, and I suspect that in full-on summer the mosquitos are pretty gnarly. In fact, from this site: “Camping is best in the early season while some snow is still on the ground or later after the heat of the summer has killed off the mosquito population.” So if you head there in July/August, be prepared with plenty of bug spray or repellant gadgets or however you keep skeeters at bay (me, I coat myself in 100% DEET, and then I still get eaten alive).

(The boys are smelling an elk bed here. Next they’ll be tasting scat for freshness.)

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Stan, if by any chance you’re still out there, I’ve never forgotten that particular turn of phrase. It’s just so wonderfully perfect, and often remains true to this day. For instance, the utter and RELENTLESS shitshow of setting up a photo in which I appear with my own children.

When I take a photo of JB with the boys, I often do it when they’re not looking. Or I ask them to look up from whatever they’re doing and quickly snap the photo. I don’t pose them, is my point, because posing is a fucking nightmare.

Photos of me and the kids? Almost always posed. And then this happens:

“Guys, can I — guys! GUYS! GUYS. Pay attention. Stand over here for a second so I can — GUYS!!!”

“Okay, Riley, you stand here, and Dylan, you — Dylan. DYLAN. Hello? Okay, can you — RILEY COME BACK HERE.”

“All right, I’m just going to stand behind … Riley, don’t do that with your tongue. Riley. RILEY. Okay, Dylan — Dylan?”

“Jesus, you guys. Okay, smile at Dad. Smile at Dad. Come on you guys, Dad is right there. Can you just … Riley. Your TONGUE. Put it BACK. In your MOUTH.”

“Dylan, if you don’t stop picking your nose I swear to god.”

“Okay! OKAY EVERYONE — what? Can you wait to pee for ONE SECOND?”

“One! Two! Three! SMILE! Whew. Was that really so har — what? He was what? Oh god.”

“Seriously you guys, come here. Huddle up. Look at me. Listen, I just want one photo. One photo. It shouldn’t be this difficult. Stand still and smile for one second and I swear I won’t bother you again. You can run around peeing and nose-picking for the whole rest of the day. Just one photo. Are we together on this? Are we a team? Okay high five! TEAM SHARPS!”

“RILEY YOUR TONGUE.”

“Last try. And then I hurl myself off this mountain. Last try. I’m a broken woman. You’ve broken me. Just smile at the camera. Or don’t. I don’t care any more. Life is unmanageable chaos, who was I to think otherwise. Entropy descends upon us all.”

“Dylan please open your eyes. For the LOVE.”

“You know what, I –”

*click*

“What do you mean, look at it and tell you if it’s good enough? It’s good enough. Whatever the shit is on that camera roll, it is now officially good enough. I hate everything and everyone. Let’s go.”

All that paddling, but the amazing part is when I look back on the image — even just minutes later — I only see the surface. The happiness of our outing rather than the shitty experience and imperfect results of the dumb picture session. Photos are truly a miraculous thing.

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Like this, but deeper, louder, everywhere.

We never saw it, because the woods are thick with a million green secrets. That was AWESOME, the kids shouted. I worriedly imagine freaky heartbeat-monsters descending from above to devour us in ravenous gulps; they tumble through the endless blackberry-choked paths and press eager fingers into muddy animal prints. They dive comfortably into the mystery of the trees, fearless and happy and curious about it all.

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Motivation has never come come easy for me, but here’s what’s helping me lately:

This shirt:

I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to buy a loose-fit workout tank. If you’re like me and you tend to get all self-conscious about your midsection in those tight racerback shirts, these things are game-changers. I bought a black one at Old Navy and I plan to go back and stock up on every single other color they have.

This MP3 player:

I got Sony’s updated MP3-playing Walkman as a Klout perk and I figured it would be like every other Klout perk I’ve ever received: a nice mailbox distraction from the usual flotsam of bills and junk flyers, but nothing I would have bought on my own. As it turns out, I can’t stop raving about it. It’s all in one piece, and it stays put — no more fiddling with cords or adjusting earbuds during a run. The downside is that it doesn’t play nice with iTunes on my Mac, so I have to manually drag individual songs to it instead of importing playlists. Aside from that small headache, though, I absolutely love how it eliminates gear-related distractions during a workout.

These songs:

“Daybreak” by OVERWERK. Heard it on this (gorgeous, watch it fullscreen) GoPro video, love love love it.

“Monday Morning” by Melanie Fiona. I can listen to this over and over. (The AV quality on this video totally sucks, sorry about that. This version sounds a little better.)

“I Get Around” by Dragonette. Makes me feel snarly and badass.

“Don’t Leave Me (ne Me Quitte Pas)” by Regina Spektor. Boppy and happy. I probably sound SUPER awesome when I try and sing along with the French part.

“All Alone” by Fun. Best Fun song. According to me.

“Must Be the Moon” by !!! She said “love is love but a fuck is what it is.” Ah, this song is great.

Okay, your turn, if you feel like playing: what are your current workout must-haves?

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But I can’t rely on someone else to help me over the parental small-talk molehill I’ve turned into a mental mountain and baseball’s coming up and this is just the start of years of kid activities and you guys, I’m just so goddamned bad at talking with people and I don’t know why I’m like this but I am and it’s not normally a big deal but sometimes it is. Like when you’re sitting on a bench with a group of other parents and everyone is chatting except you, and it makes you start to dread going to your kid’s soccer practice as though it were a twice-weekly root canal and it’s ridiculous and it sucks.

Here is the bench. Here are the adults talking amongst themselves in a friendly manner. Not pictured: me, silent and awkward and occasionally snapping photos of Riley or sticking my nose in a book but mostly just feeling incredibly self-conscious and wishing the earth would open up and swallow me whole.

Ah, I’m so tired of being shy. I’m lonely and I have no social life and I hate feeling this way during activities that should be perfectly normal and I hate the self-defeating brainloop it causes and I hate the creeping certainty that everyone thinks I’m a standoffish asshole when the reality is that I’m pathetically eager to connect, I just can’t get past the first step.

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***

“Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom? Mom?”
“What, Dylan.”
“Eggplant comes from putting chickens in the ground, right?”
*distractedly* “Mmm-hmmm.”
*beat*
“Wait. Wait, no, that’s — uh, no. Eggplant is a vegetable.”
“But you SAID.”

***

“Mom? If a bull fought a moose who would win?”
“Um, well –”
“I THINK MOOSE.”
“Okay, you’re probably –”
“But maybe a bull.”
“Sure.”
“Mom? If a whale fought a shark who would win?”
“Oh, maybe the –
“I THINK SHARK.”

***

“Mom, is it tomorrow?”
“No, it’s today.”
“Oh, you mean it’s yesterday.”
“No! I mean, well, okay, so today is –”
“Soon it will be next week.”

***

“Mom? When I was a baby was I in your tummy?”
“Yup, you sure were.”
“Did you put me there?”
“Ah, um. Well, you grew there. Like a seed.”
“So you didn’t roll me up into a ball and squish me in there?”
“…. no.”
“Mom? When I’m in kindergarten Riley will be younger than me right?”
“No, he’ll –”
“Oh I mean older than me.”
“Right.”
“Do you like cows?”
“Cows? Well –”
“My favorite favorite favorite ice cream is chocolate, did you know that?”
“Yes, I –”
“So where did the seed come from?”

***

“Hey Mom? I never seen a leprechaun, never.”
“Right.”
“But Mom? Mom? I do know how to make a rainbow.”
“Yes.”
“You take a fish tube …”

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It took us a year, but we finally made a trip of it this weekend — and as it turns out, Wildlife Safari isn’t depressing at all. It’s actually pretty goddamned great: filled with contented-looking beasts, beautifully located in a pocket of Eden-like greenery among southern Oregon’s gorgeous rolling hills, and at $60 for the four of us, not a bad deal considering we spent at least a couple of satisfying hours there.

We stayed the night in Roseburg just to make the visit last longer, and found a place on the Umpqua to play during Saturday’s summery weather.

Everything about this weekend — the pretty drive, the fun of exploring a new town, the delight on the kids’ faces when they saw the animals, even the tumble and chaos of sharing a hotel room — was perfect. The sort of memories I wish I could flatten between the pages of a book, run my finger over them years from now and remember everything exactly as it was.

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